The Word for Hero

Second installment

III.

As it so happened, there was a Jedi nearby.

Actually, there were two.

Jedi Master General Arik Thrynn frowned as his shuttle set down in the hangar of the RAS Mythical, eyeing his apprentice to gauge her perceptiveness. She was tall for a human female--almost one point seven meters in height, skinny, clumsy, and alternated between brimming enthusiasm and nervous shyness. At the moment, she was sitting opposite him in the passenger area of the Republic shuttle, in one of her timid moods--the Force around her rippled with anxiety.

The Master, on the other hand, was calm and composed, the pinnacle of all that a Jedi should be. Examining his immaculate robes for dust specks and lint, he rose slowly and strode to the hatch, ignoring the clone pilot in the cockpit. None of the three--pilot or passengers--had spoken a word during the flight from Coruscant to their current location just outside the Reke system, at the dwarf planet Maia, and Thrynn didn't intend to break the silence with unnecessary chattering. So out he went, stepping down the inclined walkway to the hangar floor.

There was no one in sight.

The hangar was deserted, save for [he] and his apprentice, Vi'ara Faladin. Their footsteps echoed in the vast space as Thrynn searched for someone, anyone--was there no welcoming committee for a Jedi of his caliber? Not very cordial. . .

Faladin glanced around, half a step behind him in his peripheral vision. Her Padawan braid bounced against her shoulder in a most undignified way. Thrynn inwardly sighed. She was no model apprentice, that was for sure. Eighteen standard years old and about as unstriking as it was possible to be. . . True, she was talented with a saber and good at most things he set before her, but she had no sense of Jedi pride and wasn't remarkable in any field. Proficient at all, masterful at none. She doesn't have an area in which she excels. Unlike him.

Oh, yes, he was an excellent warrior. Which was why the Council had chosen him for this assignment--the liberation of the planet Driamorrek, a backwater world that, though largely unknown, still had its share of valuable resources. The Separatists clearly wanted the credits that they would generate, and wanted them badly. They had come to an agreement with the planetary governor, and were now stationed on the planet overseeing the mining operations and taking a fair chunk out of the profits.

It was his job, and, if she could be of any use whatsoever, Faladin's, to negotiate Driamorrek's full support in the ongoing conflict before relationships between the government and the Separatists became too close to pull out of. That would be the easy part. The difficult bit would be to fight off the droid army once they got the governor's support. He also had to resolve a miners' rights dispute of some sort, which would have to be dealt with as efficiently as possible to maintain order on the planet.

That was his objective. Those items. . . and the matter of Senator Winspyr's suspicious behavior, back on Coruscant. I'll watch you, politician--you and anyone else who clamors for changes in policy. Because we must stay with the old ways, the traditions, the precedents of the past, or flounder in a sea of chaos and disorder. . .

"Perhaps there's an alert. . .?" Faladin suggested quietly, startling him with the unexpectedness of her comment.

"I have told you time and time again to speak only when spoken to and when you aren't stating the obvious," Thrynn chided her. "No matter; the lack of any sort of welcome implies--"

He never finished his sentence, because the hangar doors hissed open and a slender greenish insectoid Verpine in an admiral's uniform loped in, followed by two clones--the ship's captain and his second-in-command, judging by their armor markings. The Verpine's large black eyes scrutinized the Jedi Master, glittering with intelligence. It radiated cold amusement that was shot through with little pricks of fear.

"General Thrynn; Commander Faladin," the admiral said with a respectful bow. The clones snapped to attention and saluted smartly. Thrynn had to admire their precision. They were about a nanosecond out of sync, at worst.

"Admiral K'zak." He made his voice cold and commanding--the voice of someone who knew he was powerful, the authority, and expected to be obeyed. "The courtesy of Mythical is somewhat. . . lessened, in comparison to that of most assault ships I have encountered," he said pointedly.

Faladin shifted slightly, and Thrynn caught a flash of embarrassment from her. What was there to squirm about? He was merely commenting on the lack of a proper greeting--as a Jedi, he--and Faladin, of course--deserved better. They were the commanders here, not the alien or the "meat cans" behind it.

K'zak was speaking. "You will find that the Mythical is a ship unlike most you've served on," it said calmly, with a barely-perceptible emphasis on served. The admiral had guts, to speak like that to him. Most other beings wouldn't dare make even a slight contradiction to any statement he made; clearly this K'zak wasn't an ordinary being. Not at all. Either that, or it was incredibly foolish.

He inclined his head, ever so slightly, so that he was looking as far down his nose as he could at the Verpine, who was still a few centimeters taller. "Oh?"

"If you were expecting a large parade of the troopers of the Three-Nineteenth Regiment, I apologize for its absence. Should you wish to address them I can certainly arrange it; however, at the moment all but the skeleton crew are being briefed by one of my officers," K'zak said. "In the meantime, I trust that you can find your own quarters, General?"

Oh, K'zak was on thin ice, and from the way it altered the Force around it it knew that, and. . . relished the challenge? He merely returned the faintly amused expression the Verpine had adopted and said, "The interiors of Republic ships are familiar to me. . . unless, perchance, your. . . unusual vessel's internal structure has been modified like your customs?"

"No, General Thrynn; the Mythical is different only in its. . . ideology, philosophy, I suppose one could call it, as you will no doubt find out.

"The journey to Driamorrek will take approximately one standard day; I suggest you rest up. Negotiations have a nasty habit of draining one's energy, Master Jedi." K'zak bowed again, large eyes dark and bottomless, its calm demeanor echoed by its Force signature. The latter, however, was shot through with spikes of amusement. It was testing Thrynn, seeing how far it could push.

And he was having none of it. "We Jedi are perfectly capable of negotiating well without a few hours of sleep, Admiral. Thank you for your time. Faladin, come," he commanded, and his apprentice trotted after him as he swept out the hangar doors into a corridor. She still lacked that indefinable air of Jedi-ness that was his specialty.

IV.

I furiously scrubbed at my face, wishing that the dreams would leave me alone. Not that they would; they never had, not since L'mysh. So I was reduced to spending more time than I'd have liked in the 'freshers, trying to calm down. I couldn't think too much about the events of that campaign--they would only get in the way.

It still hurt.

General Aista Iostre would have said that that was okay, that you couldn't run from grief forever. The Kaminoans would have said that. . . Well, they really wouldn't have said anything; they'd just recondition me however they saw fit. Jango. . . He'd give a short, clipped lecture on getting on with the job.

I didn't know who was right, so I opted for the final option. Keep going, keep fighting, and maybe there'd be time later to--

Or not.

"You've been in there for five minutes, trooper!" someone barked in my voice. Correction: almost my voice--I had picked up Jango Fett's accent from training; this one had the slight drawl characteristic of the Pyrin system.  Which meant that the speaker was a commando, not in the regular forces, because normal troopers acquired no accent due to standardized flash-training. The only Pyrin training sergeant I knew of was Kamryn Hurss, who had a reputation for unpredictability to rival that of Kal Skirata. I remembered that General Jusik had mentioned he'd send either Chi or Zeta Squad on this mission, and Zeta were in Hurss's batch--this guy was probably Jelan, the squad's CO.

All of this passed through my head in less than a second. "Udesii, vod'ika," I called out. I had worked with Zeta Squad before, so it wasn't too over-familiar to use the diminutive suffix 'ika. "Sorry."

I glanced up at the mirror above the sink and exited a moment later. Jelan's eyes--yes, it was him; I recognized the small scar on the left side of his nose--widened as I passed him. Yeah, you called an ARC captain "trooper," I thought, amused. He didn't seem to find it funny. He just looked vaguely wary.

"Uh--"

Flashing him a grin over my shoulder and then donning my helmet, I continued on my way, which was in the direction of the briefing room. General Thrynn wouldn't expect me there for a few minutes yet, but there was no point hanging around the troop quarters and it was better to be early than late. He had summoned me there, by way of Admiral K'zak's 2IC, for reasons I couldn't quite grasp--he wouldn't be in command of the special forces units (myself and Zeta Squad); his apprentice would. His group was the infantry, under Commander Echo. But he was a Jedi, and it wasn't a good idea to question the ones with Thrynn's reputation for nastiness.

Some, though, insisted on being questioned--Take everything I say to do with a grain of salt, Flare. If there's no second, third, fiftieth opinion, there's no chance of correcting a mistake before it happens. You know exactly what you're doing. I don't--

I mentally jumped back from that line of thought and concentrated on the sound of my boots clumping against the hallway floor. Focus. Focus on what's happening now, not what happened months ago.

So focused was I on not thinking about anything but my feet that I almost ran into a pale, freckly woman in brown robes coming out the briefing room door at a slumping power walk--one of the Jedi. Commander Vi'ara Faladin, if I remembered correctly, which I usually did. She sprang back, and I gestured for her to pass first; she laughed nervously and said, "No, you go ahead--"

"Um, thank you, ma'am. . ." I said.

The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, but she said nothing more and waited until I was through before exiting. Casting a strange, furtive look around me, she muttered, "Don't upset him." I had no idea how to answer that, so I didn't.

Turning around, I took in the briefing room--like so many others I had been in, it was fairly simple: amphitheater-like structure that focused on a holoprojector in the center of the chamber, all in clinical white and grey plasteel. Also as usual, the projector was running: the flickering blue image of a skyscraper with labels in several locations hovered above the device. Standing beside it was an elderly human male. He was. . . hard. His face was all scowl lines and cold eyes; the hands that quickly shut down the projector were rough and blunt.

"Ah. Captain Alpha-Thirty-one," he said coolly. "Sit down."

I did so. But I wondered why he had closed down the holo--what was the building for? And why didn't he want me to see it?

He was a bit too late for that. I didn't have eidetic memory like those crazy Null-class ARCs, but it was about as good as it could get otherwise, and I recalled enough to put together a decent mental reconstruction of what I'd seen, labels and all. A bit fuzzy, but good enough--like trying to read blurry, pixellated words on a monitor from a short distance. It was doable. I'd dredge it up later.

"Do you know who I am?"

Wondering at the unexpectedness of that query, I said, "Yes. . . sir."

"Then you may also know that I do not tolerate failure."

"Understood, sir." Two things happened: I thought that maybe he could be a bit more original in his choice of pithy phrases (if he'd said that line enough that an admiral he'd fought with once remembered it, there was definitely a cliche forming there), and I bristled inwardly at the suggestion of incompetence. You couldn't be inept and an ARC captain. You could be inept for a while, but you'd be dead long before you got any sort of rank.

Thrynn chuckled quietly. "I sense that you do not understand my meaning. You clones are remarkably talented fighters; naturally such insinuations sting. But I do not intend to imply that you are incapable of doing whatever my apprentice orders you to--I merely wish to inform you that unprofessional behavior--questioning orders, disobedience, and above all, losing--will be met with the harshest measures I can implement. Yes, I've heard the stories of your mission to Uuriah. A loss like that. . . Terrible. And unacceptable. Is this clear?"

"Yessir," I replied calmly, but the comment hurt. I'd messed up on Uuriah--intel had been too sketchy but I'd gone ahead anyway, and. . . well, I'd done my bit of "asset denial"--all too well. Nobody had known that there was an influential member of Rykimy Sector's government held hostage there until the charges--my charges--had already blown the Sep facility to pieces.

Thrynn considered me for a moment, then continued. "Our principal objectives on Driamorrek are fairly simple. You have been assigned here at the behest of the Council to contribute to our efforts in whichever ways my apprentice, Vi'ara, sees fit. However. . ." Here he paused and raised one silver eyebrow, gaze going straight through my visor like a blaster bolt. "I must also ask that you take orders from me, and only me, if ever there comes a situation in which both Vi'ara and I are present and our orders conflict. Is that clear, Captain?"

Interesting. If nothing else, interesting. His command was a given. He was the Padawan's superior in terms of rank and experience alike, so according to The Rules That Govern My Life I had to give his commands priority over his apprentice's. Why emphasize it, then?

"Yes, sir," I said in a neutral monotone.

"Excellent. Vi'ara will be back in a moment to give you a better idea of what we will be up against; I must speak with the quartermaster." His tone was too dismissive of that job for him to have met Kamryn Hurss in person yet. Force knew that my own opinion of that position had changed after ten minutes with the Pyr.

"Very good, sir."

He swept out, striding almost fast enough to match a normal person's jog, his brown robes billowing behind him. He paused at the blast doors and said, without looking back, "I would appreciate it if you would not touch the holoprojector." And then he was gone.

I'd like to say that I was a good clone trooper and obeyed. That I stayed put and twiddled my thumbs until his Padawan returned. That I put all thoughts of even looking at the mysterious projector out of my head.

But that would be lying.

The way I saw it, you could look at his request as one of several things. A plain old request, which I technically should have abided by. A veiled order--the most likely but the least interesting. Or. . . a sort of unintentional dare, an invitation to snoop.

I chose my option. I waited a few seconds for Thrynn's footsteps to fade into the distance before rising and gingerly prodding the activator; the holo blossomed back to life. No point in relying on my fallible neurons when there was an alternative available that was neither fuzzy nor indistinct.

It was a modest skyscraper, yes, but the address was anything but. It was in the diplomatic sector of Coruscant, very near the swanky 500 Republica that housed the galaxy's highest and mightiest. The rooms that were highlighted in paler blue, though, belonged to a senator--one Zaru Winspyr, of Penumbra. Room 1138.

There was a note under the label. Straik, Adeci, Melahir, Lethor. Organa? Amidala? Mothma? Others.

I only recognized the last three--Senators who were slightly more vocal than the rest of the assembled legislators on the issue of the war. The name Winspyr, though. . . it rang a bell. . .

I heard lighter footsteps and turned the holo off; sitting down again I shook my head. Why do you do this, Captain? Why do you always have to look and pry? I berated myself. It was inexcusable. Unless Thrynn was an enemy, which, although I certainly wasn't falling over myself to please him, was highly unlikely. He was a Jedi. I was a clone of a hired killer. You couldn't get much more polarized on the hierarchy of the Great Scheme of Things than that. He had good reasons, without a doubt, for--

"Sorry for the delay," a woman said breathlessly, sounding as if she'd sprinted a few hundred meters very recently. "Terribly sorry--"

The Jedi girl, Vi'ara Faladin, from earlier stumbled in, tripping on the hem of her cloak. She snorted, took off the offending garment, and draped it over her arm. Behind her were four commandos in the bulky Katarn armor that made them look like industrialized Wookiees, each set painted with stripes and streaks of color. Yes, definitely Zeta Squad. Jelan, decorated with black; Rally, with bright turquoise; Nova, a riot of white splotches; and Tachyon, in yellow-orange. They were the result of four fatalities--two from Tachyon and Nova's old squad, Xi; two from Jelan and Rally's Keystone. I sometimes wondered what it was like for them--and the commandos in general. Raised with the same men since decanting, trained with them, a solid unit--then shattered, mopped up, and glued onto other proportionally broken groups. . .

"I wanted to address you all at once," Faladin said, gesturing for Zeta Squad to be seated. "You know that my Master has command of the infantry--the Three-Nineteenth--and I have you special forces. We don't know exactly how you'll be deployed here, though I'm sure your abilities will be needed before the end. The details still need to be ironed out but there's a good chance that you'll be sent to take out one or both of the Separatist garrisons on Driamorrek, once we establish some kind of diplomacy with the governor."

A silence fell. Faladin bit her lower lip. "I apologize in advance," she said slowly, quietly, "for my lack of experience. You know better than anyone what you can and can't do. I don't want anyone to be killed because I gave a stupid command. Please, tell me if you think that there are--well, if there are things I'm doing wrong."

Her honesty was surprising. And unnerving. I really had to stop expecting Jedi to be flawless leaders--really.

"Any questions?" Faladin asked us.

After a beat, Nova spoke up. "Ma'am, enemy's estimated numbers?" He rarely spoke in complete sentences. Fragments were his specialty--in words or in droid bits scattered over large areas. The latter I could live with. The former became irritating when you were trying to have a conversation.

"Ten to fifteen thousand divided between three main locations--the capital city, Dria; the mountains and j'farra mines; and a little peninsula to the south where we think they found traces of precious minerals."

Fifteen thousand. Not fantastic for us--the 319th only numbered in the two thousands. Kill ratios were getting better; still, fifteen thousand was an awful lot of tinnies to take out.

I ventured a question then. "Are there any hidden twists to this campaign we should know about, ma'am?" I asked, remembering Uuriah. "Hostages, political minefields, that kind of thing?"

Faladin replied evenly, but with a flash of something akin to alarm in her eyes, "Not that I know of. If that's all, I suggest you all rest up. You're going to need it. Dismissed."

And that was that.

Fourth Installment

VI.

Like a few other Jedi I knew, Thrynn and Faladin dined with everybody else, in the mess hall. Unlike said other Jedi, the General did not appreciate attempts at making conversation, especially attempts made by lowly quartermasters with the halfhearted aid of clones.

Quartermaster Kamryn Hurss and I were at the far end of the mess, about a third of the way from the first row of tables near the door; all the tables were pushed end to end, making long lines of plastoid up and down the room. She made a flitnat-line to--wouldn't you know it?--the table where sat our Jedi leaders. The general was doing a mediocre impression of an angry deity on some ancient fresco; the Padawan was imitating, with much more success, a dead Umbaran. She was very, very, very pale.

Hurss sat down with a cheery "Good morning, General," next to Thrynn. The general was across from Faladin; I hovered for a moment before landing beside her, not knowing what else to do.

I can deal with the awkward silence that comes after a Separatist flunkie is blown to pieces in the middle of a call to his fellow conspirators. Or that tense, almost-panicky quiet just before a battle. Not so well the silence that comes from an irritated Jedi and a very unsure-looking Padawan. And there was something about Faladin's discomfort that put me on edge, and I had no idea why. Then it hit me. Jedi are supposed to be in control. I still hadn't lost that hope that someday I'd be placed under a commander who knew what he, she, it, or otherwise, was doing--and that naivete hadn't been helped by General Iostre's disgustingly competent leadership, whatever she'd said to the contrary. It was always a bit of a letdown to learn all over again that Jedi were mere mortals like anyone else, just with a few more tricks and talents--not perfect, superhuman beings, but superhuman beings with human frailties--or inhuman frailties, or whatever.

The silence oozed on like a Hutt over rough terrain, sluggish and painful. It dragged for quite a while. You could almost feel the tension between Hurss and Thrynn building, as if each had a bunch of bricks and mortar and were constructing a very large wall and shooting politely challenging glares over it. Faladin picked at her food with her sporknife (why waste materials making three utensils per person when you could just give them one--a spork with a serrated edge on the left side of the spoon part?), which made little clinking noises against her plate. And on it dragged. Hurss took a bite of 'shroom, and I stared mutely at the caf in my cup. There were bubbles swirling around in it. And on it dragged. . .

"I take it you've already briefed your special forces, Commander?" Hurss said off-handedly, as if the previous two minutes had never occurred.

Faladin nodded. "Er, yes, Quartermaster. On general things, not specifics. Not enough intel. . ."

"Well," the Mandalorian woman said briskly, "that'll soon be fixed. My Zeta boys are among the best at their game; they won't let you down. Excellent at collecting enviable intelligence. Trained 'em myself--you'll want to talk to them. They'll lay down their lives for you if you get their trust. . ." She trailed off, probably continuing that line of thought but not deigning to enlighten us.

I risked saying quietly, "This is your first time commanding special forces, then?"

Thrynn looked at me as if he'd just noticed I was sitting there. It's difficult not to notice. Maybe he was making an effort.

"Um, yes, it is," Faladin said, shooting Thrynn a half-apologetic glance. "First time commanding unaided, actually. . ."

She looked incredibly uncomfortable, like a trooper caught with an improperly calibrated Deece. I took pity on her-- "Just point us at the targets and we'll do the rest, ma'am."

The Jedi General's eyes narrowed. "Do you regularly speak when not spoken to, Captain?" he asked. His tone was one of patronizing superiority. Irritating, to say the least.

I was trained to tell Jedi the truth, but a bit of judicious lying never hurt. Especially when a bad move could send me into the recycler. . . "My apologies, sir." I had uttered the empty words many times since the outbreak of the war, mostly after doing what I had just done. You learn practically everything there is to know about fighting in a few years, but you still haven't learned how to keep your mouth shut, I thought ruefully.

"Answer the question."

"No, sir."

"You refuse to answer?" Thrynn said, his scowl--impossibly, but somehow he managed it--deepening.

"No, my answer was no, sir, sir." Had I been an observer this would have been funny. . .

"What?"

Apparently it wasn't clear enough. I bit the inside of one cheek to keep from smiling. "Sir, to reiterate your question, I do not regularly speak when not spoken to, sir." Kamryn Hurss raised an eyebrow but otherwise did not react. I sincerely hoped that she wasn't going to go into a detailed reminiscence about my--well, everyone's behavior, under General Iostre. . .

Thrynn sat back--or tried to; the long tables had benches on either side, and the Jedi couldn't very well lean against the back of a chair when the chairs had no backs. The look he was giving me would stop an inebriated Gamorrean thug dead. He wasn't buying it.

Another lull.

The silence was beginning to get bothersome when Faladin reached for her sporknife. This wasn't such a momentous event, but its effects were. . . interesting. She knocked her caf over to spill in her 'shrooms and onto Thrynn's lap, upsetting the plate and getting the chopped-up fungi onto the front of her tunic, uttering a piercing squeak.

Faladin shot to her feet, mouth open slightly, cheeks flushing. "I'm--I'm sorry, Master, I--"

"This is why," Thrynn rumbled, "you must exercise caution around hot liquids." It was almost prim. "Excuse me." He stood and left Hurss, Faladin, and me at the caf-spattered table, no doubt off to change his robes.

The three of us who remained at the table stared after him. I hid my laugh behind a stifled cough that really didn't accomplish much in the way of disguising it; Kamryn Hurss daintily picked up her ever-so-quaintly-named "towelette" and offered it to Faladin. The Padawan took it with a shaking hand, her face now bright red. She looked more like a Lethan Twi'lek than an Umbaran at this point. "I'm sorry," she said indistinctly as she wiped up the 'shrooms on the table. "I mess up like a drunk Gungan trying to pilot a starfighter."

Hurss shook her head. "No. Accidents happen. Our own Annoying Red Captain could tell you that."

I was on the floor wiping up the worst of the spill and hit my head on the underside of the table when she said that. Cursing under my breath in mando'a, I got back in my seat and put the wet napkin on the corner of my tray, where it sat, sullenly leaking the 'shroom sauce onto the plastoid.

Faladin was looking at me curiously. "What happened?"

Glancing at Hurss in question, I muttered, "Uuriah Robotics. There was a Senator held hostage there that we didn't know about. There wasn't enough intel. We--I destroyed the facility with him inside. Media had a field day with that one." Collateral damage--I hated that phrase. Sure, the Uuriah droid factories weren't going to produce any more tinnies for a while, and yes, the Separatist bigwig running the operation would never get another paycheck . . . but still. Politician or not, corrupt or not (probably not, with my luck), the Senator's death was my fault.

The Padawan stared. "Oh. Oh."

I gulped down some caf and grimaced. It was cold. Faladin stared a moment longer and then seemed to snap out of it, grabbing a towelette and attacking the errant liquids.

Hurss nodded gravely. "There you go, Commander. It happens to the best of us. What's a cup of caf and a few fungi in the great scheme of things? Nothing."

"Thank you," she murmured.

"Well!" said the quartermaster. "I'll be leaving you two now. Got to go tackle my flimsiwork or those stupid med droids will never see the light of a Driamorrek day. See if there're enough FX-7s at RMSU Three. . ."

"Ma'am, there are never enough FX-7s in a war zone," I said.

"I try, Cap. I do try. . . bloody bureaucracy," she grunted. "Have fun, you two." She then left for her office cube, site of countless arguments with petty officials who seemed to think it was their Force-given duty to make life difficult for the RMSUs and Republic troops. If they had their way, we'd be living off of dry rats and shooting spitballs at the droids. At least, it seemed that way.

Faladin picked dully at the caf-soaked entree without much enthusiasm. I had no idea how to chat with unfamiliar people, or Jedi--still less this particular Jedi with her sopping tunic and a slice of 'shroom clinging to one sleeve. She glanced over at me. "I can't just call you hey, ARC. . . You have a name?"

My automatic response would have been Alpha-31. Something about the way she asked, though. . . I didn't think she meant unit number. "Flare, ma'am."

"Finally, someone gives me a straight answer."

"Troopers aren't used to Jedi taking an interest in them as living beings, ma'am." I guess it came out more harshly than I meant, but it was was true whether she liked it or not. Except for a few. Because we had generals who cared. . .

A strange expression flickered across her freckly visage. It was eerily similar to the look she had gotten when I asked about any hidden facets to the mission, a sort of bantha-in-the-headlights look. "You're. . . blunt."

"There's a question hidden in there."

"Not many troopers would say anything like that."

"I'm an ARC. I'm not conditioned to be terminally polite to Jedi. Ma'am," I added hastily. There you go again with the caustic remarks. . . When will you learn to keep your di'kutla mouth shut?

Faladin's voice was quiet. "You don't have to be. And you don't have to call me ma'am."

"Padawan Commander Faladin isn't very ideal, either." You try spitting out the name Jedi General Ladaliwadrala Waddawidiladaladaninia while under fire. It really doesn't work.

She laughed. "Then just call me Faladin, or Vi'ara. I don't feel very much like a commander."

"Like Hurss said. . . even the best spill caf, if that's what you're worried about."

She tapped her sporknife on the side of her tray, falling silent and eyeing her food. I had to admit that the caf-marinated 'shrooms didn't look too appetizing. "You've worked with the Three-Nineteenth before, haven't you?"

I nodded. "Yes. . . Battle of L'mysh. Your Master will be pleased to know that they've never lost a campaign."

She sighed, just audibly. "It's the kind of thing he would worry about. Personally, I don't care about past victories or defeats. It's what you do now that matters--wait. L'mysh. . . That was where we lost Master Iostre, right?"

Something in me froze up, a hard, sharp pang of unprofessional emotion--I locked it down, pushed it away, but on it came regardless. It didn't have a name yet, that feeling. I didn't want to name it, because that would mean acknowledging that it existed--that I wasn't the stone-cold soldier I was supposed to be. "Yes, ma'am," I managed to say through gritted teeth.

Faladin flinched as if slapped. Fool, I thought. Jedi can sense people's emotions. . . "Wha--no. It's not my business."

"You're right. It isn't," I said. And then something poked me between the eyes, and it seemed like it was from behind. Not the back of the head, but from inside. A dull ache started up in my head--something seemed to catch, and there was a momentary flash of panic that had nothing to do with what I was thinking of at that point. Like a memory. Something ripped open, a tear through which I saw a field of snow--

"Ma'am," I said abruptly, and with significantly less deference than I should have used with a Jedi officer. "What was that?"

She seemed to shrink. "You felt that?"

"Yes," I hissed. Get out of my head. . . So she'd been probing me, picking my brains by force. No pun intended. Standing up, red-striped helmet under one arm, tray in the other hand, I said quietly, "Excuse me, ma'am," and carried my half-eaten 'shrooms to the disposal bin. They'd be mashed up with the rest of the base's biodegradable garbage and turned into fertilizer for the farmers here. If only the detritus of L'mysh could be dealt with as effectively. . . I headed out of the mess.

An ache that was totally different from the one in my head gripped my throat. It was the kind that came with tears--irrational tears. I jammed my helmet on and blinked them back, wondering why, with their incredible grasp of genetic engineering, the Kaminoans couldn't have bred grief out of us.

I didn't know where I was going. I just wanted to be gone.

Sixth Installment

X.

Thrynn grimaced at the holo of Senator Winspyr's face, wondering what went on in the man's mind as the speeder roared towards Dria City.

You're a powerful politician. Your word decides the fate of an entire sector. You could have been a great force for the Republic. . . and yet you chose to speak against it, destroy your reputation. . . and bring the might of the Jedi down about your pointy ears. Winspyr intrigued him. The Senator had a wife and a son, lived in Edsha City on Penumbra when he wasn't in his residence on Coruscant, and was among those most outspoken against the war and the Chancellor's policies. Why? He was being kept safe by Palpatine's regime--what was there to dislike about it? Civilians didn't have to fight in the war; an army was ready-made to fight for them. The threat was large, but still, why destabilize the Republic with his impassioned speeches in the face of such danger?

Even the Council wasn't safe from Winspyr--in a recent address, he'd said, "The Jedi Council sits in their tower and watches the war unfold, sending the brightest and the best to fight and die. They grow worried about the direction the Republic goes in, and yet do nothing."

Thrynn wasn't on the Council. He desperately wished to be--he could use his influence from those lofty heights to do a galaxy of good--but he wasn't. And he wasn't worried--he was proud to be part of such a glorious order.

A slight fluctuation in the Force alerted him that his apprentice was near, and stressed. He glanced toward the door to his cube, then turned away. She had oft reminded him of her resentment of his "constantly looking over my shoulder, barging in on everything I try to do, saying I can't do it right. . ." Vi'ara occasionally forgot her Jedi training and gave in to her emotions. He would have to ensure she worked harder on that. But in the meantime, he would let her deal with her confusion alone. In any case she wasn't in any danger. Not yet.

He sighed. It was a pity that he had to keep up this ruse. . . this charade of loyalty to her, to the soldiers, to the Order. . . His true allegiance was to the Republic itself, and, by extension, the Chancellor. Not the Jedi Order.

And that was why he was investigating Winspyr. Palpatine had expressed his concerns over the man's increasingly bold dissent, and Thrynn had convinced the Council to allow him and his apprentice to take the mission. Winspyr would be brought down, that seat on the Council would be his, and he could start changing the Jedi for the better--and working to restore the most glorious of the days of the Republic. At any cost.

It would be so.

He would sacrifice anything and everything to have it be so.

The speeder touched down on the landing pad and he stepped out confidently. Thrynn calmly strode into the governor's office, disregarding the slightly awed looks of the staff and bureaucrats running hither and yon throughout the building. He pushed the bell; the blast door asthmatically wheezed open to admit him and he entered the chamber at an unconcerned swagger.

"Master Jedi," the governor said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He waved his hand--I don't need these formalities. "We must discuss certain issues. Immediately."

Gillith leaned forward, her fingers laced together on top of her desk, bracing herself on her elbows. "Yes?" she asked, scrutinizing him intently.

"It has come to my attention that the miners are preparing to strike."

She sighed and looked down. "Yes. They refuse to work without an increase in pay."

"But that is not the only reason they will not do their jobs, is it?"

The governor's gaze snapped back up; her voice went sharp and hard. She sat back. "Master Jedi, I cannot stress enough the importance of maintaining the status quo here, by any means necessary. If the miners do not cooperate our economy will go up in flames, along with the planet itself. The Separatists will offer them far more than we can afford if this goes on for much longer."

Thrynn admired her practicality. "Then see to it, madam, that you cooperate with us. We are willing to offer you our protection, lowered tariffs on your exports, and. . . Well, the miners will no longer be a problem if they're all replaced by droids, will they?"

She nodded slowly. "I see. But, General Thrynn, we will expect you to honor those terms. Any breach or loophole you build in, any quiet undercuts, and Driamorrek will secede, because the miners will know, and they will not be happy. At all. Clear?"

"Then we are in agreement," Thrynn said smoothly. "Thank you for your time, Governor. I appreciate your diligence in working to secure a bright future for your people. I will see you at the gala, if not before." He left then, confident that all was going according to plan.

XI.

Captain Flare walked into the barracks, trailing the Jedi girl. Nova glanced up from calibrating his DC-17, wondering what she was doing in here. Most Jedi didn't just pop into their troops' barracks out of the black. Except Aista Iostre. Nova still didn't know how he was supposed to react to her death, but he was sure that it wasn't hitting him as hard as it had hit Flare.

"Where's Jelan?" the Captain asked.

Nova jerked his head toward the 'fresher. "Taking his time in there."

Flare snorted. "Hypocrite." What did he mean by that? "You boys met her at the briefing, but still. . . Ma'am, this is--"

He caught on. "RC-six-oh-three-five, ma'am."

"--Nova," the ARC finished. "Demolitions expert--hence the rather explosive name."

Faladin--who seemed to have misplaced her stiffness--laughed. "Was that on purpose?"

"Yes, ma'am," Nova said. "Inside thing--"

The 'fresher door hissed open and a half-armored Jelan--RC-2150--came out and blinked. Half-armored, as in putting on the plates as he walked. "Didn't know we'd be entertaining visitors," he commented.

"Aw, and you ate the last of the cake, you di'kut. . . So inhospitable. I'm RC-one-three-seven-four, ma'am. Rally." His brother, formerly of Keystone Squad, peering around a corner and jumping into the conversation.

Faladin smiled. "Nice to actually meet you," she said. "Giving a little speech in a locked room doesn't quite cover all the formalities. . ."

"Yeah, and the seating is dreadful."

Jelan was struggling with one armored boot, hopping around and trying to get his foot into it. "Little help, ner vod?" he grunted.

Rally pointed at the neatly made lower bunk two feet away from Jelan. "Use that," he said, breaking into a smile. "You look like a Lasteran bouncing clam."

Jelan shot the man a pained look and braced his foot on the bunk. To Faladin, the squad leader said, "And this is what I put up with, all day, every day." He finally succeeded in getting on the boot, then said to Nova, "Come on, vod; laugh for once!"

"Ha-ha. . .?"

"Never mind." Jelan considered the other boot, shook his head, and sighed. "More fun. Great. Uh, Cap?"

"What?" Flare said.

"Did you perchance have an accident in the mess? Someone in here smells like caf."

Nova  had noticed it, too. He just hadn't mentioned it. Not important. But Jelan was never one to let that stop him from digging for trivia.

"Uh, that would be me," Commander Faladin said sheepishly. "Sorry."

Nova stared. Flare was biting his knuckle plate and trying not to laugh. "Um. . . not a problem," Jelan said. "Better to bear the reassuring fragrance of a caffeinated breakfast than tarktark osik like some people I know. . ."

"Hey!" Rally protested. "You pushed me into that mess--"

"Oh, shut up."

Nova grinned. Mando'a, military jargon, and banter--Zeta Squad's formula for keeping things lively.

"Tarktarks. . ." Faladin said musingly. "What are they, exactly?"

Tachyon, the squad's last member--RC-4295--popped in and stated, "They are the most disgusting creatures to ever set foot on this miserable rock. Rodents. Little ones. Small teeth, smaller brains, big appetite for their own crap. . ."

"And yet they're a delicacy to the locals," Nova said. "Especially the politicians."

Faladin raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's. . . uh--interesting. . ."

"Get used to it," Tachyon advised. "If you're going to be hobnobbing with the politicians you'd better at least pretend to develop a taste for the. . . uh. . ." He searched for an appropriate word--"unusual."

Nova snapped the power pack into his Deece, flicked on the safety, and set it down on his bunk. "'Pretend' being the key word," he muttered.

The Jedi shrugged. "Such is life."

"And politics," Nova agreed.

* * *

An hour later, the five commandos and the Jedi apprentice were seated in Faladin’s quarters, perched on the cot, the desk, and several empty crates commandeered for the purpose. The cube was cramped with five heavily armored beings stuffed into the five-meter-square room, but they managed.

“So, what’s the plan?”

Nova watched as Faladin squinted at her datapad, considering. It held the plans of the nearest Separatist base, located on a small peninsula protruding into the purple-tinted ocean, about forty klicks away. The Seps had found a new vein of precious stones there, and had completely automated the process with droids shipped to Driamorrek. The plans had been found on the Sep they’d captured, and were about to be put to good use.

“I’d say that we don’t just pound it from the Mythical,” she mused. “That’ll just aggravate the Seps and annoy the government. There’s a small town practically on top of these new mines. Our gunners are good, but we really don’t want any unforseen casualties. Right?”

A general murmur of assent came from the group. Flare cocked his head to one side, frowning. “Okay, so the big bang approach won’t work. What if we went in and indulged in a bit of sabotage--messing up equipment, breaking things, booby-trapping tunnels so the droids can’t get in?”

“They’ll just blast through and replace whatever we break,” Jelan said flatly. “Within a few weeks, if not days.”

“What is a galactic civil war,” Tachyon asked theatrically, “if not a collection of days of blood and gore?”

From the swivel chair in front of the desk, Nova snickered. “Suddenly he’s a poet. Who knew?”

Faladin shrugged, smiling. “So that idea won’t work in the long run. Any computer experts in here?”

Fingers were pointed, in unison, at Rally. “I’m your slicer, ma’am.”

“Yeah, last month he visited Count Dooku’s bank account just because he was bored,” Jelan said.

Faladin nodded. “Okay. Can you get us into those mines and throw the proverbial hydrospanner into the works, if the rest of us make some noise to distract the guards?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rally said. “No problem.”

“Excellent.” She stood up and tossed him the datapad. “I’m decent with computers, so I found a few access codes that need decrypting. Have at it.”

Rally grinned, fiddling with the device for a few minutes. Then he glanced up and shrugged, turning the datapad so that it displayed four sets of numbers: IL38, 4A29E5, 8729X, 8TK666. “These guys really need to learn how to secure their codes,” he commented. “The first two will get you into the turbolifts down to the tunnels, the third one into where they store their ordnance for blowing through hard rock, and the fourth one gives you access to the control room.”

Faladin’s eyes lit up. “Aha . . .”

“You go in, keep the guards off us, let Rally work his magic, and we scoot?” Nova guessed.

“Yep. And I think that our good captain could sabotage the actual barracks while we’re down there.”

This could work quite well, Nova thought. We halt the new mining operation, delay it for a while, and get rid of a few thousand droids while we’re at it.

“I like this plan,” Flare said, smiling dangerously.

“We’ll clear it with my master, and then recce the area ASAP. All right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Zeta Squad said, and the ARC nodded firmly.

“Let’s do it, then.”