501st: An Imperial Commando Novel

  Little Kad, Kad’ika, sat on Jusik’s lap for a change, staring at the two Jedi. He was around eighteen months old now, walking and talking, but with an unsettling tendency to just pause and study things in a way that looked too adult. He held his toy nerf in one hand, its fur charred from his mother’s funeral pyre. Ny found it heartbreaking that this tiny kid had put it on there. She tried to work out if he felt cheated that Skirata had rescued it from the flames, that he’d been denied the chance to give his mother a farewell offering, but he refused to be parted from the toy now. Skirata had planned to keep it for when Kad was older and could understand its significance. That plan had lasted a few hours.

  The baby already knew. Ny could see it.

  Kad never asked where Etain was, or when Mama was coming home. As soon as Skirata showed him her body, he seemed to understand perfectly that she was never coming back, so now he kept asking where Dada was. Sometimes he said Boo, asking for his buir, the Mando’a word that could mean mother or father. But Ny doubted he was asking about Etain. He was just picking up the language he now heard most often. He wanted Darman.

  Kad stared at Scout as if he knew her, then shook his head.

  “He’s very cute,” Scout said. “I feel that the Force is stronger in him than in me, but that’s not saying much. I have to do most things the hard way. I’m not much of a Jedi.”

  “Kad’s mother wasn’t strong in the Force, either,” Skirata said, “and she was a terrific Jedi.”

  Ny caught Ordo’s eye and saw that slight raise of the eyebrow. He was fiercely protective of his father, always ready to intervene. But it was Jusik who stepped in.

  “Kina Ha, I’ve never heard of another Force-sensitive Kaminoan,” he said. “May I ask a very personal question? Did they try to engineer your bloodline to maximize midi-chlorians?”

  Ko Sai had been excited to get her hands on blood and tissue samples from Etain and Kad. It was an obvious question to ask when it was clear that Kamino had its own Jedi test subject all the time.

  “Oh no, not at all,” Kina Ha said. She sounded like a Kuati dowager duchess, imposing and matriarchal, even with that misleadingly gentle Kaminoan voice. “My Force abilities seemed most unexpected and most unwanted. I was bred for longevity, for deep-space missions. We never carried out those missions, of course, so there I was, something of an embarrassment, and the only one of my kind—I didn’t fit the standard at all. So I felt it best to leave. As a species, we learned to fear too much diversity because controlling our genome was the way we survived the flooding of our world. A one-off, as you might call it, looks very much like a threat.”

  Kad’s gaze was now fixed on Kina Ha. He didn’t even blink. Jusik carried on.

  “If Ko Sai was so interested in midi-chlorians, then, why did she seem to have no record of you?”

  “Bardan.” Kina Ha sounded as if she’d known him all her life. “This was all a very long time ago, centuries ago, and I suspect that my particular genetic records were erased before Kamino became such an industrial clonemaster. I’m not the kind of relative you’d want the neighbors to know about.” She almost laughed, a strange bird-like trill. “I do enjoy human holovids, as you can tell. I’ve had a great deal of time on my hands to watch them.”

  The clones sat completely still, watching Kina Ha like snipers. Ordo wasn’t even eating. They seemed mesmerized by a being who was nothing like the Kaminoans they’d grown up with.

  “I have a lot of questions for you,” Jusik said. “But I’m stopping you from enjoying your meal.”

  “It’s very good fish broth,” Kina Ha said. “I confess that I hadn’t expected hospitality.”

  “We didn’t expect you to laugh,” Mereel muttered.

  “None of us meets the other’s expectations, then.” She reached past Ny and put her long three-fingered hand on Atin’s arm. “I saw you, young man. Not as you are now, but I had a vision centuries ago that Kamino would unwittingly create a clone army for the dark side. They created so many clone armies, of course, a foolish and terrible thing to do anyway, so who was to say which one would be the army of my vision? So here we are, both of us unaware of the nature of those who used us.”

  “We know now,” Fi said. “I don’t suppose you can tell me the winning numbers for next week’s Corellian lotto, can you?”

  Fi always knew when and how to defuse a tense moment. Kina Ha looked him right in the eye with the dignity of immense age.

  “Ten … fourteen … eighty-four … sixteen.”

  Fi and Corr laughed. So did Jusik. Ny tried to look at Skirata as casually as she could, checking how he was holding up, but it was Uthan who diverted her attention. The scientist seemed fascinated, watching like a stalking tusk-cat. She just couldn’t take her eyes off Kina Ha.

  Ny wondered if Uthan saw a fascinating old being, or a product full of genetic puzzles. It was an interesting reversal of roles for a species that saw humans as their top product line.

  “Master Skirata,” Kina Ha said, “you said there would be a price for your generous protection. I would like to know what it is, in case I can’t afford it. Not fortune-telling, I hope? I’m very vague.”

  Skirata looked up as if he’d suddenly started paying attention. “Well, I was hoping for some fortune changing. Your compatriots designed my boys to live half a life. They age at double the normal human rate. I think that’s unfair, all things considered.”

  “I agree. I take no pride in Kamino’s capacity to manufacture slaves, whether they be soldiers or factory hands.”

  “I see you’ve briefed her, Ny … ,” Skirata muttered. Ny had already worked out why Skirata had agreed to let the Jedi come here. She had no illusions. He’d made it clear from the start; his boys’ needs came first, and he’d do whatever it took to slow their decline.

  “Never said a word, Shortie.” Ny steeled herself to taste the broth. It was much better than it smelled. “The lady thinks for herself.”

  “Then we live in an age of miracles.” Skirata sounded as if he’d rehearsed being nice and didn’t want to let the facade slip. “Kina Ha, Dr. Uthan is a geneticist and microbiologist, and maybe some other ologist I don’t know about, and she’s trying to put my boys’ body clocks back to normal. Taking a look at some tissue samples from you might give her a clue about how to undo Ko Sai’s maturation process.”

  “You don’t want the secret of eternal life, then.”

  “No, I don’t. But you’re not immortal, by the looks of it.”

  “Well spotted.” She glanced at Jusik. “And you’re quite capable of taking what you want from me, by the Force or by force.”

  “Is that a no?” Skirata asked.

  “Merely remarking that you asked first, and I think the request is reasonable. It is unfair. Beings are not commodities to be designed and marketed.”

  Skirata let out a little bark of a laugh. “I bet they loved your freethinking attitude in Tipoca. Shame you weren’t on the Jedi Council, too.” He inclined his head in a bow, and Ny decided it was genuine. “Vor’e. Thank you.”

  Skirata went on eating, gazing down into his broth as if he was ashamed. He’d managed not to call Kina Ha aiwha-bait, or lecture her on the evils of commercial cloning—so far. Ny wondered if he felt he’d betrayed his principles by compromising with both a Jedi and a Kaminoan.

  How would I have handled what he saw on Kamino all those years? Look at Ordo, or Mereel. They’ll never be normal. How can I expect Kal to forgive Kaminoans for that? Or the Jedi, for turning a blind eye to it all? And how can I get him to give these two a chance?

  There were two kinds of bigots: the kind that melted when face-to-face with the individual, and the kind that smiled politely but wouldn’t let their daughter marry one of those. Skirata took a Mandalorian approach to it all, that individuals were only judged by what they did, not what they were, so everyone got a chance—just the one—to change his mind. Ny tried to understand how hard it was to suspend ancient hatreds when folks had a joint history l
ike the Mandalorians and Jedi. A four-thousand-year-old enmity was more than she could begin to grasp.

  But if she still had things to learn about Mandalorians, then she’d only just started on the reality of living alongside Jedi.

  They really weren’t like other beings at all.

  Kyrimorut, Mandalore; next morning

  Life wasn’t going to return to normal for Ovolot Qail Uthan, and she’d accepted that the moment the cell door had swung shut in the Valorum Center.

  But she’d held out for three years, and now she felt she could handle anything life threw at her. It was all a matter of looking at the situation from another angle and deciding to be content with whatever she could wring from it.

  There was always something positive to seize upon. Always.

  At least she had a pleasant room here, plain but comfortable, with a generous mattress—Mandalorians didn’t shun comfort, however ascetic they appeared—and a fine view of the countryside through an arrow-slit of a window. And she could open the door and walk outside anytime she pleased.

  But she wouldn’t get far. There was nowhere to go that didn’t involve struggling through deep snow for the best part of a hundred klicks to the nearest town, Enceri. Fi, the clone recovering from a brain injury, told her that Enceri was the pimple on the shebs of Mandalore and that she’d like Keldabe a lot better. She worked out what a shebs was fairly fast.

  Now Fi brought her breakfast. She wasn’t sure if he’d taken a shine to her, or was simply curious to see what a creator of genocidal weapons looked like at close quarters. She was sure they all saw her as a monster. What else could she expect when their mission had been to destroy her project, and hers had been to destroy them?

  Yes, I can kill every one of these young men. I still don’t know how I feel about that.

  “Eggs again,” Fi said, appearing at the door. “You’re a woman of habit, Dr. Uthan.”

  “Protein,” she said. “I believe in protein.”

  “So what do you think of our ancient aiwha-bait?”

  “Is that what you call Kaminoans?”

  “Fair’s fair, Doc. They called us units.”

  “I think I might have depersonalized you somewhat, too.”

  “I never felt a thing. Honest.”

  “Did Kal send you to charm me, so that I might see the error of my ways?” Uthan uncovered the breakfast tray and admired the spread. Mandalorians ate. It wasn’t elegant food, but it was certainly filling. “Make me ask myself how could I possibly want to wipe out such witty and charming young men?”

  “Well, I am, yes, but do you still want to kill me?”

  Uthan had to laugh. She was used to oblique people with hidden agendas that she had to hunt and dissect, so Fi’s child-like directness was disarming. But that was probably the whole idea.

  “Nothing personal,” she said. “I just wanted the Republic to get off my homeworld, and quite a few other governments agreed with us.”

  “So you don’t hold it against us for getting you shot and then locked up in a loony bin for three years.”

  “We’re probably even, aren’t we?”

  He gave her a big grin. “I reckon.”

  Uthan settled down at her table and beckoned him in to sit down. He didn’t move quite as crisply as the other clones. He was a little thinner, too.

  “So,” she said, “you were in a coma.”

  “Yeah. They switched off my life support. But I went on living anyway. I’m stubborn when it comes to not being dead.”

  “And?”

  “Besany rescued me from the medcenter at blaster-point and the next thing I remember is Bard’ika healing me. They said it was really exciting. I missed it all, unfortunately.”

  “If this is what Jedi healing can do, I’m more than impressed.” Uthan passed him one of her mealbread rolls. Clones definitely craved carbohydrate, and looking at Ko Sai’s research on rapid maturation and metabolism, she could see why. “Do you all think of yourself as Mandalorian? Not just clones. All of you. Besany, Laseema, Jusik?”

  “Sort of. Jilka doesn’t, but then she didn’t have any choice. Arla Fett—well, the poor woman’s totally dini’la. But she’s not Mando anyway.”

  “I never really thought about it before, you see. I only knew Ghez Hokan, and he had a very different view of the world from Skirata’s.”

  “He did after …” Fi’s voice trailed off, the only time that Uthan had seen that permanent good humor fade. She took a guess that he was going to make a joke and then recalled something distressing. “Our old boss, General Zey, said he used to be in the Death Watch but they threw him out. Kal’buir says he wasn’t.”

  “Hokan thought the kindest thing was to kill you all rather than let you live as slaves to the Jedi.”

  Fi smiled. “It’s good to know everyone has sensible reasons for wanting us dead, Doc. I’d hate to be killed on a pointless whim.”

  A voice from the doorway made Uthan jump. “That’s a dirty word around here, Death Watch. Two, actually.” Mij Gilamar leaned against the door frame, rattling a flimsi bag that sounded as if it was full of glass. “And Hokan was never a member, just a hard-liner, so never believe intel or gossip.” He held up the flimsi bag again as if he was tempting Uthan with a gift. “I took some samples from Kina Ha, Doctor, seeing as I’m the qualified scab-lifter. You’re not a physician, are you?”

  “Oh dear, you’re going to use big confusing words,” Fi said. He filched a couple of extra rolls and stuffed them in his pocket. “I’m off.”

  Uthan was still trying to place Gilamar in the Mandalorian scheme of things. He looked like everyone’s idea of a holovid Mandalorian—broken nose, scarred armor, grim expression, buzz-cut hair—but when he spoke, he was another stereotype entirely: a highly educated man. She found the idea of a doctor working as a mercenary and still practicing medicine almost too much to take in. But then Mandalore itself was one big contradiction, with heavy industry and shipbuilding sitting cheek by jowl with farms that hadn’t changed in centuries, sophisticated electronics and ancient metal-working skills side by side in the same suit of armor. She really wasn’t sure what a Mando was anymore. All she knew was that they weren’t quite what she expected. She hadn’t met two the same yet—not even the clones.

  “No, I’m not good with needles,” she said. “You seem to be a polymath, Dr. Gilamar.”

  “Got to be.” He sat down and took an assortment of vials and slides out of the bag. Some contained dark purplish blood, one seemed to be urine—clear and colorless as distilled water—and other containers held tiny globs of bloody tissue. “We’re a long way from Coruscant Medical School. Every Mando needs to be able to do half a dozen jobs.”

  Uthan picked up one of the sample vials. “Biopsies? You know your way around Kaminoan anatomy, then.”

  “I spent more than eight years in Tipoca City with them. I know how those things are built. Now, how do you want to play this? I’ll run the analyses for you if you like.”

  “Is she really a thousand years old?”

  “No reason to doubt it. I’ve never seen a Kaminoan like her, and I’ve seen plenty.”

  “Extraordinary.”

  “You’re looking for switching techniques rather than actual genes, right?”

  “Most life in the galaxy has some genes in common, so perhaps not.”

  “We thought the maturation control was linked to silencing genes H-seven-eight-B and H-eighty-eight, but we didn’t get anywhere with that. No artificial or nonhuman genes in the mix, either. I can assure you we menaced and leaned on some of the best scientists in the field.”

  Uthan smiled. She liked keeping things up her sleeve. She’d had to, just to stay alive these last few years. How could these strangers think she would trust them? Everyone used her.

  “Do you know how my engineered pathogen targeted clones?” she asked.

  Gilamar smiled back. “I think targeted bioweapons are a load of old osik, actually. Against humans, anyway.”


  “And why would you say that?”

  “Because, unless you have some way of identifying a complete genome—not just a few genes, not even ninety-nine percent of the genome—there just aren’t convenient Corellian genes or Mandalorian genes or whatever for a pathogen to hook up to. Not even if you call it a nanovirus, which I also think is osik, by the way. You’d have to find a way for the virus to identify the whole genome, or nothing.”

  Gilamar didn’t sound as if he was gloating. He must have known the virus wasn’t quite what she’d told Palpatine’s minions it. He leaned forward across the table and smiled. Once, Ghez Hokan had lost his temper with her and hauled her across her desk by her collar, and for a moment she thought Gilamar would do the same. These were, after all, men who lived by violence.

  But he just picked up the vial of urine and shook it carefully as if he were mixing a leisurely cocktail. “Am I right, Doctor? Either your virus has to find the intact Fett clone genome, or else it’s useless. Which means it won’t affect the Nulls, because their genome was altered from the basic trooper template, and it won’t touch Kad’ika, because he’s got half his mother’s genes. Or maybe it goes to the other extreme, and kills most humans indiscriminately. Because the differences between human genomes across the galaxy are so tiny and populations so mixed up that your killer cocktail can’t tell the difference. Can it?”

  Uthan wondered if Gilamar had been in contact with Hokan during those few days of crisis on Qiilura. He was right. At that time, she hadn’t been able to stop the virus attacking all human genomes and make it single out Fett clones. There just weren’t enough genetic differences between humans to exploit—bar one. Hokan had been furious, thinking he was guarding a failed experiment.

  “You’re an analytical man, Gilamar.”

  “Call me Mij.” He smiled. “You don’t have to be a hotshot geneticist to work through the logic. Of course … if your magic potion does work, and really is that selective, then it has two possible methods—either the whole-genome approach, which sounds a bit too complex and would be totally borked by routine mutation anyway, or it would have to zero in on something that the average clone has, but the average random human hasn’t … the gene sequence that controls their accelerated aging. Did I get the right answer, Dr. Uthan? Am I a clever boy?”