True Colors

  So did she, in her way.

  He drew level with the fifth door and stared in.

  Ko Sai didn’t have a weapon. She sat at her desk, her clean white desk, just as she used to in Tipoca City, staring back at him with those disturbing gray eyes. She still wore the thick black cuffs that showed her rank as chief scientist of the entire cloning program, even though she’d abandoned Kamino and left her government in the lurch.

  There was something repellent about someone who wore a rank to which she was no longer entitled, especially when she worked alone. Her status was her life.

  “And who sent you?” she demanded. “Lamu Su? Dooku? That deluded creature Palpatine?”

  “I bet it’s nice to be the most popular gal in school,” Skirata said. He’d always shot first and insulted the corpse later. But he couldn’t kill her, not yet. She had work to do. “Can I pick none of the above?”

  “It’ll be credits,” she said. There was nothing Skirata could find to like about Kaminoans. Where others heard gentle fluting voices, he heard condescension and arrogance. “How much do you want to go away?”

  Skirata couldn’t believe she didn’t remember him. But then he was just another lump of human meat, and maybe she really didn’t know him from Vau or Gilamar, or the Mandalorians dead on her shiny white floor.

  “I’d like all your research, please.”

  “Oh, Arkanian Micro. Of course.”

  “Cut the osik. You know exactly who I am.”

  “For a moment I thought you were one of Palpatine’s thugs. Everyone hires Mandalorians. You’re such a cheap people, easily purchased.”

  Skirata had wanted to see shock on her face, or at least hatred. He was disappointed. No, he was furious. He beckoned to Mereel.

  “Bucket off, son. Say hello to the nice scientist.”

  Mereel paused for a moment, but when he lifted his helmet off he was smiling, a wonderful artless smile that made him look like a harmless lad who didn’t know the first thing about the weapons he had slung about his armor. He walked forward and leaned against the door frame.

  Skirata could see her pupils dilate. Her head jerked back.

  Oh yes, it’s all flooding back now. Let’s all get nostalgic, shall we?

  And Mereel remembered, because he had perfect recall, way, way back to when he was a baby, before Skirata had even met him.

  Mereel’s perfect white smile never faltered. He took a short rod from his belt, an electroprod of the type farmers used to herd nerfs.

  “Hi, Mama,” he said. “Your little boy’s back.”

  Treasury offices,

  Coruscant,

  478 days after Geonosis

  Audit trails were the fabric of Besany Wennen’s life. They were like the laws of physics: there was no transaction without an equal and opposite transaction. Where credits were spent, someone received. And when someone poured a great deal of money into a project, then it wasn’t something they did alone.

  There was no monopoly on information. If a thing existed, somebody designed it, manufactured it, delivered it, or in some way touched it. And with enough time and effort, then that somebody could be found.

  Besany wandered into Jilka Zan Zentis’s office with as casual a manner as she could and perched her backside on the low filing cabinet. “I have to ask you a big favor,” she said. “And you can say no.”

  Jilka looked up slowly. “If it involves doubling up on a date, I remember the last time…”

  Besany thought of Fi for a moment. “Actually, it doesn’t, but if that would seal the deal, I can introduce you to a very pleasant young man.”

  “Let me think about it. What’s the favor?”

  “I need to know about a company called Dhannut Logistics. They caught my eye but I can’t find out where they’re based even though they’re an approved Republic contractor.”

  “Oh, you just don’t know where to look, sweetheart.” Jilka loved a challenge. Nobody in their right mind would have done a job like hers unless they enjoyed hunting corporate tax defaulters and all the risks that went with it. “If they’re taking our credits, we’ll be squeezing corporation tax out of them. And if we aren’t, I’ll be delighted to introduce them to the experience of filling out form two-slash-nine-seven-alpha-eight-alpha.”

  “Dhannut Logistics,” Besany said. “Dee, aitch, ay, double enn, yoo, tee. They probably build medical facilities.”

  “And how much has poured into their coffers from the unfortunate taxpayer’s pocket?”

  “I can identify about fifty billion.”

  Jilka’s eyes lit up. She had her funny moments: maybe Fi would like her. “That’s just the teensiest bit over the taxable revenue threshold, isn’t it? Let’s see what I can find.”

  Besany only wanted a lead. She didn’t want Jilka to start digging too far, because the fewer people who knew, the better. But Jilka was off and running, scrolling through records and even consulting another computer screen.

  “You’re right,” she said, sounding a little disappointed. “No street address. But they paid their tax in full, and I have their accountant’s details here. Odd.”

  “Why?”

  “You shouldn’t be able to file a tax return without the address of your head office, but this has gone through the system.”

  “I’m going to tell you that it doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Medical equipment, you say?”

  “Facilities. I’m guessing construction or specialist fitting out. Maybe they’re not even based on Triple Zero.”

  “Triple What?”

  “Sorry, fleet slang. Here. Coruscant.”

  “Oh, they’re based here, all right. They wouldn’t file the returns in Galactic City otherwise. This has a GCCC code.”

  “Any chance of slipping me the accountant’s address?”

  Jilka scribbled it on a scrap of flimsi. “Never came from me. Didn’t go through the message system. And I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  “If anything else crops up… Dhannut, anyone dealing with Dhannut… let me know?”

  “Certainly. You’ve got me intrigued now. What’s rung your bell? Fraud?”

  “I think it’s a front for other activity. Because I’m missing their details on the database of approved Republic contractors, too. Which also shouldn’t be possible.”

  “Sounds mucky. I notice you’re packing a blaster now. Sensible idea.”

  “Just think about it. Dhannut appears in two databases that it shouldn’t be able to get an entry in. If it’s not legit, and they haven’t sliced into the system, then someone with government access has let them in.”

  “You just can’t get the staff these days.”

  “And folks think we just shuffle files all day…”

  “So do I get the very pleasant young man? Is he tasty?”

  “He’s very fit and you certainly wouldn’t lose your appetite looking at him.”

  “Deal.”

  “I’ll ask him next time I see him.”

  “If he’s that wonderful, why weren’t you interested?”

  “I’ve got one just like him.”

  “Ah. Ah.”

  “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

  Jilka’s expression dropped a fraction, suddenly serious. “You’ve changed, Bez. And I don’t mean that you look like you’re in love, either.”

  Besany did her noncommittal smile, the slightly chilly one that she reserved for suspects when she hadn’t amassed quite enough damning evidence but was certain she would, given time. “Thanks, Jilka. I owe you.”

  She decided to detour to Dhannut’s accountant’s office on the way home rather than spend any more time in the Treasury building; she wasn’t on an investigation at the moment, just tied up in annual reports for the Senate committee, and attention from her bosses was the last thing she needed now.

  And she’d gone a lot further than Mereel had ever asked her to go.

  Quadrant T-15 was well outside her area. She stared at the fli
msi, worked out a meandering route—a couple of taxi changes, interspersed with walking to blur the trail—and tried to forget about it until it was time to leave, but when things started eating at her, she found them hard to drop. It was her single-minded persistence that made her good at her job. It also kept her awake at night.

  Her problem was that she was conspicuous. People remembered her: she was tall, very blond, and striking. Sometimes that was an advantage in investigations, because people tended to underestimate her, but it also made it hard to do undercover work. She needed to dull her shine a little.

  Skirata called it going gray. He had a gift for behaving and dressing in such a way that he could pass completely unnoticed, drawing no attention. He could also stop traffic, if he wanted to. Funny little man; Ordo worshipped him. He certainly had a ferocious charisma.

  As she crossed the walkways that connected the catering district from one of the retail zones that all looked the same now wherever they were on the planet, she took care to keep an eye out for trouble.

  The Chancellor’s office. Well, if the taint goes that high…

  No, this was stupid. She’d never been intimidated before, and she refused to be now. One more taxi hop and a ten-minute walk brought her to Quadrant T-15. She thought she’d found the road, but then realized it couldn’t be the right one; it was a long run of textile manufacturing units, not offices. She walked on, but the sector numbers were getting higher, so she was heading the wrong way. She retraced her steps.

  It still didn’t look right.

  Besany fed the address into her datapad to check the coordinates, but it was adamant—this was definitely the right place. She walked the entire length of it, both sides, and found herself staring at Unit 7860, which should have been an office tower, but was very obviously a textile mill. Some of the walkway-level doors were open; she could see the machinery and occasionally some workers passing the doors.

  Nonexistent accountant. Nonexistent company. Real credits. What was going on here?

  Whatever it was, it was now clearly illegal, although she still had no idea of how trivial or how serious it might be. Regulations said that she should have logged it right away, but she couldn’t, not now. She wasn’t even sure whether to tell Jilka, because knowledge like that could put her at risk, too.

  Besany kept her hand on her blaster, deep in her pocket, all the way back to her apartment. When she slipped her identichip into the lock and her doors closed behind her, she felt able to breathe again.

  She looked at the chrono: late, very late, too late to eat, or else she’d never get to sleep. Grumbling to herself, she poured a glass of juice and watched the holonews headlines, not really taking it in but noting that the coverage of the war was now a long way down the menu behind the love lives of waning celebrities and cantina brawls involving grav-ball players. One of the more sober news channels had a defense analyst from the Republic Institute of Peace Studies putting forward theories about the nature of the Separatist droid threat, but it seemed folks wanted to skim over the depressing news as fast as they could. It was also getting harder to find any front-line reporting—organic or droid—lately. For Coruscant, it was business as usual, so who cared about fighting on the Rim? Trooper Corr didn’t agree with her, and had told her he was happier without a holocam peering over his shoulder, but she cared. She wanted to know everything about the war. It was as if watching it would give her some protective power over the threats facing Ordo and his brothers. Not watching every scrap of news felt like sneaking off sentry duty, which she could only imagine.

  “Moron,” she mumbled at the screen. The analyst was throwing out numbers, huge ones, and because her business was numbers she found herself reaching for a stylus and doodling a few figures on the nearest datapad. “I bet you don’t even know how many zeros there are in a quintillion.”

  She did, though, and numbers comforted her, so she considered his argument. Then she started wondering how much metal went into a battle droid—forty kilos, at the very least—and multiplied it by a quintillion just out of curiosity, and then started wondering where all that metal came from if 90 percent of the average rocky planet was silica, and not all the remaining 10 percent was the right kind of metal, or could be mined anyway, and mining and ore processing ate up a lot of resources…

  No, quintillions of droids didn’t sound feasible. But it was a lovely big unprovable number to throw out to frighten people. She was settling in to scrutinize all the analyst’s numbers when she heard a scratching sound that made her start.

  Her apartment was on the five-hundredth floor, and armored rats didn’t make it into her neighborhood, let alone know how to use the turbolift. She looked around, realizing she’d left the blaster on the table, and as her gaze swept past the sliding transparisteel doors to the balcony, she saw it: a salky, a domesticated version of the Kath hound, a popular pet among the trendy set in Galactic City because it didn’t shed fur and didn’t need much walking. The animal stared at her, head cocked appealingly on one side, and put one paw against the glass in a mute plea to be let in.

  It must have jumped across from an adjacent balcony. Some people had no idea how to look after their pets. Besany tutted loudly and opened the doors just wide enough to talk to it without letting it in. It thrust its muzzle through the gap, whimpering and trying to lick her hand.

  “Aww, sweetie, where did you come from?” Salkies had a thick mane that covered their whole head from shoulders to eyes, and looked a much cuter creature than the savage predator they were bred from. “Did some silly person leave the doors open? Where’s your collar?” She risked fumbling through its mane to look for some identity tag; these creatures were expensive, so it was certain to have one. “We’ll get someone to collect you, sweetheart. You just hold still—”

  “What is this?” said the salky in a liquidly rich male voice. “Has your building got a no-pets rule or something? Let me in before somebody spots me.”

  Besany yelped and jumped back, stunned. Before she could even begin to panic about hallucinations, the salky deformed into a smooth shapeless mass and squeezed through the gap like molten metal before changing color. Now Besany was looking at a pool of black glossy material that resolved into a four-legged, fanged creature like a sand panther.

  “Fierfek,” she said, and that wasn’t a word she used often. “It’s you.”

  The Gurlanin narrowed brilliant orange eyes and padded over to the sofa. “I’m not Jinart, but I suppose we all look the same to you. Am I allowed on the furniture?”

  “Look, I—”

  “Don’t worry about the name.” He sniffed around the room as if checking for something. “Your people kept your side of the bargain. The last human has left Qiilura. So as a parting gesture of goodwill to those charming soldier boys, I have some information for you.”

  The Gurlanins had said they could be anywhere and nobody would know. She almost asked this one if he’d thought about a career in Treasury Audit, then had a chilling thought that a Gurlanin could have been working right next to her or following her in the street at any time. What did you say to a shapeshifting spy? “That’s very kind.”

  “One, make sure you keep that blaster with you at all times, because your meeting with Senator Skeenah did not go unnoticed, and you’re under surveillance by Republic Intelligence, and I don’t mean Sergeant Skirata’s men. I mean the highest level of government.” He shoved his snout into the kitchen and snuffled again. “Two, you won’t find Dhannut Logistics, because they don’t exist. They’re a front for moving credits around inside Republic finances. You did well to find the connection with Centax Two, but if you keep crashing around you’re going to get caught, so I’ll save you some time. Yes, there are clones now being produced in facilities outside Kamino—some here, most on Centax, and a lot of them. No, the Grand Army command hasn’t been told, because those Jedi generals will want the extra men to deploy right away, but they won’t get them. So you can pass that on to your contact.”


  Besany didn’t think she’d been crashing around anywhere. She was mortified. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because Qiilura has a fragile ecology and we know Skirata is a vengeful little piece of vermin who really could persuade the fleet to melt it to slag. We want to be left alone now. Really alone.”

  “I see.”

  “We’ll maintain a presence here, by way of insurance,” said the Gurlanin. “Not that you’d notice.”

  “Okay, but can I ask—”

  “No.”

  “Just the—”

  “I said no. And don’t be tempted to dig further, because you have no idea what you’re really dealing with.” The Gurlanin sat back on his haunches and looked as if he was shrugging his shoulders, rippling long muscles, and then she realized he was changing form again. “Things can always get a lot worse.”

  “Did I really crash around?”

  “Actually, you did exceptionally well—for a human. But that’s not going to be good enough. And things might be getting too dangerous even for us.”

  He lapsed into silence without explaining what that meant, and then became a shapeless lump of marble before extruding—there was no other word for it—into a man, upright and all too familiar.

  Gurlanins were perfect mimics. She’d seen one posing as a civilian employee she worked with, and never spotted it. They could pass as anyone and anything.

  It seemed they could also pass as clone troopers. Besany stared back at a man in white armor who could have been Ordo, except he wasn’t behaving like him, and he didn’t have a helmet. The replica smiled coldly at her; her stomach churned, and it took every scrap of strength to stop herself from thinking through the implications of that chilling little trick.

  “I’ll let myself out the front door,” he said. “It’s not as if people don’t know about Ordo now, is it?”

  For a long time after the Gurlanin left, Besany couldn’t bear to sit down on the sofa or even use the refresher, because she no longer had any idea what was real and what was illusion. She paced around, horribly awake with no prospect of getting to sleep tonight, and wondered what she could safely do and say even within her own home. But she had her secure comlink, and she needed to trust something right then.