True Colors

  It was nothing he didn’t know already. Kal’buir said you couldn’t breed men the way the Kaminoans did and expect anything else—and the aiwha-bait had no interest in producing happy, well-adjusted clones, just lethal and disciplined ones. It wasn’t as if they were going to be around long enough to ponder the meaning of their existence and work out that they’d had a raw deal.

  Is that what Besany sees? A psycho? She never seems afraid of me. Would she say if she was?

  “Etain, you’re not responsible for the whole Jedi Order,” he said. “But I don’t feel much when I kill, because it’s just something that needs doing, and I don’t kill for fun. I don’t even think all life deserves respect. All I care about is me and mine. If that means killing some more, I won’t lose any sleep.”

  “If it helps,” Etain said, “I reached the point where I didn’t care how many farmers got killed on Qiilura as long as no more of my troops did. I don’t think the Jedi Council would approve of that, but I’ll learn to live with it. I think they justify turning a blind eye to the reality of the army by the inverse process.”

  As small talk went, it was one of the worst experiences Ordo had ever had. He had nothing more to say, and swiveled a few degrees in his seat to check the course and revise the deceleration point to drop out of hyperspace. No wonder Mandalorians had generally taken the Separatist side in this war: the Republic was rotting from the core outward, soft and corrupt, detached from everything outside the orbit of Coruscant unless it could milk it dry. But taking out his disgust on a frightened, pregnant girl who was as disenfranchised as he was—disenfranchised, that was it—wasn’t the Mando way. Ordo felt deeply ashamed, as if his anger had been an entirely separate person for those few moments, not even part of him. He always did when it got the better of him. Etain had a point.

  “What are you going to do if Venku turns out to be Force-sensitive?” he asked, striving for a truce.

  “He will be.” Etain patted her belly. “I can tell. And I won’t let him be taken like I was. I’ll teach him how to handle the powers he develops, if Kal will let me, but he won’t be a Jedi. I don’t need Kal to forbid me.”

  “Did you realize he’ll probably have a normal life span?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Mereel’s been slicing the data from Tipoca for a while, to see which genes they were targeting in the accelerated aging process.”

  “I had no idea you were doing this.”

  “Not something we’d want to advertise, is it?”

  “Tell me. Please. I need to know.”

  “Some of the genes they use to accelerate aging are recessive, and others have to be switched on and off chemically. The kaminiise tailored us at every stage, you see. If we were hybrid plants, they’d say we didn’t breed true. That’s the interesting thing about epigenetics—”

  Ordo stopped dead because Etain had put her hand to her mouth and her eyes were screwed tight shut. His immediate thought was that she was miscarrying, and while he would never use the word panic, he was stuck between systems in a small shuttle with just a first-aid kit and his eidetic recall of the medbay manual.

  Then he realized she was crying, and trying not to sob out loud. She’d never struck him as the crying type. Kal’buir would have rushed to comfort her, but Ordo wasn’t quite up to that. Eventually she opened her eyes and wiped her face with the sleeve of her frayed brown Jedi robe.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve worried about that so much. Kal’s right—outliving your children is the worst thing imaginable. I can handle whatever comes down the line as long as Venku gets a normal life span.”

  “Trust me, the aiwha-bait wouldn’t want their rivals to be able to just breed clone characteristics like that—they’d want total control over their product. But Mereel’s getting very adept at this, so he knows what to test for.”

  The relief was transformational. Etain’s pinched little face softened into something approaching prettiness, and she settled back in the copilot’s seat with a beatific smile on her lips. Ordo thought of all the times that Kal’buir had told him how being a father to the Nulls had been his salvation; maybe it would be the same for him, although he had a range of mountains to climb before that could even be mentioned to Besany Wennen, who he had never even kissed, despite the strong bond between them.

  “Do you think Kal ever wonders where his first family is?” Etain asked. “It seems so unfair on him. He’d been divorced for years.”

  It was a delicate point, the one secret that Kal had kept from his Null boys: that his biological sons had declared him dar’buir—no longer a father, parental divorce Mando-style—when he vanished from the galaxy with the rest of the Mandalorian training sergeants. The army-in-waiting on Kamino was so secret that they could tell nobody where they’d gone.

  Yes, Skirata’s sons still denounced him for vanishing, even though they would have been grown men themselves by that time. Two sons and a daughter: Tor, Ijaat, and Ruusaan.

  “He gave them every spare credit he had after the divorce,” Ordo said. “For years. It’s why he had to accept the Kamino contract.”

  “Mandalorians take family duties to extremes, don’t they?”

  “It beats the alternative.”

  “Ordo, whatever arguments I’ve had with Kal, I respect his commitment to you all. I’m not sure I’d have had the guts to let my kids denounce me rather than tell them about the clone program.”

  “It’s hard to live with being the cause of that.”

  “Maybe, but to have someone care about your welfare that much is a wonderful thing.”

  Etain and Jusik were the only Jedi Ordo had met who seemed to yearn for the imagined family they’d been taken from, because Zey, Camas, and Mas Missur seemed perfectly content with their lot in life, and so did all the little Padawans who danced attendance on them. For all Etain knew, her mother could have been a religious fanatic and her father a domineering brute, like Walon Vau’s parents. Maybe the Jedi had done her a favor. She’d never know.

  “Not much farther,” he said, struggling to learn unfamiliar social skills. “Then I can comm Kal’buir and we’ll find you somewhere relaxing while we get on with the business.”

  “You know what would make me feel better, Ordo?”

  Ah, a lifeline. He grabbed it. “Just say.”

  “I’d like to know exactly where Darman is and what’s happening to him. I used to be able to call or at least get information from Brigade HQ, but it’s hard to talk to him without feeling that urge to tell him about Venku.”

  “I’ll check as soon as we drop below light speed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  “And she doesn’t just mean dinner.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Besany. You asked.”

  “Ah. So I did.”

  Ordo debated whether to call in advice from Mereel, who was the expert on that sort of thing, and suddenly found that the neon indicators on the shuttle’s console were absolutely riveting at times like this. Eventually he brought the vessel down to sublight velocity to drop out of the Corellian Run, and the galaxy came to a crash stop as the stars snapped back into points of light. However many times he did it, he still felt as if he were falling forward for a few moments afterward. He corrected the course for Dorumaa and took out his comlink.

  “Before you ask, Kal’buir,” he said, “Etain’s better. No more bleeding or pain.”

  Skirata sounded breathless. “Where are you?”

  “Not on Qiilura…”

  “Did something go wrong?”

  “No, but Etain can rest more comfortably on Dorumaa than she can on Qiilura. Levet’s finished up there and you need all the help you can get.”

  “You’re a naughty boy, Ord’ika.”

  “I’m sorry, Buir.”

  “Ahh, c’mon.” There was a loud grunt as if someone had winded Skirata in a fight, then a series of hollow thuds. “You know I’m always happier when you??
?re around.”

  “Mind my asking what you’re doing?”

  “Mereel’s got a brand-new toy for hunting kaminiise. It made me throw up. We’re just practicing with it.”

  Ordo tried to imagine a weapon that would turn Skirata’s durasteel stomach. “Any news?”

  “Oh yes. It’s just a matter of infiltration.”

  “She’s there?” The elation made his stomach lurch. “Is that confirmed?”

  “High probability. Not certainty.”

  “When are we going in?”

  “Right now.”

  But the shuttle was still a couple of hours away from Dorumaa. Ordo took a moment to register that and felt oddly betrayed, then instantly ashamed at harboring even the slightest resentment. My father’s putting himself on the line again to save us, just like he did when we were kids. I don’t have the right to be annoyed. He summoned up all the acting skills he’d learned while passing himself off as Trooper Corr so as not to ruin Skirata’s moment of triumph.

  “Be careful, Kal’buir. She won’t be alone.”

  “She’s the one who needs to be careful. I’m the one with the tatsushi recipes.”

  “We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

  “I’m sorry we can’t wait for you, son. Delta’s going be here in less than a day.”

  “I understand. Where’s Bard’ika now?”

  “On his way to divert Delta when they get here, just in case.”

  “Have you identified a place to hold Ko Sai while we persuade her to our way of thinking?”

  “Plan is to get her offworld as soon as we can. I was thinking of Mandalore. Rav Bralor owes me one. So does Vhonte Tervho. There are still some Cuy’val Dar around.”

  “Better transmit the location and an RV point in case you’ve banged out by the time we land.”

  “Will do. I’m sorry I haven’t been keeping up with the squads. When we get this shabuir, I’m going to take a little time to check in with them all.”

  “Tell Mereel to enjoy his toy, whatever it is.”

  Ordo hoped his disappointment didn’t show on his face. But Etain was a Jedi, and she didn’t need body language to work out that kind of thing.

  “I’ve never hated anyone like that,” she said. “We’re not supposed to have extreme passions, we Jedi.”

  “It’s probably better that I’m not there when they find her.” Ko Sai decided which clones met quality control standards and which didn’t. She’d passed a death sentence on him and his brothers, two years into their lives; Mereel would discuss the many ways he wanted to kill her. “Extermination is rather personal.”

  “He’s not joking about the recipes, is he?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Mandos.” The borrowed slang sounded odd in that formal little Jedi voice she had. “They—you like your trophies. You keep armor from dead loved ones. I hear some wear scalps and… other things on their belts.”

  That was how aruetiise saw Mandalorians, then: savages, but handy when you needed them to fight for you. No wonder clones latched on to that identity so easily. “There was a time when we couldn’t bury our dead—or anyone else’s. But I’m not sure we ever descended into cannibalism. Loud drinking songs, perhaps.” It was always sobering to hear a stereotype of yourself. “I’m told kaminii tastes like jaal flesh, though, a blend of meat and fish.”

  Judging by her expression, it took Etain a few seconds to work out that he was joking. But the body was a shell, a thing for doing deeds and passing on knowledge, and once its purpose was completed it didn’t seem to matter if it was buried, eaten, or left for the scavengers.

  Ordo wanted to savor life for as long as the next being, but part of him was relieved by the thought that if he didn’t outlive his father, he would be spared the pain of losing him one day. It was a selfish thought. Life without Kal’buir was unimaginable.

  “Funny, I lost my taste for meat when I became pregnant,” Etain said.

  They were in enemy space now. Ordo browsed through a stack of false identichips and inserted one into his datapad to reprogram it with new details. He’d posed as Etain’s partner before on surveillance; they could even act like a jaded couple who’d run out of things to discover about each other.

  Etain studied the information on the new woman she’d be on Dorumaa. “If you and Besany marry, she’ll have to do the whole Mando thing, won’t she?”

  Ordo avoided thinking that far ahead. “Eating prisoners and wearing their teeth for necklaces, you mean?”

  “Seriously. It just occurred to me that… well, I have to do it, too. For Dar. Guaranteed to upset the Jedi Masters, that.”

  “You’ll have some catching up to do with Bard’ika.”

  “What’s expected of a Mandalorian wife?”

  “Fight for eight hours, stop to give birth, then have your old man’s dinner on the table. Except on your day off, of course.”

  “Seriously…”

  “It can be a very hard life. Nothing that would faze a Jedi like you, though. Just get used to braiding your hair. Fits under a helmet better, I’m told.”

  Jedi had more in common with Mando’ade than they wanted to admit. Ordo watched the chrono with growing frustration, hoped that Kal’buir might run an hour or so late so they could be there for the abduction, and decided that if the Dorumaa visit was scrubbed, the best place for Etain to hide until the birth was Mandalore.

  Skirata could always persuade Zey that she needed a few months to check out whether the Seps were getting beskar, super-resistant Mandalorian iron, from Keldabe. Zey knew when not to ask too many questions.

  He certainly hadn’t asked them about ARC trooper A-30, Sull.

  Island shelf,

  approximately nine kilometers from Tropix island,

  Dorumaa,

  478 days after Geonosis

  Skirata checked his weapons with a ritual that had been unconscious habit since he was six years old, when Munin Skirata had found him cowering in the ruins of a bombed building on Surcaris, clutching his dead father’s three-sided knife.

  The weapons had changed over the years: technology, credits, and experience meant that he now favored small and silent kit, especially if working in aruetyc clothing. But now he was armored for combat. He wanted Ko Sai to understand that she was dealing with Mando’ade.

  There was also the possibility that she had protection. Those droids that the Twi’lek had transported had to go somewhere, and there was no telling what countermeasures were waiting down in her lair.

  Assume the worst.

  If it did turn out to be just a dianoga lurking in a sewage vent, he was determined that the disappointment wouldn’t slow him down for one single heartbeat. He’d get back on the hunt, because that loathsome gihaal had definitely passed through this planet. He could feel it.

  But it would be nice not to have to keep dodging Zey. I’m tired of kissing his shebs. I’m tired of the Republic.

  “Tight fit?” Mereel said. He seemed to be having the time of his life, and Skirata was glad to know the boy could find joy in the most unlikely situations. “Not really built for two men in armor, is it?”

  Skirata went through the litany—knife in his forearm plate ejector, short-track Verpine shatter gun, custom WESTAR blaster, knuckle-dusters, durasteel chain. He didn’t count the stun grenades and ordnance in his belt pouches, just the small self-defense items.

  “Throwing up in a helmet isn’t something I’d recommend, no…”

  “You haven’t—”

  “I came close.”

  “I’ll try not to roll her too much.”

  “Ko Sai?”

  “This ship.”

  “Ah.” It was definitely the roll, that corkscrew movement, that made his stomach run for the exit. “Where did you get the harpoon gun?”

  “It was in Aay’han’s tool locker.”

  Yes, Mereel was on top form. And he really hated Ko Sai. Skirata loved his sons without reservation, but sometimes they mad
e him nervous, and their phenomenal intellects were no guarantee that—just occasionally—they wouldn’t get out of control.

  It’s a miracle they’re this normal. But I’ll be ready to step in if he loses it with her.

  The Wavechaser’s two seats were set one behind the other, as in a gunship cockpit, and there was a small cargo compartment abaft—around four cubic meters—for small items like food and diving equipment. It was just a sport vessel. Transferring Ko Sai to a suitable location for a nice friendly chat was going to be a logistics challenge, but the whole craft was under two meters wide, and that meant it could pass through the air lock with its hydroplanes folded. Shab, if it came to it, he’d stun the aiwha-bait with the butt of his blaster, shove an aquata breather in her mouth, and haul her underwater if he had to.

  One way or another, Ko Sai wasn’t walking out of here.

  Vau followed at a discreet distance in Aay’han. Skirata only knew where he was because the blip showed on his HUD display, and Vau was on the comlink circuit. There was no turning around in this cramped cockpit to take a look.

  The chakaar seemed to be making a pretty good job of piloting her, too.

  “Don’t damage that boat, Walon,” Skirata said.

  “Ah, you’re learning.” Vau seemed horribly cheerful today. Maybe he disliked Ko Sai more than Skirata knew. “It is indeed a boat in this mode. Not a ship.”

  “When did you get to be such a stickler for naval terminology?”

  “My father was an admiral in the Imperial Irmenu Navy.” Vau had a special contemptuous drawl that he reserved for references to his original family, a way of dragging the air over his larynx and swirling the sound around his sinuses so that it emerged like metal scraping across brickwork. It always put Skirata’s teeth on edge. Hatred had its own sound. “Did I ever mention that? Ceremonial uniform like the drapes in a Hutt bordello and a vibroblade five centuries old. I wanted to join up, you know. He said I wasn’t good enough.”