Star Wars 

Star Wars Insider 

N 87 

Republic Commando 

Odds 

By Karen Traviss; 

Illustrations by Rob Hendrickson 



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Note: This story takes place 65 to 67 days after the events of the novel Star Wars Republic Commando: Triple Zero. 

Everyone knows that Intel's about as reliable as a Weequay quay ball. But that doesn't mean it doesn't have its uses. Sometimes it's the lies and myths that tell you everything you need to know.  

place and time: separatist droid factory. olanet. siskeen system -460 standard days after the battle of geonosis. 

Atin liked a big, satisfying explosion as much as the next man. But there were better ways of putting droids out of action than turning them into shrapnel. He just didn't agree with the technical details this time. 

"Ordo told me you were argumentative," said Prudii. 

Atin bristled. But coming from Ordo, it might have been a compliment. "I just want to get it right." 

Atin edged along the gantry above the foundry floor, feeling along the rust-crusted metal railing for a sound section that would take the weight of a rappelling line with a fully-kitted Republic commando on the end. The only illumination was the red-hot glow from the durasteel sheets feeding into the rollers; droids didn't need light to see. The night-vision filter in his visor had kicked in the moment he and Prudii entered the factory. 

It was a high-value target. The factory was said to be one of the largest outside Geonosis. Again, intel seemed to have lost something in the translation. 

Atin found what felt like a solid section of railing and checked the metal's integrity with his gauntlet sensor. Flakes of corroded metal fell to the gantry floor, and he brushed them carefully into a gap to hide signs of entry. 

"Five per cent extra carvanium does the job." Prudii - Null ARC trooper N-5 - pulled out his belt toolkit. "Trust me. I've done a lot of these." 

"I know." 

"And? Did it work? It worked." 

"Okay, I'm not a metallurgist." 

Prudii peered over the rail as he checked his rappelling line. "Neither am i, but I knew a man who was." 

Atin didn't ask about his use of the past tense. He was both an assassin and a saboteur, and at the top of his game in both fields. Until Atin got to know him as well he knew his Null brothers, Ordo and Mereel, he would err on the side of caution. Nulls were as mad as a box of Hapan chags. There were only six of them in the army, but it felt like a lot more. 

Omega Squad was back at barracks again for a few days. Atin missed the rest of his team, but he'd volunteered for this mission to learn a technique. And learn he would. 

I can do this. Argumentative? I just like things to be right. 

Prudii dropped down the line, his kama spreading in the air as he descended in complete silence - no mean feat for an 85-kilo man in full armour. Atin took a breath and paused before dropping down after him. If a droid detected them, the mission was over. They'd have to blow the factory - again. And then the Seps would switch production elsewhere - again. If they just churned out millions of substandard tinnies, crippled at the molecular level by a little tweak in the automation, it would save a lot of hunting. 

"Nothing personal," Atin muttered, wondering what went on in their self-aware metal heads. "It's you or me, vode." 

"What?" Prudii's voice filled Atin's helmet. 

"Just trying not to be... organicist." 

"Don't give me all that droids-have-rights osik." 

"Wouldn't dream of it," said Atin. 

He landed next to the Null lieutenant, and they skirted the assembly line. On the factory floor, 20 metres below ground level, the rhythm of fully automated production continued uninterrupted. Only worker-droids were around during the night shift. Durasteel sheets rumbled between the rollers, were caught by giant claws, and moved to the next assembly line for cutting. At the end of the conveyor belt, a clamshell press shaped the torso cases of battle droids around a form before dragging them through cooling vats with a hiss of steam. The whole place smelled of soot and burning. 

A maintenance droid -just a box on wheels with a dozen multifunctional arms - trundled past Atin and Prudii, as blind to the electromagnetic profile of their armour as all his kind were. Atin still held his breath as it passed. But no sound escaped from his sealed helmet. He could yell his head off at Prudii and nobody else would hear a thing. The deafening noise of the assembly line would have drowned out all sound anyway. 

"There it is." Prudii pointed to what looked like a run of oversize lockers on a far wall. Their hinges were as corroded as the gantry. "I hate rust. Don't they do any housework around here?" 

Atin eased the cover open carefully. No, the Seps didn't inspect the automated settings very often, as long as the stateboard reported that everything was running okay. Inside, racks of data wafers fed template information to the different production lines, dictating wire gauges, alloy proportions, component ratings and the thousands of other parameters that went go into making a battle droid. Atin and Prudii had just opened up the brain of the entire factory. It was time for a little surgery. 

"How many times have you done this?" asked Atin. 

Prudii sucked his teeth audibly and rocked his head, counting. "Lots," he said at last. 

"And they haven't noticed yet?" 

"No. I'd say not." Prudii clipped bypass wires to the bays above and below the slot to isolate it. "Just so I don't trigger the safety cut-out." He inspected a substitute data wafer - apparently identical in every way to the Separatist ones - and inserted it into the slot. "This'll make sure the foundry adds too much carvanium to the durasteel, and that the quality control sampling reads it as normal levels. See?" He pointed to the readout on the panel. A cluster of figures read 0003. "Machines believe what you tell 'em. Just like people." 

"You sure that's enough?" 

"Any higher and it'll be too brittle to pass through the rollers. Then they'll spot the problem too soon." 

"Okay..." 

Prudii took a breath. He was remarkably patient for a Null. "Look, when these chakaare reach the battlefield, the overpressure from a basic ion shell will crack their cases like Naboo crystal." He removed the bypass clips and attached them to bays flanking a vertical slot further up the panel. More spiked wafers replaced genuine chips. "And just in case they get lucky and spot that little quality-control problem, this one will reduce the wire gauge just enough so that when it takes a heavy current, it'll short. I like to introduce a different batch of problems for each factory, in case they spot a pattern. How much more of this do I have to debate with you?" 

"Just checking, sir." 

"Drop the 'sir.' I hate it." 

It was a precise calculation: just enough to render entire production runs of droids so vulnerable on the battlefield that they were almost useless, but not enough to flag the problem when the units were checked before being shipped from the factory - checked by service droids using the same falsified data. 

Prudii had to be doing something right. The kill ratio had climbed from 20-to-one to 50-to-one in a matter of a few months. The tinnies still hadn't overrun the Republic, despite the claims that they could. While Prudii worked, factory droids skimmed past him, oblivious. He stepped out of 'ù their way and let them pass. 

"Is it true you've tracked down General Grievous?" asked Atin. '"Cos I know that two of you were tasked to hunt him..." 

"Not me. Ask Jaing. Or Kom'rk. Their job, not mine." 

Atin hadn't met them yet. "If they've found him, the war's as good as over." 

"You reckon? Well, it doesn't look like it's over yet." 

Atin took the hint and didn't ask about Grievous again. He kept watch, DC-17 rifle ready, anxious not to use it for once. It was odd to be invisible. He wondered why the Grand Army didn't use stealth coating on all trooper armour, seeing as most of their land engagements were against droids. 

There was a lot that didn't add up in this war. 

"There," said Prudii, closing the panel gently. He stood back to inspect it. "We were never here." 

They climbed back up to the gantry on their lines and slipped out the way they'd come. It was pitch black outside. They had an hour to get to the extraction point and transmit their coordinates to the heavily , disguised freighter waiting for them. On Olanet, that meant crossing '. kilometres of marshaling yards serving the nerf-meat industry. Atin ;' % could hear the animals lowing, but he'd still never seen a live nerf. 

"This place stinks." Prudii settled behind a repulsor truck in a yard full of hundreds of others and squatted in its shadow. The harmless but nauseating stench of manure and animals penetrated his helmet's filters. "Five-seven, are you receiving?" 

"With you in 10, sir. Stand by." 

Prudii made no comment about the 'sir.' He took the data wafers out of his belt and attached a probe to them, one at a time. He struck Atin as a kindred spirit, a man who wouldn't let any inanimate objects get the better of him, but he was still hard work. 

"Shab," Prudii muttered. He held but a wafer. "What do you make of this?" 

Atin slotted it into his own wafer reader and relayed the extracted data to his HUD. The readout was just strings of numbers, the kind of data he'd need to analyze carefully. "What am I looking at? I normally blow this stuff up. I've never stopped to read it." 

"Look for the code that starts zero-zero-five-alpha, 10 from the top row." 

"Got it." 

"That's the running total of units off the line since the wafer was inserted to start the production run. And the date." 

Atin scanned from left to right, counting the line of numbers and inserting imaginary commas. "996,125. In a year." 

"Correct." 

"Not exactly smoking." Atin checked that he wasn't missing a row of numbers. "No, just six figures." 

"Every factory we hit is producing numbers like that. Judging by the raw material freight we monitor, there're still a lot more factories out there, but I think we're talking about a few hundred million droids." 

"That's reassuring. Thanks. I'll sleep well tonight." 

"And so you should, ner vod." Prudii popped the seal on his collar, lifted off his helmet and wiped the palm of his gauntlet across his forehead; it came away shiny with sweat in the faint light leaking from the HUD. Somehow he looked older than Mereel and Ordo. "They say they're making quadrillions of droids." He paused. "A quadrillion has 15 zeroes. A thousand million millions, not a few hundred. Are we missing something here?" 

Atin took no offence at the explanation. Anything more than three million was bad news in his book; that was how many clone troops were deployed or being raised on Kamino. "'They' say? Who're 'they'?" 

"Now that's a good question." 

"Anyway, it only takes one to kill you." 

"But where are they all? I've bimbled around 47 planets this last year." Prudii made it sound like sightseeing. Atin had a sudden vision of him admiring the visitor attractions of Sep planets and then fragmenting them. The grip of the Verpine rifle slung across his back was well-worn. Atin had no real idea who Prudii hunted, and he was happier that way. "Seen a lot, counted a lot. But not quadrillions. They just don't seem to be able to produce anywhere near those numbers." 

"But that's why we're fighting, isn't it?" Atin tried not to worry about the HoloNet news and took the political debate as something that didn't matter, because one droid or a septillion, he and his brothers were the ones who would still be in the front line. "Because the Seps are going to overrun us with droid armies if we don't stop them. So why not just reassure the public that the threat isn't that big?" 

Prudii looked at him for a moment. Atin got the feeling that he felt sorry for him in some way, and he wasn't sure why. "Because it's only the likes of us that are finding this out every time we crack a Sep facility." 

"You report it?" 

"Of course I report it. Every time. To General Zey. Mace Windu knows. They all know." 

"So why is the holonews news saying quadrillions? Where did the figure come from?" 

"I heard it first from Republic Intelligence." 

"Well, then..." Intel was notoriously variable in quality. "They make it up as they go along." 

"Even they're not that stupid." 

Prudii replaced his helmet and held his hand out to Atin for the wafer. He didn't say much after that. 

Millions or quadrillions. So what? Atin, a man who enjoyed numbers, looked at the 1.2 million clone troopers deployed at that moment, added the two million men still being raised and trained, and didn't even need to place a decimal point to work out that he didn't like the odds. 

But he never did. And it never stopped him from defying them. 

"Want me to relay this data to HQ?" he asked. 

"No," said Prudii. "Not until Kal'buir sees it. Never until he sees it." 

A good Mandalorian son always obeyed his father. The Null ARCs were no different: they looked to Sergeant Kal Skirata - Kal'buir, Papa Kal - for their orders, not to the Republic. A Mando father put his sons first, after all, and they trusted him. 

Skirata would always outrank everyone - captain, general-and even Supreme Chancellor. 

place and time: tipoca city. kamino -461 days after the battle of Geonosis 

Ko Sai was a devious piece of work. 

Mereel - ARC trooper N-7 - had always thought of Kaminoans as cold, arrogant, xenophobic, and even suitable for barbecuing, but he'd never seen them as scheming - not until he began hunting their missing chief scientist, anyway. She hadn't died in the Battle of Kamino, as everyone thought. She'd defected. 

Why? What motivates her? Wealth? Not politics, that's for sure. 

He knew she was still alive, because she was on the run from her Separatist paymasters, now. In the cantinas of Tatooine, he'd heard rumours of a bounty. And when you had only your rare skill in cloning to trade, in a galaxy where non-military cloning was now banned, your attempts to raise credits were hard to hide from those who knew where to look. 

The world of Khomm and Arkania had really suffered from that ban. Mereel knew exactly where to look. 

He stood to attention in the ranks of troopers in theTipoca training facility, a good, obedient clone as far as the Kaminoans were concerned. A perfect product. But their identification systems weren't quite as foolproof as they'd told the Republic. They certainly hadn't spotted his fake ID transponder code. The little chip cycled through randomly generated IDs and, without his distinctive kama and blue-trimmed armour, he could disappear right in front of the kaminiise. Not even the patrolling KE-8 pilots looking for defective clones could spot him. 

You think you're infallible, don't you, aiwha-bait? 

One of the Kaminoan technicians walked along the row of troopers and paused in front of him, blinking, gray-skinned, its long fragile neck tempting to a man trained to kill. Mereel, frozen at attention, fantasized: blaster, vibroblade or garrote? These vile things had wanted to exterminate him as a kid, and he would never forget that. He and his five brothers had been a cloning experiment the Kaminoans considered a failure: but Kal Skirata had saved them. 

There was time for revenge later. Kal'buir had taught him patience. 

Patience is a luxury. I'm ageing twice as fast as an ordinary man. 

He needed to pass through Tipoca City and grab some data without being noticed. The Kaminoan moved on. Mereel savoured the knowledge that he knew more about chief scientist Ko Sai's whereabouts than the Kaminoans did, and they'd searched for her very, very hard. 

You're going to give us back our lives, gihaal, me and all my brothers. Mereel included the Republic commandos, the poor cannon fodder meat-cans around him, and even the Alpha ARCs, who'd been ready to kill clone kids to stop the Seps from using them. An vode. They're all my brothers. Even the Alphas. 

As the troopers fell out, he slipped in at the rear of a line of men to cover his progress toward the administration core of the building. One glanced at him, the slightest head movement betraying what was happening under his helmet. The man was probably well aware Mereel was a stranger from the minute telltale differences in gait or bearing, but he said nothing. No clone could possibly be a security risk. 

I'm just borrowing some information, ner vod. I'm not even going to sabotage this cesspit of a city. Take no notice of me. 

As the line passed a corridor leading off at 90 degrees, Mereel wheeled left and walked calmly down to the end of the passage. The heads-up display in his helmet scrolled floor plans and data before his eyes. He looked both at it and through it to focus on the systems terminal set in the wall. Since the Separatist attack on Tipoca just over a standard year ago, security had been tightened, but that was just for Seps and their droids. Amateurs and tinnies. Nobody could keep out a determined Null ARC. 

"Mer'ika," said the voice in his helmet. It was quiet and concerned: Skirata rarely raised his voice to them. "Don't push your luck. I want you back in one piece." 

"I hear you, Kal'buir." Mereel slipped the docking pin of his forearm plate into one of the terminal's ports. A couple of troopers looked his way from the end of the passage, but he remained unhurried. I'm just calibrating my suit. "We might not get another chance to come back here. I'm grabbing everything I can." 

Along with the legitimate outgoing code that requested data from the Tipoca mainframe, a second hidden layer hitched a ride to access the root of the entire system undetected. Mereel now had Republic Treasury encryption and de-erasure keys, courtesy of an obliging Treasury agent called Besany Wennen, and they were the most advanced available. Now he could read not only Treasury data, but also find encrypted files between Tipoca and the Republic that had been hidden from his previous probes. He might also be able to recover the data that Ko Sai had stolen and deleted. 

He wanted her critical research on controlling the ageing process i in humans. It might work both ways, they said. That meant it was worth a fortune. She would try to sell it. 

The tree of files appeared in his HUD, a field of flickering amber and blue symbols like a garish fabric. What looked like a plain white wall to humans on Kamino was actually a riot of colour beyond their visual range. Only in the Kaminoans' digital systems did Mereel ever get a glimpse of the way their heptachromatic vision saw the world. 

Lots of blue and orange and purple. Tacky. Tasteless. 

If he copied just the files he knew he needed, it would take seconds. 

You might never get a chance to come back again. 

The mainframe held 10 petabytes of data. It would take minutes. 

Boots clattered past him. Mereel concentrated on looking like a regular trooper maintaining his armour's systems, but it was hard to stretch a 30-second procedure. He could hear his breath rasping in his helmet. So could Skirata and his brother Ordo, waiting in orbit to extract him. 

"You okay, son?" 

"Fine, Kal'buir." 

"No heroics," said Ordo's voice. "Get out now." 

Mereel looked at his HUD icon: still amber, still downloading. He was pushing it, all right. But he'd pushed his luck a lot more for the Republic, and a bunch of strangers and jetiise didn't mean half as much to him as the welfare of his brothers. The amber icon flashed. More boots clattered past the end of the passage. 

Come on... Come on... 

It was taking too long. 

His peripheral vision, enhanced by his helmet's systems, saw the Kaminoan pause and turn to walk towards him. Fierfek. That's all we need. 

It was a crested male. It stood in front of him, feigning concern. He knew it only sawhim as a commodity. 

"You have been downloading longer than average, trooper." 

"Just checking, sir." Mereel heard a faint click on his audio feed: Skirata was edgy. "Slow data response times on my HUD." 

"Then please proceed to Procurement and have them run diagnostics." 

"Yes, sir!" Don't bank on it, aiwha-bait. The icon in his HUD changed to green. "Right away, sir!" 

Mereel withdrew the docking pin and walked back down the passage in the general direction of Procurement. The moment the Kaminoan was out of sight, he dropped back into the ocean of whitearmoured bodies and worked his way down the wide corridors and walkways to the maze of service passages that led to lesser-known landing platforms. 

Mereel knew every metre of the complex. Skirata had encouraged the Nulls to run wild as kids, much to the disgust of the Kaminoans. He looked into the cloud-locked sky and rain hammered his visor like shrapnel. 

"Ready, Kal'buir," he said. "Get me out of this dar'yaim." 

place and time: republic special-ops freighter tiv z766/2. cato neimoidia portal. hydian - 461 standard days after the battle of geonosis. 

"This wasn't in the op order," said Atin. "We were supposed to sabotage the factory and return to base." 

Prudii had ordered the traffic interdiction vessel to Neimoidian space. The pilot didn't seem worried. TIV pilots never did. 

"I know," said Prudii. "But this is all about presentation." 

"Even this TIV can't take on an armoured transport." 

"You sound scared, ner vod. Look at me. No helmet. Would I take a risk without my suit sealed?" 

Atin considered showing Prudii where he could dock his character assessment the hard way. "But it's not unreasonable to ask why you're presenting a target to the Seps just to get a few thousand droids that are probably from a spiked batch anyway." He paused for a breath. "Lieutenant." 

"No need to stand on ceremony with me, vod'ika." Prudii shrugged. "We're all brothers. Even those unimaginative Alpha planks, Force bless 'em. Why am I doing this? Emphasis, ner vod. Emphasis." 

A small, bright spot grew larger in the view plate and resolved into a yellow and gray transport with horizontal spars picked out in scarlet. Prudii let it draw a thousand metres behind the TIV. 

"Ready torpedoes," he said. 

The pilot tapped the console. "Torps ready." 

"Steady..." 

The transport was accelerating slowly towards the jump point. 

"On my mark..." 

He was calculating blast range. Atin could see it. 

"Take take take." 

"Torps away." 

A spread of six proton torpedoes streaked from the concealed tubes in the ship's underslung drive. The TIV shuddered. Atin reminded himself that his Katarn armour and bodysuit was space-tight for 20 minutes, and then realised help would be a lot more than 20 minutes away if anything went wrong. It always was - why did they bother? But Prudii didn't have his helmet on. Either he was confident or he was mad, and being a Null meant he was probably both. 

The first and second warheads punched one-two into the transport's starboard flank in a blaze of gold light. Atin didn't see the rest strike because the TIV accelerated from standstill to way too fast in a matter of seconds, heading for the jump point. It was definitely emphatic. 

Stars stretched and streaked before them as the TIV went to hyperspace and left the stricken transport far behind. Prudii wasn't even waiting to confirm a kill. He smiled as the acceleration levelled out and the TIV settled steady again. The pilot yawned. Atin said nothing. 

"You're going to tell me what an or'dinii I am for pulling that stunt, aren't you, ner vod?" asked Prudii. 

"Pointless bravado." If he took offence, Atin was ready to swing at him. "Reckless, even." 

"But it's what the GAR would do if it came across a droid transport and didn't know a lot of tinnies were already as good as useless, isn't it?" Prudii sounded as if he regarded the Grand Army as something separate and external. "I didn't bust my shebs around half the galaxy this past year so the Seps could work out that their tinnies were already sabotaged. So it's worth the risk to make it all look real. If we don't take a pop at them whenever we get the chance, they'll wonder why." 

Atin dealt in the measurable and the solid, things he could deconstruct to find out how they worked, and things that he could build. He was trained in camouflage and feint attacks. But the world that the Nulls moved in, the arena of black ops, was a nebulous haze of bluff and counter-bluff. Just when he thought he had the hang of it, they'd do something that was obvious in hindsight but that hadn't occurred to him at the time. 

"You think they're that smart?" 

"I never underestimate the enemy," said Prudii. "Especially when I'm not sure who the enemy is." He tapped the pilot's shoulder. "Drall RV point, my good man, and make it snappy." 

"You Null boys are my favourite fares," said the pilot, and yawned again. "Never a dull moment." 

place and time: republic special-ops shuttle. uncoded. en route from kamino to drall RV point corellian space - 461 standard days after the battle of Geonosis. 

Mereel swung through the hatch into the crew bay, and Skirata gave him a playful tap on the ear with the flat of his hand. 

"Don't do that again," said Skirata. "If those gray freaks had caught you, they'd have reconditioned you." 

"They might have tried." Mereel caught Ordo narrowing his eyes in disapproval: Kal'buir was not to be distressed, ever. "Anyway, this could well be worth it." 

Safe from detection even by the Republic, they sat in the crew cabin of the unmarked shuttle and pored over the data from Mereel's haul while they waited for Atin and Prudii to rendezvous. They watched the files play out on Ordo's datapad like the latest holovids while the Treasury software from oh-so-helpful Agent Wennen flagged the most heavily encrypted files and those that had been subject to secure erasure. 

Mereel was almost joking when he keyed in the search parameter "Palpatine." It was always worth seeing if there was data about key politicians in any files he sliced, just in case, but he didn't expect to find anything. 

But he got it. 

"Osik," he cursed. 

"Problem?" Ordo nudged him. 

"Maybe." Mereel stared at a triple-encrypted file that yielded to the Treasury software. But it wasn't a message or a data file; it was a copy of a holotransmission. 

He hit the key. It was a frozen holo of Lama Su. Fierfek, it was the Kaminoan Prime Minister, and he appeared to be talking to Chancellor Palpatine. 

Skirata swallowed audibly. "Now this is where life gets a bit dangerous." 

But they watched, transfixed, as the shimmering blue image of Lama Su sprang to life from the datapad emitter. 

"If you require more clones beyond the current order, then you must authorize us to begin further production immediately. An initial payment of one billion credits...." 

There was a crackling pause: Palpatine's response wasn't recorded, but it was clear he had interrupted. Lama Su's head bobbed in annoyance. 

"We must make it clear that the current Kamino contracts terminate in two years. Apart from the special facilities you ask us to set up on Coruscant, Chancellor, you will have no further clone production beyond the current three million unless you commission more now..." 

There was nothing more. It appeared to be all that Lama Su had filed, probably as some kind of personal insurance. If the date was correct, the conversation had taken place some months before. 

"Shab," Skirata hissed. "What are they playing at?" 

Ordo slowly raised his hand to his mouth. Mereel, who thought he'd seen it all, revised his grasp of political subterfuge on the spot. 

"So is the Republic going bust and not paying its bills?" asked Ordo. "Or are we seeing something else?" 

"Cloning facilities on Coruscant? General Zey never mentioned that." 

"Maybe he doesn't know. There's a lot Zey doesn't know, after all... lots about us, for a start." 

"How's the Chancellor going to pull that off?" 

Skirata interrupted. "See what else you can find." He'd started chewing ruik root again and Mereel gauged his anxiety by the speed of his jaw. He was going like a machine now. "I don't like this at all." 

"If this is all the army we've got for the foreseeable future," said Ordo, "then we'll be overrun in two years." 

"Unless Prudii's patent droid remover saves the day," said Mereel, stomach churning. 

Why didn't I pick this up earlier? 

All Nulls were adept spies, used to knowing more about the Republic's inner workings than the Senate itself. Mereel could even find out the smallest and most private details if he needed to, maybe even how many times Palpatine used the 'freshers each day. He'd thought that no information escaped him. So being surprised by totally unexpected information left him uneasy and ashamed. 

"How did I miss this, Kal'buir?" he said, feeling he had let him down. 

"You didn't, son," said Skirata. "You found it." 

place and time: RV point. drall space. corellia sector - 462 standard days after the battle of geonosis. 

Prudii obviously hadn't seen Skirata in a long time. Atin watched, fascinated, as he turned instantly from glib cynic to adoring son, hugging Skirata with a clash of armour plates. He stood back, and Skirata patted his cheek, an indulgent grin spreading across his face. 

"I have some interesting data for you, Kal'buir." The two ships hung linked together by a docking tube, a long way from Republic scrutiny as well as the Separatists. They gathered in the crew bay of the smaller TIV. It was a tight fit. "We're still not finding droid numbers like Intel claimed. We have to reassess the nature of the Sep threat." 

Atin thought Prudii just meant numbers. It was now obvious that the droid numbers were flawed to say the least. Atin would have been happy to just write that off as Republic Intelligence being di'kute - nobody with any sense expected intel to be accurate anyway - but it seemed to bother all three Nulls a great deal. Ordo and Mereel, their helmets stacked side by side on the deck like two decapitated heads, wore matching frowns of concern. 

"Come on, this is supposed to be good news," said Atin. 

Ordo shrugged. "Depends where the original estimate came from." 

"But what if it turns out to be right?" 

Mereel looked mildly exasperated. "If they had even one quadrillion droids, or a tenth of that, we'd know all about it - because they'd use them, and they'd invade Coruscant." He glanced at Skirata, as though waiting for permission to go on. Skirata shook his head. "Anyway, a factory processing more droids than that needs a lotofdurasteeland parts, and we'd notice the traffic. We're not seeing quadrillion-ton shipments of ore, metal or components." 

"Then it's just Sep propaganda. Everyone talks up their troop strengths." 

Atin simply couldn't see why it mattered. They had a better handle on the Sep droid numbers now, and a good strategy, for the time being, for making sure that the millions didn't count for anything like that number on the battlefield. He settled back into an alcove in the port bulkhead and inserted his test probes into the wafer's terminals. He just wanted to see the data for himself, or as much as he understood of it. 

"We're fighting small fires all the time, all over the place," said Skirata. "Zey might think these numbers are good news, but it's like saying we're drowning in three metres of water instead of a hundred." 

Atin hadn't been raised by Skirata like the rest of Omega Squad, but he knew the man well enough now to read his reactions. He was completely transparent with clones; he didn't seem to be able to deceive them, or even want to. "There's something you're not telling me, Sarge." 

Skirata put his comlink on standby. "Yes, son, there is." 

"So it is Grievous, then? Because if it is..." 

"It's messy politics." Skirata - a contract killer, an accomplished thief, a man who diverted Republic resources whenever he felt like it - would never lie to his boys. He promised them that. "If you know about it, it might endangeryou." 

Atin wondered what might be more dangerous than being a Republic commando. It wasn't exactly a steady desk job. But he trusted Skirata completely, even if his curiosity was devouring him. "Okay, Sarge. Orders?" 

"Get back to HQ with the TIV pilot and do a bit of skills transfer. Teach the rest of the lads how to make nice crumbly droids." 

Ordo cut in. "And thank Besany Wennen for me, will you?" 

Atin worked out that Prudii wasn't going back with him. "You're telling me to get lost, aren't you?" 

"For your own good," said Skirata. 

It had to be Grievous. Fora moment Atin wondered if they didn't think he was good enough to go after the Separatist general with them, and then he started worrying for Skirata. Even with a bunch of Nulls, the old di'kut would be insane to try to tackle him. And Atin had no intention of walking away if that was on the agenda. 

"Straight question, Sarge." 

"Don't put me on the spot, At'ika." 

"Are you going after Grievous? 'Cos if you are, I'm not leaving." 

"No, we're not going after Grievous." 

Atin scrutinized his face. "Okay, Sarge. Be careful, anyway. Whatever it is." 

He climbed back through the hatch to rejoin the TIV pilot. Most of the time, he really didn't need or even want to know what the Nulls got up to. Or Skirata, for that matter. He just didn't want to lose any more brothers. 

And even if he worked out what was going on, it wouldn't change his job one bit. 

place and time: rv point. drall space - 462 standard days after the battle of geonosis. 

"Okay, what's your assessment?" Skirata prepped the secure link to General Zey back at headquarters. "What are we going to tell him?" 

Ordo shrugged. "Nothing about the holorecording - yet." 

"We'd be failing in our duty if we didn't advise him to change tactics, though," said Mereel. "Again." 

"You know it's not his decision." 

"But it's still our duty." 

Skirata frowned and opened the secure link. The Jedi general seemed to have been caught on the hop - the holoimage showed him in his undershirt, hair disheveled. 

"Another confirmation of droid production numbers, General," said Skirata. "Same as before. Worst scenario, maybe a few hundred million right now." 

"That's better than we thought. I needed some good news. 

Successfully neutralized?" 

"My lads are completely reliable." 

"I know." 

"We think... look, it's pretty clear from what we're seeing that we're facing small-scale conflicts in waves. If we concentrated all our forces on completely overwhelming them a sector at a time, instead of scattering our troops across a thousand fronts, we could break the Seps a lot faster." 

Zey chewed his lip. "I hear what you say." 

"A big push. Consolidate our forces and hit 'em hard, then move on when they're crushed and hit the next sector. This piecemeal approach is just damping down fires temporarily." 

Mereel waited for Zey's reaction. The Jedi looked tired. It was hard to find anyone in the Grand Army who didn't look in need of a week's sleep. 

Zey dropped his voice to a near-whisper. "I agree, militarily. General Windu reminds the Chancellor of this proposal whenever he can. The answer's always the same. Palpatine thinks it'll be seen as excessive force and might alienate the neutral worlds." 

Mereel had no patience with politics. "Tell him we're feeling pretty alienated right now, too." 

"I understand your frustration, Lieutenant." 

"What does he say about the droid numbers, then?" 

Zey shrugged. "He believes that underplaying the threat might be foolhardy." 

"Always easier to get the voters to foot the bill for a war if they think the enemy's about to invade, eh? Is that why Republic Intel came up with the quadrillions figure?" 

"You're a cynical man, Sergeant." 

"Yeah. I was a mere for too long." 

"I never said you were wrong." 

"Okay, General," said Skirata. He managed to sound irritated. Zey knew the game by now; the two of them conducted a coded conversation, both knowing what the other really felt. Mereel admired their pragmatism. "We've not found the hub of the Seps' droid production. I assume you'll want us to carry on looking." 

Zey sounded older these days. "The Chancellor is most insistent." 

"Understood, General." 

Skirata closed the link and stared through Mereel for a moment. Then he focused on him again. "Palpatine doesn't want to talk about the real numbers. Clone production on Kamino looks like it might stop dead in a couple of years. I say the objective of this war isn't the one we're being told it is." 

"You sound like you expect politicians to tell the truth, Kal'buir." 

"Nah, I'm not that senile yet." Skirata gestured to Ordo for his datapad, fingers beckoning. "We're bringing the plan forward a little, lads. I'm marking a date on my calendar just under two years from now, and making sure we're ready to take care of our own by then. You understand me?" 

"Understood," said Mereel. Skirata had what he called an exit strategy: his plan for the end of the war, not just for himself, but for the Nulls... and maybe any clone who found himself out of a job. "Okay, everybody looks for Ko Sai now." 

"What about Grievous?" 

Ordo handed the datapad to Skirata. "Last time Kom'rk got a fix on him it was leaked information. Someone wants us to find him. Until we work out who and why, we keep a little distance." 

"Works for me," said Mereel. 

Wars often didn't make sense. He'd read plenty of history, and he'd absorbed Kal'buir's lessons; politicians often made decisions that flew in the face of professional military advice. Whatever the Republic was up to, a long-running war of skirmishes suited Palpatine's purpose. 

But it didn't suit Mereel. And it didn't do the mounting numbers of clone casualties any good either. He felt no guilt whatsoever about using the taxpayers' credit to get the best outcome for himself and his brothers, both those in the field now and those to come. 

Three million against... how many? Hundreds of millions. They were bad odds, but they weren't impossible, not with the Nulls and a few thousand commandos around. But working out odds meant being clear who the enemy was, and the more Mereel learned, the less certain he became. 

"Cheer up," said Prudii, "Average kill rates are going up all the time. I reckon we can shoot for at least 200-to-one." He took a hand-size slab of metal out of his pack and held it up with a grin. Then he smacked it down hard on the edge of the console. It crazed and broke into pieces. "Those tinnies just can't take the strain like we can." 

No, those weren't impossible odds. Bad, maybe; but not impossible. Mereel sat back in the co-pilot's seat, took out his datapad, and began combing through the hidden data of Kamino's clonemaster. Ko Sai had the whole galaxy in which to hide, but she was hiding from men she had personally engineered to be the very best. 

The odds weren't in her favour. 

glossary 

carvanium - metal used in alloys 

vode - (Mando'a) brothers 

osik-(Mando'a) equivalent of "poodoo" 

chakaare - (Mando'a) term of abuse (lit. thief, petty criminal, "grave-robber") 

ner vod - (Mando'a) my brother 

kaminiise - (Mando'a) Kaminoans 

aiwha-bait - insulting Mandalorian term for Kaminoans 

an vode - (Mando'a) "brothers all." 

jetiise - (Mando'a) Jedi (plural) also means Republic 

fierfek - Huttese curse 

vod'ika - (Mando'a) affectionate diminutive form of "brother" 

Mer'ika - (Mando'a) affectionate diminutive form ofMereel 

shebs - (Mando'a) backside 

di'kute - (Mando'a) idiots, morons 

merc - short for mercenary 

chags - small, unpredicable, highly excitable Hapan amphibians 

heptochromatic - able to see in six colours including ultraviolet 

petabyte - a quadrillion bytes of data 

dar'yaim - (Mando'a) a place you want to forget, a hell 

TIV - Traffic Interdiction Vessel (disguised vessel used for boardings by GAR special forces) 

or'dinii - (Mando'a) "complete lunatic" 

Star Wars  

Star Wars Insider 

N 68 

Hero of Cartao  

Part 1 

Hero's call. 

by Timothy Zahn. 



############################################################################### 

ONE YEAR AFTER THE BATTLE OF GEONOSIS 

"Master Doriana?" Emil Kerseage's deep voice called. "We're here." 

Kinman Doriana awoke with a start, blinking his eyes against the sunlight streaming in through the shuttle's viewports. For a moment he gazed at the landscape rolling beneath him, trying to remember where exactly he was. There had been so many systems... 

The disorientation cleared. He was on Cartao, major trading center for Prackla Sector, carefully nonaligned in the war between the Republic and the Separatists. And home to... 

'There it is," Kerseage said. He turned the control stick delicately, rolling the shuttle slightly to the left to give Doriana a better look. "Spaarti Creations." 

Doriana gazed out the side viewport, impressed in spite of himself. Situated among a group of forested hills just north of the compact town of Foulahn City, perhaps three kilometers northwest of the equally compact Triv Spaceport, was the unique manufacturing plant known as Spaarti Creations. Over a kilometer across at its widest, it had the patchwork look of something that had repeatedly been added onto over the decades. The roofline echoed the frozen chaos, with towers, heat exchangers, antennas, and skylights poking out at apparently random spots along the building's overall three-story height. There were no windows he could see, ventilation apparently being handled by a line of small, louvered air vents dotting the outer walls about midway up the sides. "Impressive," he commented. 

"You think so?" Kerseage shrugged. "Personally, I've always considered it an architectural version of a weed patch. No order or organization anywhere." 

"Ever been inside?" 

"No one but employees get to go in," the other said, his lip twisting with disgust and resentment. 'Them, and the high and mighty." 

"Like me?" Doriana asked. 

Kerseage glanced at him, as if suddenly remembering just who his passenger was. "No, no, I was thinking about Lord Binalie's chums," he backtracked hastily. 'The Prackla Trade Council-that sort of crowd." 

"You don't think much of them?" 

Kerseage shrugged again, uncomfortably this time. "It's nothing to do with me," he muttered. "I got a shuttle; I fly people places. That's all." 

"I see," Doriana said, returning his attention to the manufacturing plant now passing directly beneath them. Clearly, Kerseage didn't want to say any more. 

But then, he didn't have to. Like everything else he ever did, Doriana had made sure to research Cartao before coming here and hiring this particular man to bring him across the sparsely settled planet to Spaarti Creations. The cargo transport company Kerseage had once owned had been inadvertently run out of business two years earlier by a poorly worded regulation the Prackla Trade Council had issued after the Battle of Geonosis. 

Kerseage's appeal was still crawling its way through the system, but by now the issue was essentially moot. His company was gone, and he clearly blamed Lord Binalie for it. 

"What about the plant's satellite facilities?" he asked, his eyes flicking around the forested areas north and west of the main facility. 'The buildings where they store raw materials and finished product." 

"You mean the three Outlinks?" 

"Right," Doriana said. "Where are they?" 

"I don't know, exactly," Kerseage said. 'The closest one's supposed to be about three kilometers northeast, just past that big gray-topped worker barracks thing." He pointed. 

"Mm," Doriana said, peering into the distance. There was nothing showing in that direction that he could see. Well camouflaged, either by accident or by design. That could be useful. "Where does Lord Binalie live?" 

"There." Kerseage pointed to the left as he brought the shuttle around in a wide semicircle. "You see Foulahn City, just south of that kilometer-wide stretch of grassland?" 

"I see it," Doriana said. "I don't think I've ever seen a city come to a stop that abruptly before. Except where there's a lake or cliff to limit it, of course." 

"It might as well be a cliff," Kerseage grunted. "That particular line of grassland marks the southern edge of Spaarti land, and no one travels or builds there. The Cranscoc insist on it. Anyway, you see that big open area on the northern edge of the city, butting up against the grass strip?" 

"Yes," Doriana said. It looked like a park-grassland, quite a few clumps of trees, large sections of sculpted bushes-with a few small buildings and one very large one. Even from this distance, the place reeked of wealth and power. On one of the low hills facing the plant, he could see a pair of figures standing together. 'The Binalie estate?" 

"You got it," Kerseage said. "You seen enough?" 

Doriana took a last look around, fixing the geography in his mind. Foulahn and Navroc Cities lay to the south and southeast of the plant, with the craggy Red Hills pushing up against the southern ends of both cities. Triv Spaceport was to the east, with low, increasingly forested rolling hills to the north, and a small river winding its way between the two cities and then between Foulahn and the spaceport. 

"Yes," he told the pilot, resettling himself in his seat. "Let's go see Lord Binalie." 

They're turning around some more," Corf Binalie announced, shading his eyes with his hand as he peered upward into the sky. 

"I think they might be coming here." 

"Who, the people in the shuttle?" Jafer Tories asked, his white hair blowing past his cheek as he gazed downward at the ground, trying to pick out the particular siviviv vine he and the boy had been following for the past half hour. "Yes, I know." 

"You know who they are?" Corf asked, frowning up at him. "Did Dad say something to you about visitors?" 

"No, but he didn't need to," Tories assured the boy. "It's been obvious for nearly a minute now." 

"Oh, come on," Corf objected in that tone of strained patience twelve-year-olds did so well. "How could you?" 

"Simple logical deduction," Tories told him in that pedantic instructor's tone seventy-three-year-olds did equally well. 

"There was no reason for them to pass directly over the plant unless that was what they were specifically looking at. After realizing how little that gained them, their natural next step is to want to take a look from the inside. For that, they need to come see your father." 

Corf shook his head in amazement. "Boy," he said. "I wish I were a Jedi." 

"If you were, you'd probably have to goto war someday," Tories warned. 

"You didn't have to," Corf pointed out. 

"Not yet," Tories said with a grimace. "But I could be called up at any moment. The Council merely decided to leave a few Jedi where we are for the moment in case of unexpected Separatist moves in our areas. I could get to the scene of trouble anywhere in Prackla or Locris Sectors long before they could send someone from Coruscant or one of the major battle areas. Being a Jedi is never easy, and can be downright dangerous." 

"Yeah, but you're real smart," Corf said. Clearly, distant rumblings of war didn't faze him in the slightest. "You're good at figuring out stuff." 

"Logical thinking is hardly the exclusive preserve of Jedi," Tories admonished him. "Anyone can learn to put facts together in their proper order. " 

"Maybe," Corf said. "I still think it's a Jedi thing." Tories smiled, shading his eyes with his hand as he watched the shuttle approach. In point of fact, of course, he hadn't really known the shuttle was coming to the Binalie Estate, but had merely concluded there was a high probability of it. If it turned out the pilot was merely showing off Spaarti Creations to some visiting friend, he was going to look pretty foolish. 

This might not be a bad thing. Tories had spent the past thirty years on Cartao, dispensing wisdom, mediating disputes, and handling the occasional pirate or overeager crime lord. Some of the locals had come to respect him, others had chosen to hate him, while most had never been more than vaguely aware that Prackla Sector even had a resident Jedi guardian. 

But never in those thirty years had he run into a case of hero-worship like Corf Binalie's. 

In his earlier days, it would have been highly gratifying, not to mention flattering, to be held in such high esteem. From the perspective of his years, though, he could see the danger lurking beneath that kind of unthinking adulation. Even at twelve Corf should be able to recognize a person's weaknesses as well as his strengths; should be learning how to accept people as they were, not creating a lens of perfection through which to gaze at them. Instead, the boy insisted on regarding him as the Ultimate Jedi: tall and strong, wise and kind, and never, ever wrong. 

This particular incident wasn't going to do much to change that perception, either. The shuttle passed low over their heads, leaving no doubt that it was indeed making for the private landing pad beside the Binalie mansion. 

And as it did so, Tories got a clear look at the company name on the shuttle's side. 

"Come on," he said, taking Corf's arm and turning him toward the house. 

"We're going back?" Corf asked, frowning. "I thought you were going to help me track this siviviv vine back to its root." 

"We can do that later," Tories told him. "Right now, I think we ought to go see what these people want with your father." 

"Okay," Corf said, clearly not understanding but willing to accept Tories' word for it. "You're the boss." 

"I'm not the boss," Tories reminded him as they headed down the hill toward the distant house and the shuttle settling onto the pad. "I'm just the Jedi." 

"Yeah," Corf said off-handedly. "Same thing." 

Tories sighed to himself. Hopefully, the boy would grow out of it on his own. 

One of Doriana's more simple amusements these days was to I count off the minutes between the time a droid or servant I disappeared into his master's inner sanctum with Doriana's credentials and the time Doriana himself was ushered in. In the case of Lord Pilester Binalie, that interval was less than a minute. Either Binalie was unusually respectful of Coruscant authority, or else he was too worried about this unexpected visitor to play power games. 

"Master Doriana," Binalie said, rising from the massive chair behind the even more massive desk as the protocol droid escorted Doriana into the office. "It's a great honor to receive a representative from Supreme Chancellor Palpatine himself." 

"A pleasure to meet you, as well, Lord Binalie," Doriana said in turn as he walked across the room. "I appreciate you giving me some of your time." 

"My pleasure," Binalie said, waving Doriana to a chair facing the desk and sitting back down himself. "I wish you'd given me notice of your visit. I could have sent a shuttle to meet you, or else directed you to Triv Spaceport where you could have come over by landspeeder." 

"There were reasons for coming into Cartao where I did," Doriana told him, watching the other's face closely. "As there were for choosing the particular transport I did." 

A muscle in Binalie's cheek twitched. So he'd spotted the name on Kerseage's shuttle, too. "Yes; Emil Kerseage," he said. "I'm familiar with his case, Master Doriana, and I assure you the Trade Council is working to rectify it." 

He waved a hand self-consciously. "It's certainly nothing Palpatine needs to involve himself with." 

"Supreme Chancellor Palpatine is the champion of the common citi zen," Doriana reminded him. 

"Of course," Binalie said hastily, the first hints of perspiration beginning to sheen his face. "It's just that-" He broke off. 

"Yes?" Doriana prompted. 

The cheek muscle twitched again. "Let me be honest with you," Binalie said. "Cartao is trying to keep a low profile in this war against the Separatists. We don't have nearly enough military power to send troops or ships halfway across the galaxy on expeditionary missions. So far we've mostly escaped official notice; but if Chancellor Palpatine begins taking an interest in some minor bureaucratic dispute, that official notice is likely to be drawn our direction." 

He tapped the desk in front of him with his forefinger. "And not just from the officials on Coruscant," he added pointedly. 'The Separatists have so far ignored us, too."

Binalie's eyes were very steady on Doriana's. "You're not here about Kerseage at all, are you?" he said quietly. 

Doriana shook his head. "It was, and is, a useful cover story. 

But no, Supreme Chancellor Palpatine sent me on far more important business." 

Binalie's stony face went even stonier. "Spaarti Creations." 

"Exactly," Doriana said. 'The Supreme Chancellor is intrigued by the reports he's heard about this factory whose production lines can be changed practically overnight. If the technique can be duplicated, it would mean a great deal for the Republic's war effort." 

"It can't be," Binalie said flatly. "It's the Cranscoc and their fluid-tooling system that make it possible, and as far as we know the Cartao colony is the only place Cranscoc live." 

"Thousands of them, I presume?" 

Binalie hesitated the barest fraction of a second, as if wondering whether he could get away with a lie. "About fifty thousand, yes," he conceded, apparently deciding not to risk it. 

"But they breed very slowly, and only a small fraction of each generation has the talent that allows them to serve as twillers. 

Those are the ones who actually manipulate the fluid retooling that make Spaarti possible." 

"I see," Doriana said, as if he hadn't already thoroughly researched the whole operation. "Still, the Supreme Chancellor will want me to be absolutely certain. Would it be possible for me to inspect the facilities themselves? Quietly and privately, of course." 

Binalie knew a politely phrased order when he heard it. "Of course," he said, getting to his feet. "I have a private way into the plant." 

They were halfway down the corridor leading back toward the landing pad when a boy's voice split the mansion's elegant silence. "Hey! Dad!" 

The two men stopped and turned. Hurrying toward them was a young boy about twelve years old-Lord Binalie's son Corf, Doriana ten tatively identified him. Behind the boy, walking with a longer stride and a more measured pace, was the final player in the day's scheduled drama: Jedi Knight Jafer Tories. 

"Corf," Binalie said, sounding surprised and a little uncomfortable. "I thought you were on weed control this morning." 

"We saw the shuttle," Corf explained as he trotted up to his father's side, giving Doriana a quick once-over as he arrived. 

"Are you going to the plant?" 

"For a few minutes, yes," Binalie said. 

"Can I come along?" 

Binalie shook his head. "Not this time." 

The boy blinked. Clearly, that wasn't the answer he'd been expecting. "Why not?" 

"Business," his father said firmly. "Only Master Doriana and I are going. " 

"But..." 

"No arguments," Binalie said sternly, shifting his attention away from Corf as the Jedi reached the group. "I'd like you to meet Jafer Tories, our local Jedi guardian. This is Kinman Doriana, special advisor to Supreme Chancellor Palpatine." 

The skin at the corners of the old Jedi's eyes crinkled slightly at Palpatine's name. Small wonder-the Supreme Chancellor and the Jedi Council had been increasingly at odds with each other over the past few months. "Master Tories," Doriana said, nodding. 

"I'm glad you're here. As Lord Binalie said, we're going to see the plant. Would you care to accompany us?" Corf looked at his father in surprise. "But you said-" 

"Be quiet, Corf," Binalie cut him off, looking at Doriana with some surprise of his own. "I thought you said this was a private matter." 

"That was before I knew Master Tories was in the area," Doriana said, gazing into Binalie's face. It would be worth the risk, he decided suddenly, to see just how far the man could be pushed. 

"For that matter," he added, "I see no reason why your son shouldn't come, too. You will begin moving him into a management position in a few years, won't you?" 

The muscles in Binalie's throat tightened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Lord Pilester Binalie, the biggest fish in this particular little pond, was unused to having people casually cut the ground out from under him this way. 

But Doriana understood power, too. He held Binalie's glare steadily, without challenge or malice, wondering if the other could see far enough past his annoyance to remember whom he was dealing with. 

Apparently, he could. "As you wish," he said stiffly. "Follow me." 

Torles had been in the Binalies' private tunnel to Spaarti Creations only a handful of times, and it never failed to evoke a sense of wonder. The Cranscoc themselves had burrowed out the long passageway, Lord Binalie had once told him, without the use of any machinery. The result had been a rough-hewn tunnel that perpetually held the rich tang of recently turned dirt. 

But despite the fresh aroma, he also knew that in the digging process those same dirt walls had somehow been converted into a material as tough and durable as permacrete. And the apparent roughness of the surface hid the more subtle swirls and delicate patterns the Cranscoc diggers had carved into it. 

Functional, artistic, and-by all generally accepted technology-impossible. This was, Tories reflected, a pretty fair description of Spaarti Creations itself. 

"The Cranscoc don't want people or vehicles on the strip of grassland between the plant and Foulahn City," Binalie explained to Doriana as the landspeeder slid silently down the tunnel. 

"They say it upsets them, though we don't know how or why. 

Hence, this tunnel." 

"What about the other employees?" Doriana asked. 'The non-Cranscoc ones. How do they get to work?" 

"Most of them live on-site," Binalie said. 'There's a group apartment cluster along the eastern edge of the plant, between the main building and Outlink One, for the unmarried workers. 

The Cranscoc have a cluster of homes north of the plant, between Outlinks One and Two, while the non-Cranscoc families live in their own cluster to the north-west, between Outlinks Two and Three." 

"And how do all of them get to work?" Doriana persisted. "More tunnels like this one?" 

"There are tunnels leading between the main plant and the Outlinks," Binalie said. "But those are mainly for cargo and equipment transfer. The workers usually just walk across the lawns to work." 

He smiled slightly at Doriana's puzzled look. "I know. 

Apparently, it's only this one strip of land the Cranscoc insist be left completely open. Again, no one knows why." 

The tunnel floor began to slope upward, and Tories found himself surreptitiously watching Doriana. The first time he'd taken this trip, he'd naturally expected the tunnel to deposit them into some sort of receiving area, and could still remember his shock when they'd arrived smack in the middle of one of the production areas. It might be instructive to see whether Doriana would also be taken by surprise. 

He was. He kept his face impassive as a section of the ceiling lifted like a drawbridge above them and the landspeeder moved up a ramp into the center of the bustling factory, but Tories could sense the flicker of astonishment behind those expressionless eyes. "Interesting endpoint," was all he said as Binalie let the landspeeder coast to a stop 

"The Cranscoc like to know what's going on around them," Binalie said, climbing out of his seat as the floor swung shut behind them. "This is Production Area Four, where we're currently making specialized harvesting equipment for the marshlands of Caamas. The ground there is too interlaced with vineroots for normal equipment to operate without breaking down every other day." 

"So you're in the business of filling niche markets?" Doriana asked. 

"Basically," Binalie said, nodding. 'There isn't enough of that kind of cultivatable marshland in the Republic to justify setting up a permanent assembly line to make the equipment necessary to farm it. But with the Cranscoc system, we can spend a few days or weeks making everything the Caamasi will need for the next year or two, then retool and move on to other projects." 

"And where does all this magic retooling take place?" Doriana asked. 

"It starts at the main control station," Binalie said, pointing toward a round platform rising two meters off the floor between two of the assembly lines. 'The one for this area is over there." 

They crossed to the platform, Binalie guiding his guests through the maze of conveyers, transport carts, and human and alien workers. Climbing up the steps, they found themselves beside a long console that had always reminded Tories of a cross between an elongated volcano and a very muddy hillside, with a segmented waterfall of pale green paste oozing ponderously and continually along various sections of the slope. In front of the collecting basin lounged five Cranscoc, their chitinous outer shells gleaming in the sunbeams streaming in through the skylight three floors directly above them. Their long, multi-jointed legs tapped out syncopated rhythms on the thick grass that covered the entire top of the platform, keeping time to music apparently only they could hear. 'These are five of the Cranscoc twillers," Binalie said, keeping his voice low. "Whatever they do to that fluid flow will affect most of those machines you can see." 

"They can do all the retooling from here?" Doriana asked. 

"No, each machine needs its own adjustments," Binalie told him. 

"There are roving twillers assigned to each area for that purpose. Depending on the complexity involved, a given production area can be retooled in anywhere from two to eight hours." 

"Your basic overnight alterations," Doriana said, nodding. 

"Very literally overnight," Binalie agreed. "The Cranscoc will do minor adjustments during the daylight hours-that's why this group is on duty, in case one of the machines drifts off true and needs to be recalibrated. But they'll only do a major retooling after it's completely dark outside." 

"And you don't know why?" 

"Frankly, we know next to nothing about the Cranscoc," Binalie admitted. 'They breathe oxygen, their diet is mostly local vegetables and grains, except that it all has to be enriched with extra magnesium and cobalt, and they like to farm and dig and create artistic objects." 

"Fortunately, marshland farm equipment falls into that last category?" 

"Farm equipment and everything else," Binalie said. 'They seem to love using Spaarti to make things." He led them back down to the main floor. "You say this is Production Area Four," Doriana said. "How many others are there?" 

"We currently have twenty-seven operating areas," Binalie told him. "Eight of them are larger and more complex than this one, while the others are comparable or a bit smaller." 

"I'd like to see one of the larger ones." 

Binalie's lips compressed briefly, but he merely nodded. "Of course. This way." 

They visited two other lines before Doriana decided he'd seen enough. 'That will do," he said as Binalie started to lead them on to the next area. "Is there an office where we can talk more privately? 

Binalie frowned sideways at him. "What is there to talk about?" he asked, his voice dark with suspicion. "Surely you see now that this technique can't be duplicated elsewhere." 

"A private office, if you please?" Doriana repeated. 

Binalie took a deep breath - "And it may be best if the boy leaves us now," Doriana added. 

Binalie's eyes hardened. Suddenly, it seemed, he'd had enough of being led around by the nose. "I have no secrets from my son, Doriana," he bit out. "If you have anything to say to me, you can say it in his presence." 

Doriana let his lip twitch, as if he hadn't finessed the other into precisely this result. "If you insist," he said. 

Binalie nodded shortly. "In here." 

He led the way to a room marked "Schematic Plotting," ordered out the human and Duros who'd been working on a pair of large plotting boards inside, and keyed the door closed behind them. 

Swinging one of the two chairs around for his visitor, he hiked himself up into a half-sitting, half-leaning posture against one of the boards. "Let's hear it," he said gruffly. 

"It's quite simple," Doriana said, sitting down and gazing calmly up at the man now towering over him. "As you say, Spaarti Creations is one of a kind. Since we can't duplicate it, we'll have to use it as is." 

Binalie's expression didn't even twitch. Clearly, he'd already guessed where this whole visit was going. "Impossible," he said. 

"This is the single viable business of an entire sub-minority species - the Cranscoc - and as such comes under Senate Directive 422. Governmental interference with its operation is strictly and expressly forbidden." 

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Doriana countered, pulling a datacard from an inside pocket. "Senate Directive 3591, authorizing Supreme Chancellor Palpatine unlimited authority to commandeer any resource or group of resources he feels necessary for a swift conclusion of hostilities." 

He held the card out to Binalie. "Beginning this evening, Spaarti Creations will be turning its complete facilities over to the manufacture of a new design of cloning tanks." 

Slowly, Binalie took the datacard and slid it into his datapad. 

For a long minute, the only sound in the room was the muted din of the assembly line floor outside the office's transparent canopy as he read and reread the directive. "You can't do this," he said when he finally tore his eyes away from the text. 

"Weren't you listening to what I said back in my office? You take over Spaarti, and it'll just be a matter of time before the Separatists move in." 

"Point one: you have no choice in the matter," Doriana said, letting his voice harden. "The Senate's directive is clear, and the Supreme Chancellor's decision has been made. Point two: there's no reason for the Separatists to hear anything about this. If we do our job properly, no one will know that crates marked farm equipment or tunneling gear actually contain cloning cylinders. As for my presence on here, I've already established the cover story that I'm intervening on Emil Kerseage's behalf." 

"What about my workers?" Binalie countered. "Not counting the twillers, we employ nearly thirteen thousand humans and aliens here. How are you going to guarantee that they all keep quiet?" 

"They can't talk about what they don't know," Doriana said. "And in approximately four hours you'll be pulling every one of them off the floor and confining them to their homes." 

"Oh, I will, will I?" Binalie said sarcastically. "And how exactly do you expect me to justify that?" 

"No justification needed," Doriana said calmly. "Medical quarantine is required by law for an outbreak of plyridian fever." 

Binalie's mouth dropped open a centimeter. "Plyridian fev...?" His eyes darted to the canopy. "What have you done?" 

"Calm yourself, Lord Binalie," Doriana soothed. 'The three humans and two aliens I treated as we passed - ' 

"You did what!" Binalie snarled. "You deliberately infected them?" 

"I said calm yourself," Doriana repeated, putting an edge to his voice. "Of course I didn't infect anyone. The incubation period for plyridian fever is four weeks. What I did do is give them something that will mimic the disease, creating a convincing set of symptoms. They're not in any danger, and neither is anyone else. But no one will know that for at least those four weeks." Binalie had the look of someone chewing on a sour mifka. "And while they're all in quarantine, you'll naturally be offering me a caretaker unit?" he growled. 

"It's that or close down the plant entirely," Doriana pointed out. 'The Cranscoc, being cold-blooded, are immune from plyridian fever, so they can continue to work as usual." 

"This is completely unconscionable," Tories spoke up from the corner of the room. 

Doriana had been wondering when the Jedi would say something. 

Irreverently, he wondered if perhaps the old man had dozed off and missed some of the conversation. "Excuse me?" he asked, swiveling to face the old man. 

"This is a gross violation of every accepted standard of behavior," Tories insisted. "I cannot and will not stand by and be a party to it." 

"This is war, Master Tories," Doriana reminded him. "Not only war, but a war of survival. If we lose, the Republic is finished." 

"I don't care," Tories said flatly. "I can tell you right now the Jedi Council will not stand by and allow you to terrify the people of Cartao with fear of a nonexistent plague." 

"Perhaps the Jedi Council sees things differently than you do," Doriana said, pulling a second datacard from his pocket. "Here are their instructions, ordering you to cooperate with me and my people." 

He lifted his eyebrows. "You do still acknowledge the authority of the Council, don't you?" 

Silently, with the same complete lack of enthusiasm with which Lord Binalie had taken the first datacard, Tories accepted the second. "Good," Doriana said briskly, getting to his feet. "Then all that remains is for you to return home and prepare for five of your workers to suddenly slump over with dizziness and fever." 

"And you, I suppose, will do all the rest?" Binalie said bitterly.

The first worker began complaining of dizziness at precisely five minutes after the predicted time. Nine minutes after that, as he was being examined by the plant medic, he suddenly col lapsed, twitching and groaning. The second worker was more stoic, and was still at his station fifteen minutes later when he hit the floor. Three minutes after that, Lord Binalie ordered the plant evacuated. 

"Ah-Doriana," the stolid face hovering above Doriana's holoprojector greeted him. "You have news?" 

"The plant is ready, Commander Roshton," Doriana said. "You may land at your convenience." 

"Excellent," Roshton said approvingly. "And in less than one day. You do admirable work." 

"I do what the Supreme Chancellor commands," Doriana said with just a hint of warning. In these days of turmoil and suspicion, it never hurt to remind people as to where his loyalties lay. 

"No more; no less." 

"Of course," Roshton agreed calmly. "As do we all." 

"Yes," Doriana agreed, glancing out the office canopy at the darkening skylight halfway across the room. "It's nearly nightfall, which is when the Cranscoc do all their serious work. 

How soon can I expect your people?" 

"The first transport's on its way, with the chief techs and operational schematics aboard," Roshton said. 'They'll be there in an hour." 

"Good," Doriana said. "I'll make sure the Cranscoc are ready. 

They've already been informed they'll be doing a compete retooling tonight." 

"Are you sure a two-thousand-unit contingent will be enough?" Roshton asked, his forehead wrinkling slightly. "I've been doing some research myself, and it looks to me like the plant usually requires over six times that number. " 

"We're supposed to be a caretaker unit," Doriana reminded him. 

"It wouldn't look right if we completely repopulated the plant." 

"Yes, but..." 

"Besides, the majority of those thirteen thousand workers are involved with maintenance, shipping, and raw material movement," Doriana cut him off. "If the Supreme Chancellor decides to extend the operation, we can bring in personnel to handle those aspects. For now, let's concentrate on our mission: to create and stockpile the cloning cylinders we need to create more troops." 

"Yes, sir," Roshton muttered. "You'll have your schematics in an hour, with the rest of the transports following at thirty-minute intervals." 

"I'll look forward to seeing them, Commander," Doriana said. 

"Doriana out." 

He broke the connection, lowering the holoprojector into his lap as he again looked out of the office. It was an eerie feeling, sitting alone in the middle of such a huge room. Rather like being the last living cell in a dead body, he thought. 

Across by the area's control platform, a small motion caught his eye. A group of Cranscoc were wandering around, their footsteps seeming to stutter as they walked. Still beating out their silent music, he decided, perhaps humming along on auditory wavelengths humans couldn't hear. 

Strange aliens. Strange technology. But apart from that, a very straightforward job. Lifting his holoprojector again, he punched in a new code. 

The connection this time took considerably longer to make. 

Doriana forced himself to wait patiently, watching the panes of the distant skylight fading toward black. 

And then, with a suddenness that somehow always startled him, the ghostly hologram image appeared. "Report," the hooded figure ordered quietly. 

"The Spaarti Creations plant has been cleared, Lord Sidious," Doriana said. 'The first Republic techs will be landing in an hour, with the rest of the techs, workers, and troops arriving during the night" 

"How many troops will there be?" 

Doriana hesitated. "I'm not sure," he admitted, bracing himself. 

Darth Sidious didn't like it when his people didn't have all the answers to his questions. "Palpatine gave that part of the planning to Commander Roshton, and he's been very secretive about his contingent's exact makeup. It can't be more than a thousand clone troopers, possibly as low as five hundred, with Roshton and a few other officers in command." 

To his relief, Sidious merely nodded. "Roshton has ambitions of his own, and thinks he knows how to play the game," he said contemptuously. "No matter. Even a thousand troops will not be a problem. What of the owner and the Jedi?" 

"They're not happy, but they've bowed to the inevitable," Doriana said. 'The only problem may come if Tories decides to check with the Jedi Council directly to confirm the order. They weren't enthusiastic about the idea in the first place, as I told you, and if he catches Yoda or Windu at a bad moment, one of them might decide to unilaterally reverse the decision." 

"Even if they so dared, all Tories can do at this point is make noise," Sidious assured him, a malicious edge to his voice. "No, all is going according to plan. You have done well." 

"Thank you, my lord," Doriana said, feeling the warmth of relief and pride trickling through him. "Any new orders?" 

"Not yet," Sidious said. "Continue as you are, and allow the plan to work itself out." He smiled sardonically. "Report again when things become interesting." 

"I will, my lord," Doriana promised. 

The hooded head nodded, and the image vanished. 

Taking a deep breath, Doriana stood up, sliding the holoprojector back into its belt pouch. So the chance cube had been thrown, and the game was in motion. The next move would be the Republic's. 

He paused in the office doorway, listening to the heavy silence and thinking, as he always did at moments like this, about the incredibly thin tightrope he had chosen to walk. Palpatine had no idea that his trusted aide and advisor was in fact the agent of a Dark Lord of the Sith, working in the shadows to destroy everything the Supreme Chancellor stood for. If Palpatine ever discovered the truth... 

He shook his head firmly. No, that would never happen. Sidious was too powerful, and Doriana himself too clever, to ever allow such a useful relationship to be ruined. 

He headed across the empty floor, his footsteps echoing from the high ceiling. Binalie would be waiting at the plant's main entrance for the incoming Republic force. The honored representative of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine should be waiting with him. 

"It's not fair," Corf groused, throwing a small stone at a group of flutteries darting among a cluster of flowers at the crest of the hill. "How can they just come in and take over like this?" 

"We're in the middle of a war," Tories reminded him. 

"Everyone has to make sacrifices." 

"I'll bet you Palpatine isn't making any sacrifices," Corf said with a sniff, picking up another stone and heaving it after the first. 

Tories reached out to the Force, and the stone stopped abruptly in midair. "I understand that you're angry, Corf," he reproved the boy, lowering the stone to the ground. "But that's no reason to take it out on innocent flutteries." 

Corf hissed between his teeth. "I know," he conceded reluctantly, looking up into the cloudless sky. "It's just that-well, look; here comes another one. " 

Tories peered upward. In the distance a black speck had appeared, dropping from space toward them. "Look on the bright side," he suggested. "Maybe it's a transport coming to take them all away." 

"Yeah. Right," Corf grunted, stooping and picking up another stone. Tories watched him warily, but the boy merely began fiddling with it. "Dad would have said something if they were about to clear out. Or at least he'd have started smiling again. 

Besides, it's only been a week, and that fancy-pants Doriana said they'd be here for four." 

"Master Doriana," Tories corrected him automatically. "And you shouldn't always look on the negative side of things. 

Considering the progress they're making, they could very well decide to cut their time short." 

"Why would they?" Corf countered. "If they're getting so much done, why quit?" 

That was a good question, Tories had to admit. And if he could come up with a good answer, he might actually be able to argue Doriana onto precisely that path. 

Think, Jedi, he admonished himself. After all, mediation had been his primary job for the past thirty years. Surely, he could come up with a way to hammer a compromise out of this situation. 

And then, suddenly, he had it. Maybe. "Where's your father?" he asked. 

"In the plant," Corf said, frowning up at him. "What is it?" 

"Maybe the right lever to use on Doriana," Tories said, pulling out his comlink. 

"Master Doriana." 

"I stand corrected," Tories said dryly as he keyed in Lord Binalie's frequency. 

"So what's the plan?" Corf asked. "Come on, tell me." 

"What's the possibility that has to concern Master Doriana the most?" Tories asked rhetorically. "Answer: that the Separatists will find out about this and move in to stop it." 

"Okay," Corf agreed, frowning. "So?" 

"So all we have to do is convince him that four weeks will be pushing his luck," Tories said, frowning in turn. The comlink seemed to be taking an unusually long time to connect. "Because if the Separatists do figure it out, Spaarti is lost to him forever. Dooku's people will blockade Cartao, and that'll be the end of it." 

Corf made a face. "Yuck." 

"Yuck, indeed," Tories agreed. "If, on the other hand, Doriana takes this in small bites, sneaking his people in for just a few days at a time, he may be able to keep the whole process going indefinitely." 

"You mean he'd be taking over the plant once every month or so?" Corf asked doubtfully. "Boy. I don't think Dad'll go for that." 

"He will if it comes to a choice between Doriana's annoyances and a Separatist blockade," Tories said, turning the comlink off and then on again, the skin on the back of his neck starting to tingle. Something was very wrong here... 

He caught his breath, twisting his head to look upward as he silently cursed his lack of attention. The black speck they'd seen earlier was much closer, dropping toward them like an impatient asteroid. 

And at this distance, Tories could now see the ship's ail-too distinctive double-winged silhouette. 

"What is that?" Corf asked, his voice tight. 

"A Trade Federation C-9979 landing ship," Tories bit out, jabbing one last useless time at his comlink's controls. 

"Oh, no," Corf breathed, fumbling at his belt for his own comlink. "We have to warn Dad!" 

"We can't," Tories told him, shoving his comlink back into its pouch. 'They've knocked out the system." 

"Then we have to get over there," Corf said, turning back toward the house. "Come on." 

"Wait a minute," Tories said, catching the boy's arm, his mind racing. By the time they made it back to the house and down the tunnel, the invasion would be well underway. What they needed was some way to send a message now to the people inside. 

"What?" Corf demanded. "Come on." 

"Quiet," Tories ordered him. "Let me think." Above them, the C-9979 settled into a high hover position directly over the plant, and perhaps twenty tiny craft erupted from its leading wing. 

STAPs, he recognized them: nimble flying platforms carrying a single battle droid each. They swept outward from the landing ship in ever-increasing spirals, searching for defenses or other threats that might interfere with a landing or troop deployment. 

And three of them were at this very minute flying over the forbidden stretch of grassland between the Binalie estate and Spaarti Creations.... 

It was a long shot, he knew, in every sense of the word. But it was all he had. Pulling out his lightsaber, he ignited it and locked the activation stud, picking out the STAP that seemed to be drifting the closest to where he and Corf were standing. 

Judging the droid's speed and distance as best he could, he stretched out to the Force and hurled his lightsaber toward it. 

The droid, its attention on the ground around the plant, probably never even saw it coming. The spinning weapon shot across its STAP, the brilliant green blade slicing through the power cell housing just above the footlocks. With a flat electronic exclamation of surprise, the droid and machine dropped out of the sky and thudded to the ground. 

The other droids reacted instantly, two of the STAPs swinging around toward their downed comrade, metallic heads swiveling back and forth as they searched for the source of the attack. 

"Run," Tories ordered Corf as he called the lightsaber back toward him. "Back to the house and the safe room. We've done everything we can here." 

"But what about Dad?" Corf asked anxiously, moving a couple of reluctant steps down the hill. 

"I'll take one of the landspeeders down the tunnel as soon as you're safe," Tories told him. The droids had spotted him now, and the STAPs' twin blasters were starting to track. "Go on-I'll be right behind you." 

A pair of blaster bolts shot past them, uncomfortably close. 

"All right," Corf said, finally turning and taking off. "But I'm going with you," he shouted back over his shoulder. 'The landspeeders won't work without someone from the family in them." 

The lightsaber made it back to Tories' hand about half a second before the droids finally found the range. But for a Jedi, half a second was more than enough. The lightsaber blurred in his grip, twisting like a hunting makthier as it intercepted the blaster bolts and sent them bouncing back again. A pair of volleys later, there were three ruined STAPs and droids lying crumpled in the forbidden zone. 

Closing down his lightsaber, Tories turned and ran, following the boy now halfway to the mansion. He'd done all he could to warn those inside the plant. Now it was time to join them. 

He could only hope he would be there ahead of the droids. 

I hope you realize just how incredible this is," Commander Roshton commented as he handed the datapad back to the tech. 

"We'd projected that the raw materials we'd stockpiled would last the full four weeks. In actual fact, at current production rates we're going to have to resupply after two." 

"I'm not surprised," Doriana said. "Spaarti Creations already had something of a reputation for doing the impossible." 

"It's an incredible resource, Lord Binalie," Roshton agreed, turning toward Binalie. "You should be very proud." Binalie didn't answer. He'd been increasingly silent lately, Doriana had noted, as he watched his beloved manufacturing plant turning out rows and rows of cloning tanks. 

Roshton either hadn't noticed or didn't care. "I don't know if Master Doriana mentioned it, but these are a more advanced model of cloning tank than the design they used on Kamino," the commander went on, turning his head slowly as he surveyed the bustling assembly area. 'That's the main problem with keeping yourselves isolated; you don't keep up with modern technological advances. These should to be able to turn out clones in a tenth of the time the Kaminoans needed to do the job. We get a few million of these on-line, and the Separatists can kiss their precious droid armies good-bye." 

He frowned suddenly. "What's going on with them?"  

"Who?" Doriana asked, following the other's line of sight to the area's control platform. The five Cranscoc on duty were vibrating like a set of bad repulsorlifts, their hides flickering with rapid color changes beneath the translucent coatings. 

"Something's wrong," Binalie declared, snapping out of his sulk. 

Brushing past Roshton, he sprinted to the platform, taking the stairs two at a time. 

He was leaning over the nearest alien when Doriana and Roshton caught up with him, his eyes narrowed as he studied the alien's changing color pattern. Up close, Doriana could see that the alterations were more varied and subtle than he'd realized. 

"They're upset about something," Binalie muttered. "A violation of some taboo..." 

"You can read that?" Roshton asked. "I didn't realize they could..." 

"Shut up," Doriana cut him off. Roshton turned a glare toward him - 'The grassland," Binalie said abruptly. "Someone or something is on the south grassland strip." 

"Is that all?" Roshton said, sounding disgusted. "Probably some stupid kid from the city." 

"No," Binalie insisted. "Everyone in this part of Cartao knows better. It's either your people..." 

He broke off, looking sharply at Doriana. "Or the Separatists," Doriana finished for him, grabbing for his comlink. "Commander: full alert." 

"Ridiculous," Roshton insisted. But he had his comlink out and was tapping at the key. "How could they have?..." 

"I'm not getting anything," Doriana said, trying another channel. "Commander?" 

"They've been blocked," Roshton said, the skepticism abruptly gone from his voice. 

"What do we do?" Binalie asked nervously, looking around as if he expected to see a droid army clawing its way up out of the drainage grilles. 

"We prepare to meet the enemy," Roshton said, his voice icy calm. Drawing his blaster, he aimed it at the ceiling and squeezed the trigger. 

Even amid the loud auditory mosaic of factory noises, the distinctive sizzle of a stun blast easily cut through the noise. 

Roshton fired three more times, paused, then fired twice. 

Doriana strained his ears. From the next chamber over, he heard the faint sound of an answering signal. 'The alert's being passed," Roshton said, putting away his comlink but keeping his blaster in his hand. "Come on-my command center's in the next assembly area." 

A clone trooper lieutenant and the senior master tech were waiting when the three of them arrived at the command center, the former standing stiffly to attention, and the latter looking almost comical as he nervously shuffled his weight back and forth between his feet. "Report," Roshton ordered, glancing at the status schematic that showed troop disposition. 

"One Trade Federation C-9979 currently hovering over the plant," the lieutenant replied. "Approximately twenty STAPs running air support; three have crashed to the south. One Trade Federation Lucrehulk-c\ass control core ship has appeared over the horizon. 

No other vehicles currently in detection range." 

"How bad?" Binalie murmured. 

"Bad enough," Roshton told him. "A single C-9979 can carry eleven MTT large-transport vehicles, with a hundred twelve battle droids each, and a hundred fourteen AAT battle tanks. 

Plus, the core ship up there probably has another couple more C-9979s in reserve if they get impatient." 

Binalie had actually gone pale. "You're saying there could be over three thousand battle droids out there? Plus all those tanks?" 

"Actually, if you add in the AAT crews, we're talking more like five thousand droids," Doriana murmured. 

"So five thousand droids," Binalie bit out. "And you have, what, nine hundred men?" 

Roshton smiled tightly. "I have nine hundred clone troopers," he corrected. 'There's a big difference. Lieutenant, do we have spotters in position?" 

"All doors are being watched," the clone trooper confirmed. 

"Whenever they put down, we'll know it." 

"Fortunately, there aren't many possibilities," Roshton murmured, looking at his status board again. 'The east and west doors are the only ones with the kind of clearance outside that a C-9979 needs." 

"Agreed," the lieutenant said. 'The troops are currently layering at both of them." 

"What does that mean, layering?" Binalie asked. 

"They're forming successive defensive lines from those doors inward," Roshton told him. "What about the north and northwest entrances? We're not leaving them unprotected, are we?" 

"Wait a minute," Binalie interrupted again. "Defensive lines inside the plant? You can't fight in here." 

"Well, we sure can't fight outside," Roshton pointed out. "Not without air support." 

"Then you're not fighting at all," Binalie said flatly. 'The equipment in here is delicate and irreplaceable." Roshton snorted. "You'd rather just turn your plant over to the Separatists?" 

"If those are my only two options, yes," Binalie said, his voice icy. "Maybe you don't understand what this plant means to Cartao and the rest of the sector..." 

"Just a minute," the lieutenant cut him off, his helmet cocking slightly to the side. 'They've lifted the comlink blocking. 

Broadcasting a message on all public channels." 

Roshton already had his comlink out."...ublic forces," a typically oily Neimoidian voice came from the speaker. "You are surrounded and outnumbered. Surrender, or we will be forced to destroy you." 

"I've heard that before," Roshton countered, giving a set of hand signals to the lieutenant. The other nodded and turned away, and Doriana could hear the faint sound of his voice through his helmet as he gave rapid orders. "But I'll humor you. 

What do you want?" 

"We want Spaarti Creations," the Neimoidian said. "You will all step outside the west door and lay down your weapons..." 

Roshton switched off the comlink. "West door," he told the lieutenant. 

"Confirmed," the other replied. 'The C-9979 is setting down in the cleared area between the forest and the plant. We're shifting troops to respond." 

Roshton nodded. "Let's go." 

Binalie caught his arm as he started to leave. "Commander, I won't let you fight in my plant," he warned. "If necessary, I'll open the doors to them myself." 

"You do and you'll be executed for treason," Roshton growled, shaking off his hand. 

Binalie turned to Doriana, his face twisted with frustration. 

"Doriana?" 

"Lord Binalie is right, Commander," Doriana said. "Spaarti Creations is too valuable to risk damaging it." 

Roshton turned furious eyes on him - "But at the same time, Lord Binalie, Commander Roshton cannot simply let his civilians fall into enemy hands," Doriana went on. "I'm afraid I don't see a clear answer here." 

Binalie's lips compressed into a thin, bloodless line. "What if I take the techs through the tunnel to my house?" he suggested. 

"Can you hold the droids off-outside-long enough for me to get them all clear?" 

"We can try," Roshton said, studying his face a moment and then turning to the senior tech. "Get your people to Assembly Area Four for evacuation. Lieutenant, let's go." 

The two of them headed across the floor toward the west door at a fast run. Doriana waited long enough to make sure Binalie and the senior tech were indeed making for Area Four, then set off after the soldiers. 

It was, after all, only proper that he should at least stay long enough to watch such brave soldiers begin their last battle. 

The "west door" was in fact more like a major vehicle hangar than a simple doorway, consisting of a large transfer room behind a pair of sliding doors big enough to handle anything a modern manufacturing plant could ever need. Doriana reached the transfer room to find that the huge doors had been opened a crack, with Roshton and the lieutenant peering through the gap. 

Throughout the transfer room hundreds of white-armored clone troopers were moving purposefully around, settling into positions near the doors and behind some of the heavy crate-moving vehicles parked along the walls, or setting up a semicircle of tripod-mounted laser cannon on the floor a dozen meters back from the doors. "What's happening?" he asked as he crossed to Roshton. 

"They've landed," Roshton said, sounding distracted as he peered out the crack. He had donned a clone trooper comlink headset, Doriana noted; probably listening to a running status commentary from the rest of his officers. "Doing their little sensor scans to make sure the ground is clear of mines." 

"What's the plan?" Doriana asked, taking a cautious peek between the doors. Even set firmly on the ground, the landing ship loomed over them like an angry metal storm cloud. 

"We stop them, of course," Roshton said shortly. "At the very least, we make them pay dearly for every square centimeter." 

"What are you talking about?" Doriana asked, frowning. "Weren't you listening back there? You can't fight in here." Roshton swiveled his head to look at him. "I thought you just said that to get Binalie off our backs." 

"Absolutely not," Doriana said. "My position was exactly as stated. We can't allow the techs to fall into Separatist hands-they know too much about our technology. But neither can we allow the plant to be damaged." 

"So what you're saying is that I should move out into the open?" Roshton demanded bluntly. 'That I should stand there and watch my troops get slaughtered just to buy Binalie time to evac the techs?" 

"I'm sorry," Doriana said in a low, sincere voice. "I know that puts you in an impossible position. But I'm afraid we have no choice." 

"We blasted well do have a choice," Roshton snapped. "And if you think... " He paused. "What? All right, put him on." 

"What is it?" Doriana asked. 

"Your Jedi's arrived, along with Binalie's son," Roshton said briefly. "Master Tories? Yes, this is Roshton." 

For perhaps half a minute he listened, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. Then, surprisingly, he smiled. "Understood," he said. "We'll give it a try. Lieutenant?" 

"I'm on it, sir," the clone trooper said. 

Roshton turned back to Doriana. "Maybe we do have a choice," he said. "Defense line, configure for inverse hailstorm; target on my command. And get these doors open." 

With a ponderous rumble, the heavy doors began to slide slowly to the sides. 'Time to get to cover, Doriana," Roshton said, gesturing to the side. 'This way." 

A few seconds later they were crouched behind a large cargo truck parked along the side wall. "What's going on?" Doriana asked, trying to keep his sudden misgivings out of his voice. 

This was suddenly not going the way he'd planned. "Won't this open us up to a full-scale assault?" 

"It might," Roshton agreed. "Or it might let us come up with a different ending for this game." 

That sounded distinctly ominous. "Is this what the Jedi said to do?" Doriana probed carefully. 

"No, this part was my idea," Roshton said. "Master Tories simply reminded me of another of our objectives." He craned his neck. 

"There they go." 

Doriana eased an eye around the truck's push plate. Outside, the C-9979's heavy clamshell deployment doors were swinging open, the foot ramp starting to slide down toward the ground. In the relative darkness behind the doors, he could see the slightly bulbous nose and blaster cannon of a MTT armored droid transport waiting in the landing pedestal. "Stand by," Roshton ordered calmly. "Target is starboard laser capacitor." 

Doriana frowned; but before he could ask, the MTT gave a brief snort of cooling system ground vents and began to slide forward toward the ramp. 

"Fire," Roshton said calmly. 

And with a thunder of weaponry that echoed deafeningly through the huge room, the clone troopers opened fire. 

Doriana squinted into the glare as the hundreds of energy weapons focused their fury on the thick armor behind the MTT's leftmost blaster cannon ball turret, wincing at the noise and the waves of heat that rolled over him. The MTT's armor was incredibly thick, he knew, but the transport's designers could never have anticipated a situation where so much firepower would be focused on such a small spot. The sun-bright glare around the power capacitor began to diffuse outward as the casehardened metal alloy vaporized into superheated plasma... 

And barely two seconds into the assault, the Republic weapons burned through the armor to the high-energy capacitor behind it. 

The entire left front of the MTT vanished in a gigantic fireball that writhed its way upward to billow across the leading edge of the C-9979's forward wing. A series of smaller blasts erupted from behind the first as secondary systems went up in a chain reaction. A few seconds later, with an earsplitting scream, the repulsorlifts disintegrated, and the blackened shell that had once been a fully loaded MTT collapsed onto the ramp. 

Completely blocking the vehicles waiting behind it. 

"That's it!" Roshton shouted over the pandemonium, a savage grin on his face. "All units withdraw!" He grabbed Doriana's arm. 

"Come on, Doriana." 

They didn't stop running until they were two assembly areas into the plant and the noise outside had faded to a dull roar. 

"Clever," Doriana said, breathing hard as Roshton slowed them down to a fast jog. "You block the exit ramp, and they're stymied until they can clear out the wreckage. But what exactly did it gain you?" 

"Options, of course," Roshton told him, glancing back over his shoulder. Doriana looked, too, to see the clone troopers following in an orderly retreat. "Before we did that, there would have been no way to retreat without bringing the battle into the plant, which you had forbidden us to do. We would have had to stand and die." 

He gestured ahead of them with his blaster. "Now, we should have time to get through that tunnel of Binalie's and go to ground." Doriana felt his lip twist. Nine hundred clone troopers, ready and waiting to harass the Separatist army. This was not how it was supposed to have gone. "So what exactly did Tories tell you?" 

Roshton threw him a smile. "You'll see. Come on, and save your breath for running." 

They stood on the hill at the edge of the Binalie estate: Tories, Binalie himself, Doriana, and Commander Roshton, the latter now disguised in civilian clothing. "So that's it, is it?" Binalie asked. 

"For now, yes," Tories told him, gazing across the grassy strip that lay between them and Spaarti Creations as the pinks and yellows of sunset began to fade from the western sky. 

And the shadows from the smoldering hulks of half a dozen AAT battle tanks stretched across the forbidden grassland. "My compliments to your gunners," he added. 

"It wasn't hard," Roshton said grimly. "Standard Trade Federation attack procedure always includes throwing a cordon around the target zone. All we had to do was set our ambush and make sure we dropped the ones in the place that would irritate the Cranscoc the most." 

"Yes," Tories murmured, feeling a twinge of guilt. It had been his idea, and it had been necessary. But he still didn't much like the fact that he'd deliberately caused distress and discomfort to sentient beings. Especially sentient beings who had nothing to do with the chaos now swirling around them. 

"I just hope it works," Doriana murmured. 

"It will," Tories assured him. "The twillers aren't even going to be able to relax until those hulks are removed, let alone retool the plant for anything the Separatists want to build in there." 

Roshton grunted. "Let's hope they don't figure it out until our reinforcements get here," he said. "Then we'll see how good they are." 

"As long as you don't destroy the plant in the process," Binalie warned. 

"We'll do what we can," Roshton promised. "But that's up to the Separatists now." 

Tories felt his throat tighten, the fading light in the sky mirroring his own darkening mood. Because even if Spaarti survived, the thing he'd feared for so long had already happened. 

The war had come to Cartao. 

	Star Wars  

	Star Wars Insider 

	N 69 

	Hero of Cartao. 

	Part 2. 

	Hero's Rise. 

	by Timothy Zahn. 



	############################################################################### 

	Coming to a midair halt above the kilometer-wide grassy strip separating the Spaarti Creations manufacturing plant from the northern edge of the Binalie family estate, the heavy cargo lifters began lowering their magnetic grapples. Kinman Doriana couldn't see the ground beneath them from his position - the estate's hills were blocking his view-but he could guess that they were hovering over the last of the shattered war machines that had ended up there in the aftermath of the Separatists' assault on the plant two days earlier. 

	At least, Doriana thought unkindly, the Neimoidians commanding the occupying droid army had learned not to simply drive cleanup vehicles onto that forbidden stretch of grassland. Glancing around to make sure the copse of trees he was standing in wasn't under observation, he pulled out his holoprojector and keyed in the contact code. 

	The connecting light blinked on as the device linked first to the local comlink central switching office, then to his personal ship and its special HoloNet node, then across the vast expanse of the Republic to one of the dozen HoloNet nodes on Coruscant, and finally to the private desk of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine himself. Doriana watched the lifters as he waited, wondering if Palpatine would be there or out at yet another meeting. 

	The image of the most recognized face in the galaxy appeared in the air above the holoprojector. "Master Doriana," Palpatine said, nodding to his advisor. "You have good news?" 

	"Just the opposite, I'm afraid," Doriana admitted. "The Separatists are still holding Spaarti Creations, and they seem to have finally figured out that vehicles or people on the plant's southern border upset the Cranscoc twillers inside. They're clearing the last of the debris off the grassland now, and my guess is that by tonight they'll be able to get the plant retooled for whatever it is they want to build in there." 

	"Not a pleasant thought," Palpatine said gravely. "Are you familiar with the D-90 project?" 

	"No," Doriana said. "Is it one of ours?" Palpatine's lip twisted. "Hardly. It's an experimental combat droid, reputed to be as tough as the Trade Federation's D-60 assault droid, but more versatile." 

	"I see," Doriana said. The D-60 was a hulking, man-and-a-half-size version of the super battle droids the Trade Federation had debuted at the Battle of Geonosis. "How much more versatile?" 

	"Considerably," Palpatine said. "They'll be coordinated in small teams instead of entire army blocks so that they can be used as commando units as well as simple battlefield shock troops." 

	"An unpleasant thought, indeed," Doriana said. So, the Separatists finally had a new weapon on the plotting board. About time. "You think they've come here to begin production?" 

	"That's what our Intelligence people believe," Palpatine said. "Personally, I suspect there are still some system flaws and that they hope to use Spaarti to test and finalize the design. What's the current military situation?"  

	"For the moment, basically stalemated," Doriana told him. "Commander Roshton and his clone troopers have gone to ground, some of them here on Lord Binalie's estate, the rest dispersed elsewhere. They've been harassing the droids wherever possible, but the Separatists have mostly been staying inside where we can't get at them without risking damage to the plant. " 

	"Which neither we nor they want," Palpatine said. "What about the techs?" 

	"Binalie has a secret safe room-basically a shielded sub-sub-basement-that connects with the tunnel to the plant," Doriana said. "The techs are hidden down there."  

	"Communications?" 

	"The Separatists are still blocking the local comm system and the HoloNet node," Doriana told him. "But Roshton's reconfigured their comlinks somehow to get around it. They'll be able to move quickly if they get the chance." 

	"Then they shall have it," Palpatine said. "A Republic light cruiser is on its way with the necessary firepower to destroy the control ship orbiting above you. Once the droid army is helpless, I trust Commander Roshton won't have any trouble with the Neimoidian overseers and their techs." 

	"I'm sure he won't," Doriana agreed. "When can we expect this ship?" 

	"Possibly as early as tonight," Palpatine said. "Possibly not for another three days. It depends on how much resistance they run into along the way." 

	"Understood," Doriana assured him. "Thank you, Chancellor. We'll look forward to their arrival." 

	Palpatine gave him a tired smile. The war, Doriana knew, was weighing heavily on him. "Keep me informed." 

	The image vanished. Doriana broke the connection from his end and looked back at the lifters. They had the blackened hulk of the last ruined war machine in the air now and were towing it back toward the plant. 

	Planning to dump it elsewhere on the extensive Spaarti grounds, no doubt. Why the alien Cranscoc insisted that this particular stretch of land-and only this particular stretch-be kept unsullied not even Lord Binalie knew. Doriana watched until the lifters and their burden had vanished behind the jutting roof of the Spaarti plant, then keyed a different code into his holoprojector. He'd done his official job, reporting the situation to the man whose office paid him. 

	Now it was time to do the same for the man who gave him his orders. As usual, it took longer for the holoprojector to make this connection. Doriana cultivated his patience, gazing idly at the sky as he wondered what the Neimoidians were doing inside the plant. Now that the south lawn was clear, they would certainly try tonight to get the Cranscoc twillers to retool the plant. The only question was, which direction would that retooling take? To create the D-90 prototypes, as Palpatine thought? Or were they up to something else? In the distance, he could hear the hum of repulsorlifts... And suddenly, four small transports appeared over the hills between him and Spaarti Creations, a squadron of STAPs flying defensive screening around them, everything moving with the urgency of pilots who knew there were snipers in the area. The whole crowd shot past nearly overhead, then angled downward, the transports abruptly splitting formation and swinging into position on the four sides of the Binalie mansion a kilometer away. With the kind of precision only remote-controlled droids could achieve, all four dropped simultaneously to the ground. And from the hatches poured military-straight lines of battle droids. 

	"Report." 

	With a start, Doriana jerked his attention back to his holoprojector. The hooded image of Darth Sidious hovered over the small projection platform, his expression unreadable. "Your pardon, Lord Sidious," Doriana apologized hastily. "My attention was distracted." 

	To his relief, Sidious merely smiled thinly. "The Neimoidians have finally made a move?" 

	"Of a sort, yes," Doriana said, daring to split his attention between his master's image and the activity going on around the mansion below. The battle droids had been joined on the lawn now by a handful of the hulking D-60 assault droids and a pair of droidekas. Most of them settled into a defensive cordon around the mansion, but four of the assault droids were waiting instead just outside the transport nearest the mansion's front door. As he watched, two Neimoidians emerged from the hatch into the protective square of the assault droids and scuttled across the lawn toward the door. 

	"It looks like they've decided to have a talk with Lord Binalie," he told Sidious. "Will talking be of any use to them?" Doriana shrugged as the group vanished inside. 

	"Binalie certainly can't get the plant up and running any faster," he said. "Maybe they want him to act as interpreter with the Cranscoc..." he seems to understand that skin-coloration language of theirs. "More likely they're seeking a hostage." 

	"Possibly," Doriana nodded. "That could be useful, providing Roshton is willing to play along."

"You will make it your business to see that he does," Sidious said bluntly. "That goes for that Jedi, Tories, as well. I don't want either of them making trouble until the Republic task force arrives." Doriana blinked. "You knew about that?" 

	Another thin smile. "Did you think you were my only source of information, Doriana?" 

	"Of course not, my lord," Doriana said hastily. Still, he couldn't help but feel a touch of disappointment. He'd rather hoped to deliver that particular tidbit of news himself. 

	"But information is useful only when someone is in position to exploit it," Sidious continued. "And we cannot allow either the Republic or Separatist forces to damage Spaarti Creations." 

	"I understand, my lord," Doriana said. 

	"Good," Sidious said. "Then carry out your orders." The image vanished. Doriana put the holoprojector away. The droids had finished forming their cordon around the mansion, the assault droids holding down the building's corners and entrances while the droidekas rolled watchfully around the perimeter. It didn't look like anyone was going to be getting in or out any time soon. 

	His eyes drifted across the grounds, wondering how Lord Binalie's employees were reacting to the sudden invasion. But the only person he could see was a quarter of the way around the mansion to the east: a gardener on his knees beside one of the sculpted bushes. Apparently the more observant workers had reacted by hustling themselves out of sight. The gardener looked up, mopping his forehead with a gloved hand... 

	And Doriana stiffened. That was no gardener. 

	It was Commander Roshton. 

	Hissing a curse under his breath, Doriana headed off toward Roshton, walking as quickly as he could without drawing undue attention from the droids, Darth Sidious's warning echoing through his mind. Roshton, the idiot, was going to ruin everything. 

	"No," Lord Pilester Binalie said firmly. "I'm going to simply sit by and let those monsters take up residence in my plant."  

	"I understand your frustration," Jafer Tories soothed. "But I'm sure they're not doing any damage in there. They could have destroyed Spaarti from orbit if that was what they'd wanted." 

	"I know what they want: the same thing Doriana and the Republic want," Binalie growled. "The point is that the longer this silly dance goes on, the greater the chance someone will eventually get careless. When that happens, it'll be the end of Spaarti Creations." 

	"But the Republic's going to send help, aren't they?" Binalie's twelve-year-old son Corf spoke up from his chair at the other corner of the desk. 

	"Probably," Binalie told the boy grimly. "But I'm starting to think that more soldiers are the last thing we want." Tories frowned. "What do you mean?"  

	"Just what I said," Binalie growled. "The Republic and Separatists are like a pair of dokriks fighting over a bone. What does it matter which of them is in charge when the plant gets destroyed?"  

	"So what do you suggest?" Tories asked. 

	Binalie's lips compressed briefly. "That we get the Separatists out ourselves, now, before Roshton and his clone troopers can regroup to attack. Bribe them, blackmail them-even help them finish their work if they'll promise to get out afterward." 

	"You can't be serious," Tories protested, frowning. There was a whisper of warning from the Force; a sense of alien minds nearby. "Why not?" Binalie countered. "What are you worried about, Roshton's blatherings about treason? That's nothing but a bunch of-" He stopped as heavy footsteps suddenly sounded outside the office door. "What in the world?" he muttered, starting to rise to his feet. 

	With a crash, the door was shoved violently inward, the warped panel slamming to the floor and bouncing another two meters across the room. 

	Binalie dropped back into his chair with a curse, his hand darting toward one of the desk drawers. "No!" Tories snapped, reaching out with the Force to lock the other's arm in place. 

	He was just in time. Half a second later the monstrous metal shapes of two large combat droids strode into the room, the heavy blasters permanently attached to their forearms lifted and ready. Their heads and weapons swung once around the room as they searched for danger, and then they moved back to flank the doorway in guard positions. 

	Through the opening stepped a pair of brightly dressed Neimoidians. The one in the lead wore the blue and purple robes and black miter of a unit commander, while the other wore a simpler outfit of red and purple. His headgear was blue, with four twisted horns atop it. "Good day, Lord Binalie," the commander said in a stilted voice. "I trust we do not intrude?" 

	Tories looked a silent warning at Binalie, got merely a glare in return. But the other brought his hand up-empty-and let it drop onto the desktop. "Of course not," he growled sarcastically. "It's not like I have any actual work to do. What do you want?" 

	"Permit me to introduce myself," the spokesman said, sending glances at first Tories and then Corf. "I am Tok Ashel, Commander of the Cartao Expeditionary Army." He gestured to his companion. "This is Dif Gehad, Master Creator of New Products." 

	"And what new products are you trying to build in my factory?" Binalie asked. Gehad started to speak. - "Not so quickly, Lord Binalie," Ashel interrupted. 

	"First, let us have the rest of the introductions." His large red eyes turned pointedly to Tories. 

	"I'm Corf Binalie," Corf spoke up before either of the two men could answer, his voice strong and defiant. 'This is my private tutor, Master Jafer. Does this mean there's no school today?" 

	Ashel made a sound like crumpling tin wrap. "It may, young one," he said, eyeing Tories. "What do you teach, Master Jafer? 

	"A little of everything," Tories told him. "Ethics, wisdom, the ways of life." 

	"Ah-a philosopher," Ashel said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand and turning back to Binalie. "Now, to business." He gestured to Gehad. 

	"As you have surmised, we wish to use Spaarti Creations to work for us," the Master Creator said, his voice neat and precise. "But thus far we have been unable to restructure the assembly lines. You will tell me now how to do that." 

	Binalie shook his head. "I can't." 

	"Do not speak foolishness," Gehad warned. "You are director of this facility. You know everything there is to know about it." 

	"Of course I do," Binalie agreed. "Including what can and cannot be done. Only the Cranscoc twillers can manipulate the fluid tooling system." He lifted his eyebrows at Gehad. "I take it they haven't been willing to do so?" 

	"It was the ruins of our vehicles on the south lawn," Ashel said. "We now know about that taboo and have moved to correct it." 

	"But we do not intend to be stymied in that way again," Gehad added. "So I repeat: you will tell me how we may change the tooling ourselves." 

	"And I repeat, I can't," Binalie said. "But there are things I can do to help. I'd like to suggest a deal that-" 

	"You will not block us further!" Ashel snapped, flicking his fingers in an odd and probably obscene gesture. "Not you, and not the Republic forces hiding in the tunnel beneath the southern lawn. Oh, yes, we know they are there-we have tried twice to dislodge them and have now sealed the plant's exit against them. We also know the other end of the tunnel is somewhere on these grounds. Do not deny it!" 

	"I can't do anything about the Republic forces," Binalie said, starting to sound angry himself. "What I can do, however, is help you..." 

	"And you will tell us how to restructure the machines," Ashel insisted again, even more stridently this time. "Or you will regret the consequences." The skin of Binalie's face hardened, and even with the masking influence of two alien minds at close range, Tories could feel Binalie's sense harden along with it. 

	Even the invasion of his home and the destruction of his office door had apparently not put Binalie off the idea of offering the Neimoidians a deal to get them out of his plant. But threats were something else entirely. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm. 

	"It means this." Before Binalie could do more than inhale sharply, Ashel wrapped his long fingers around Corf's arm and hauled him out of his chair. 

	"The grub will go with us," the Neimoidian continued, pulling Corf close in front of him. "When you decide to cooperate, you may join us in the plant." 

	"Let him go," Binalie ground out. He was on his feet now, ignoring the droid blasters suddenly pointed at him. "I've told you already..." 

	"And do not consider too long," Ashel warned, backing to the door with Corf firmly in tow. The boy's eyes, Tories saw, had gone wide with fear. "We are patient beings, but we will not be patient forever." 

	Corf threw Tories a half frantic, half pleading look. But the Jedi had already measured the distances with his eyes, and even with the advantage of surprise he knew he couldn't take two combat droids before at least one of them got off a shot. And that didn't even take into account what other forces the Neimoidians might have waiting outside. 

	Which simply meant he would have to try something else. "Just a moment," he said primly, standing up. "The boy has two exams to complete today. I will not permit my schedule to be disrupted." The Neimoidians paused in the doorway, gazing at him with those expressionless alien faces. Tories stretched out toward their minds, wondering just how susceptible this species was to Jedi suggestion. He'd seldom used this trick, and never before with a Neimoidian. If they didn't buy into his manipulation, he might have to tackle those combat droids after all. 

	"The boy will come with us," Ashel declared at last. "If you choose, you may come with him." 

	"Thank you," Tories said, bowing in proper tutor fashion. Throwing a warning glance at Binalie, he stepped over to join the Neimoidians. 

	"But bring many lessons," Ashel added as they stepped back into the corridor. 

	There were, Tories noted, two more of the big droids waiting for them out there. Just as well he hadn't gone on the attack. "Lord Binalie is stubborn, even for a human. You may be with us for some time." 

	"Don't worry," Tories said, squeezing Corf's shoulder reassuringly. "I have everything I'll need." 

	The two Neimoidians and their assault droid escort were still in the mansion when Doriana finally reached Roshton. The commander was bending over the sculpted bush in front of him, his face carefully turned away from the visitor, puttering away industriously with a set of pruning scissors. 

	"What are you doing here?" Doriana hissed at him. 

	"Tendin' the plants, my lord," Roshton said in a quavering old voice, snipping off a couple more leaves. 

	"Stop it, Roshton," Doriana ground out. "It's me." 

	Roshton angled an eye cautiously up at him. "Ah-Master Doriana," he said, abandoning both the accent and the phony garden work. "You're just in time for the show." 

	"What show?" Doriana asked. "What are you doing?" 

	"You'll see," Roshton said, shifting his eyes to the mansion and the ring of droids. "Ever seen a droideka go bounce?" 

	"Uh... no." 

	"Then you've got a treat in store." Roshton pulled the front of his tunic slightly back to reveal a comlink hidden behind the flap. "Number seven, stand by... now." 

	And from the direction of the house came the thundercrack of an explosion. Doriana twisted around in time to see one of the droidekas, still in wheel form, soaring over the heads of its startled companions. Behind it, a blackened hole in the ground trailed a strand of smoke. "Number ten: now," Roshton said. 

	There was a second explosion, this one squarely at the feet of one of the assault droids. The big machine lost its balance and toppled backward to land with a sickening thud. "Where are they firing from?" Doriana demanded, looking around in bewilderment. There were no clone troopers in sight, and precious little cover anywhere nearby for them to be hiding in. "Roshton?" 

	"Later," Roshton said. "Five and eight: go." 

	Two more explosions ripped into the defensive line, each sending a pair of battle droids flying across the neatly trimmed lawn. "And here come the soft ones," Roshton added as the brightly colored Neimoidian robes appeared in the doorway. "This should be fun." 

	"Hold it," Doriana said, squinting across the distance. Nearly hidden in the folds of the robes... "Hold your fire, Roshton," he repeated urgently. 

	"They've got Binalie's son with them." 

	Roshton muttered something under his breath. "Rotten cowards," he said contemptuously. "They can't just..." 

	He broke off, a tight smile suddenly twisting his lips. "Well, well. Cowards and fools both." 

	"What?" Doriana asked, frowning. 

	"They've got Corf Binalie, all right." Roshton gestured. "They've also got Jafer Tories." 

	He lifted his eyebrows at Doriana. "Like I said. This should be fun." 

	Two more explosions, the third and fourth by Tories' count, shook the house as Ashel and Gehad hurried them down the entry hallway to the mansion's main door. 

	"I do not understand," Gehad said nervously as they peered outside. "Where are they shooting from?"  

	"What does it matter?" Ashel bit out, gesturing to the droids. "Droids! Form a cordon to the transport!" Obediently, the droids abandoned their encirclement positions, scurrying or rolling or lumbering, as their capabilities allowed, toward the vehicle squatting a dozen meters away. They were lining up into two rows, their weapons pointing outward, when another explosion caught the transport's right front corner, bouncing the vehicle a meter into the air and leaving a section of armor plating black and twisted. 

	"This is impossible!" Gehad shouted. "How do they do this?" 

	"Ask questions later!" Ashel growled, pointing toward the Spaarti plant. "Look! Here is our air support." 

	And impressive air support it was, too, Tories had to admit. A hundred STAPs had appeared in the sky, sweeping in from both east and west as they converged on the Binalie estate. 

	But the STAPs were still out of range, the droids in their cordon had their weapons and sensors aimed outward as they searched for their unseen attackers, and the Neimoidians were far too preoccupied with their own safety to be watching their prisoners. Time to go to work. 

	"Now," Ashel said, ungluing himself from the partial protection of the doorway and sprinting between the rows of droids toward the transport. Grabbing Corf s arm, Gehad started to follow, tugging the boy along behind him. They didn't get far. Reaching forward, Tories caught the boy's other arm and planted his feet solidly into the ground just outside the mansion's doorway. For a moment, Corf was stretched between them like a pull-war cable, and then Gehad stopped and spun around. "What do you-?" he snarled. He never finished his question. In that same brief second, the two combat droids that had been marching along a meter behind them, caught offguard by Tories' sudden halt, arrived at either side of the Jedi. And in a single smooth motion, Tories reached beneath his robe, pulled out his lightsaber, and ignited it. Gehad gave a little deep-throated scream, letting go of Corf's arm as if he'd been burned and scuttling away from him. Tories gave the boy a quick shove back through the doorway as he slashed the lightsaber across the upper chest of the droid to his left. The brilliant green blade sliced through the thick acertron armor like it was wrapping plastoid, and the top third of the droid slid off and fell with a crash onto the ground. The rest of the machine, caught in a trick of balance, remained standing stolidly upright like a beheaded corpse patiently awaiting further orders. Tories didn't wait to see whether or not it would fall. The assault droid to his right was already reacting to this unexpected threat, twisting at its hips to try to bring its blasters to bear. Tories swiveled to his right to meet it, swinging his lightsaber around and down across the raised forearms above the mounted blasters and dropping them onto the ground. His second cut took off the droid's legs; even before the pieces clattered to the ground, he leaped backward through the doorway into the mansion. "Go!" he ordered the Neimoidians, lifting his lightsaber into guard position. As if in emphasis, another nearby explosion blew clouds of dirt into the air. The two aliens didn't need further encouragement. Turning, they sprinted down the line of droids and scampered into the transport. The surviving droids followed, closing up the cordon neatly behind them. A minute later the transport, joined now by three more of the vehicles, was heading east at high speed. "Wow," Corf breathed. 

	Tories turned to see the boy gazing up at him, a stunned expression on his face. "You all right?" he asked. 

	Mechanically, Corf nodded. "I never saw anything like that," he said. "Just doing what I was trained for," Tories said. With one last look outside, he closed down his lightsaber. "Let's go tell your father you're all right," he said. "And after that," he added grimly, "you may both want to go to your safe room. This could get nasty." 

	There they go," Roshton commented as the last of the droids piled into the transports. The first vehicle, the one with the Neimoidians aboard, had already left the ground and was clawing for distance, the STAP escort forming up around it. "They won't be trying that again for awhile." 

	"Probably not," Doriana agreed, his eyes still on the remains of the D- 60s that had taken Tories maybe half a second to turn to scrap. He'd been around Jedi much of his life, but never before had he actually witnessed one in full combat mode. 

	And for the first time he began to truly see why Sidious wanted them eliminated. 

	"Estate units, secure," Roshton was saying into his comlink. "City, forest units: stand ready." 

	With an effort, Doriana pulled his attention back to the military situation. "What do you mean, stand ready?" he asked. "And how did you manage those shots?" 

	"Don't be dense," Roshton chided. 'That was nothing but a set of strategically placed, remote-controlled land mines. You must not have noticed all the landscaping being done around the grounds the past two days." 

	"I had other things on my mind," Doriana said tartly, watching the fleeing transports. Instead of taking the straightest route back to Spaarti Creations, they were swinging far to the east. What in?... 

	And then, he got it. 'They're avoiding the south lawn," he said. 'They don't want to risk anything else crashing on it and irritating the Cranscoc." 

	"Exactly what I thought they'd do," Roshton said with grim satisfaction. "Forest unit: secure. City unit: fire at will." 

	Abruptly, a dozen blaster bolts sizzled up from the northern edge of Foulahn City, blowing apart STAPs and peeling chunks of armor from the transports. 

	"What are you doing?" Doriana demanded. "You've chased them away. Isn't that enough?" 

	"No," Roshton said. "City unit: take them down." 

	The STAPs were returning fire now, and that whole section of sky seemed to be filled with multicolored blaster fire. Doriana found himself holding his breath as he watched the transports dodging and staggering, trying desperately to reach the safety of the plant. If Roshton's zealousness got the Neimoidians killed - or worse, if it panicked them into pulling their droids out of the factory for a counterattack... 

	And then, something else in the sky caught his eye. Just a pair of specks, but as he watched they grew visibly larger. "Roshton!" he snapped, fumbling out a compact set of electrobinoculars and switching them on. "We've got company." 

	"Let me see," Roshton ordered, reaching for the instrument. 

	Doriana twitched it away, pressing his eyes against the lenses. 

	A single glance was enough. "It's a pair of C-9979 landing ships," he told Roshton, handing over the electrobinoculars. "Looks like all your little stunt accomplished was to persuade the Separatists to bring in reinforcements. " 

	The Neimoidian commander's careless choice of a landing spot two days earlier had enabled Roshton's clone troopers to slow down their troop deployment long enough for the Republic forces to evacuate the Spaarti Creations complex. With this second wave, the Separatists made no such error. The landing ships put down to the west and northeast of the city, in open territory where no close-in attack would be possible, and immediately began deploying their troops and vehicles. 

	Roshton had barely enough time to order his men to pull back before the MTT transports and AAT battle tanks made their orderly way through the streets of Foulahn City, along the serviceways of Triv Spaceport, and even into the mostly uninhabited wooded hills west and north of the Spaarti complex. The AATs took up position at official buildings and strategic road intersections, while the MTTs quickly found places to dump their deadly cargos of battle droids, super battle droids, assault droids, and droidekas. By late afternoon, every square meter for fifteen kilometers around Spaarti Creations was in Separatist hands. With one small exception. 

	"One of the C-9979S is here," Roshton said, tapping a spot on the holomap due west of Foulahn City. "Its droids and AATs are occupying western Foulahn, plus all the territory west and north of the Spaarti complex. The other one's here-" he indicated a point near the Quatreen River where it meandered its way between the city and the Triv Spaceport to the northeast of it"-where they can cover the eastern city and the spaceport. I hear some units have gone a ways up the Quatreen and into Navroc City, too, but I don't have independent confirmation of that." 

	Tories looked over at Binalie. The other's face looked pale, but that could have just been the lighting. With only limited power supplies available here in the depths of the Binalie family safe room-and with no desire to attract notice from the droids occupying the main house upstairs-Binalie had elected to shut down everything except the permlights. "So where does that leave us?" Tories asked. 

	"Basically, stuck in here," Roshton said heavily. "My troops are doing what they can to harass the droids, but we don't have nearly enough manpower to push them back to the landing ships. Master Doriana tells me Supreme Chancellor Palpatine has promised help, but that could be as much as several days away. 

	"And meanwhile, your clones and the droids tear Foulahn City to shreds," Binalie growled. 

	"We're keeping the war out of your plant, aren't we?" Roshton retorted. "Isn't that what you wanted?" 

	"What I wanted was for the whole cursed war to stay off my world," Binalie shot back. 

	"I'm afraid those choices aren't always ours to make," Doriana spoke up calmly. 

	"It certainly wasn't Commander Roshton's idea to bring the war here." 

	"So we just sit here and let them wreck our city?" 

	"If I were you, I'd focus on the central issue," Roshton said tartly. "Namely, once the sun sets they'll be able to get the Cranscoc to retool the plant. Once that happens, you can wave goodbye to any hope for your city or your world." 

	"What do you mean?" Corf asked, huddling a little closer to his father. 

	"The Separatists are about to launch a brand-new line of assault droids," Roshton told him. "Once they get it up and running, every hour they spend in there means a stronger droid army on Cartao. If they're not stopped, sooner or later they'll have enough troops to defeat anything the Republic can spare to throw against them." 

	He looked back at Binalie. "And at that point, the only way to stop them. .." 

	"No," Binalie said flatly. "Don't even think it." 

	"You think I want Spaarti destroyed?" Roshton asked, his voice icy calm. "Those new cloning tanks we were building could conceivably turn the war around in a matter of months, and this is the only place we can fine-tune the production quickly enough to get the most efficient design possible. But at the same time, we can't let this new D-90 assault droid line get started, either. I'm sorry, but we're running low on options." 

	"Just a moment," Doriana said, straightening up and pulling a holoprojector from a belt pouch. "We may have news." 

	He flicked it on, and an image of an Iktotchi head appeared over the projection platform, its distinctively shaped horns curving down toward its shoulders. The words were too faint for Tories to hear, but suddenly Doriana smiled. "Thank you, General," he said, standing up and walking over to Roshton. "Commander, General FyefeeTiis of the Republic Light Cruiser Whipsaw would like a word with you." 

	He took the chair beside Roshton, holding up the holoprojector so that both of them could see and hear. Without waiting for an invitation, Tories moved over to the seat on Roshton's other side. Doriana flashed him a look, but said nothing. 

	"...with ten fully loaded LAAT/i gunships at your disposal," General Tiis was saying as Tories sat down. 

	"That's only four hundred troops," Roshton pointed out doubtfully. "Not going to do much good against three C-9979s' worth of droids and AATs unless you can knock out their control ship." 

	"Thank you for the suggestion," Tiis said dryly. "We had in mind to do just that. The gunships will be dropped in five minutes; ETA your position in thirty. We'll commence our own attack on the control ship in fifteen." The image vanished. "How's that going to work with the Cranscoc timing?" Doriana asked. 

	Binalie shrugged as he consulted his chrono. "Sunset's in about ten minutes. By the time the gunships arrive, it'll be nearly full dark." 

	"So we have a chance of getting the Separatists out before they can retool," Doriana concluded. "Excellent. What's the plan from this end, Commander?" 

	"Basically, to engage the enemy," Roshton said, pulling out his comlink. 

	"Between the incoming gunships and my own clone troopers, we should be able to cause a fair amount of chaos out there. With luck, that may distract the Neimoidians long enough for us to get in through the tunnel and retake the plant." 

	"You can't do that," Binalie objected. 

	"We'll be as careful as we can," Roshton said.

"That's not what I meant," Binalie said. "That Neimoidian commander-Ashel-said they'd sealed their end of the tunnel." 

	"Sealed it so well that a Jedi with a lightsaber can't get in?" Roshton shook his head. "I doubt that very much." 

	"You'll still be risking damage to Spaarti," Doriana pointed out. "Why not wait until the control ship has been destroyed? The Neimoidians certainly won't put up a fight once their army's out of commission." 

	"Two reasons," Roshton said. "One, because I wouldn't put it past Separatists to start wrecking things as soon as they know they've lost. And two-" he grimaced. "I should be out there with my men, not skulking around down here. The sooner I can get into action, the better." 

	"That's a pretty poor basis for tactical decisions," Doriana warned. "And Lord Binalie is right: we don't want any fighting inside the plant." 

	"Tell that to the Neimoidians," Roshton said shortly. "As of nineteen minutes from now, that'll be their decision, not mine." 

	"Just a minute," Tories said slowly as Roshton lifted his comlink, bits and pieces of an idea starting to swirl around in his mind. A strange, danger-ous idea, but one that might work for all that. "What if we could get all the droids to come outside to fight?"  

	"And how do you persuade them to do that?" Binalie growled. "Neimoidians are cowards-they wouldn't just send their guards marching away. Especially not with a possible tunnel attack to guard against." 

	"Unless they thought the tunnel was secure," Tories pointed out. "And thought the factory perimeter wasn't." Binalie blinked. "You've lost me." 

	"Of course," Roshton said, sitting up straighter. "Like I said, they know a Jedi can probably break through the tunnel. They also know, from bitter experience, what it's like to face one in battle." 

	"So what are you suggesting?" Doriana asked, frowning. "That we put Master Tories outside with your clone troopers?" 

	"Exactly," Roshton said. "Leading a charge against, say, the plant's east door. They'd have no choice but to throw everything they have at us." Doriana snorted gently. "Sounds suicidal." 

	"Not for a Jedi," Binalie said, his voice and sense suddenly tense with cautious hope as he saw a chance of getting his factory back intact. "You could do it, Master Tories. I know you could." 

	"Please?" Corf added, gazing pleadingly at Tories. "Just a moment," Doriana put in. "I'm not at all sure I can authorize an action like this. An attack of any sort will put the plant at serious risk." 

	"It's that, or the plant stays in Separatist hands," Roshton pointed out. 

	"Who's side are you on here, anyway?" 

	"Don't be insulting," Doriana said coldly. "You want to keep the enemy busy while the Whipsaw tries to take out the control ship, go right ahead. But keep away from Spaarti." 

	"Trust us, Master Doriana," Roshton said. "Or rather, trust in the Jedi." Doriana grimaced. "Well, when you put it that way... all right." Roshton looked at Tories. "Master Tories?" 

	"Let's see first if I can get through the droids upstairs," Tories said, getting to his feet. 

	"Let's see if we can get through them," Roshton corrected, standing up to join him. "Like I said, I need to be with my men."  

	"You're both insane," Doriana declared. "But if everyone else is going, I might as well, too." 

	Roshton shook his head. "Sorry. No offense, but I don't want any bureaucrats getting in the way." 

	"None taken," Doriana assured him. "But as the Supreme Chancellor's representative here, I not only have the right to come with you, but I'm more or less required to do so." Roshton grimaced. "Fine-have it your own way. Then if we're ready...?" Corf took a breath - "No," Tories said firmly before the boy could speak. "You and your father are staying right here."  

	"But..." 

	"Corf," Binalie said warningly. 

	The boy subsided. "Right," Roshton said, clicking on his comlink. "Let's get this off the launch pad." 

	Doriana never did learn how many droids the Neimoidians had left inside the Binalie mansion. All he knew was that there were eight of them between the three humans and the outside door. Tories dealt with all eight swiftly, efficiently, and amazingly quietly. 

	There were a few others on patrol outside, strutting around in the gathering dusk as if they owned the place. The Jedi dealt with those, too. 

	It was over five kilometers to the staging area Roshton and his lieutenant had settled on during their brief comlink communication. Fortunately, two of the clone troopers had managed to sneak a small landspeeder through the droid patrols and were waiting for them at the eastern edge of the Binalie estate. A short ride, with frequent zigzags and occasional pauses under cover, and they were there. 

	The clone trooper lieutenant was waiting when the landspeeder pulled up, standing quietly in the concealment of a group of trees perhaps a kilometer from the blank walls of the Spaarti plant. "Welcome, Commander," he greeted Roshton as the newcomers stepped up to him. "Glad you could make it." 

	"So am I," Roshton said. "Situation?" 

	"I've pulled together two hundred troops," the lieutenant said, gesturing around him. Doriana looked around, but wherever the troops were hiding, they were doing a good job of it. "The rest are still in the city, dodging the droids' house-to-house search," the lieutenant continued. "At last report the gunships were still approaching from the south; they should reach missile range in approximately five minutes, and laser-cannon range two minutes after that. Their first salvo will be our troops' signal to attack." 

	"What about the control ship?" Roshton asked. 

	The lieutenant nodded his helmet slightly upwards. 'That attack seems to have already begun." 

	Doriana looked up. It was difficult to tell through the light clouds drifting across the sky, but he thought he could see faint flickers of laser fire. "Any idea how it's going?" he asked. 

	"General Tiis hasn't taken the time to keep us up to date," the lieutenant said, a bit dryly. 

	"That's all right," Roshton said. "If and when he destroys it, it should be easy to figure out. What's the local enemy status?" 

	"The Number Two C-9979 is approximately three kilometers to our south," the lieutenant said. "Most of their troops have been deployed to the spaceport and eastern Foulahn City, but there are at least three AATs and probably two hundred battle droids standing by on guard duty." 

	"Three kilometers," Doriana said, peering off that direction at the deceptively cheery city lights in the distance. "Isn't that a little close?" 

	"It's extremely close," Roshton agreed. "And deliberately so. If you'd ever fought the Neimoidians before, you'd know they dearly love overwhelming odds. I'm betting that the chance to catch our group in a crossfire will be too tempting for them to pass up." 

	He turned to Tories. "Any last thoughts or suggestions, Master Tories?" For a moment, Tories gazed out toward the wall of the plant, now little more than a vague shape against the darkening sky. Doriana gazed in turn at the outline of Tories' profile, watching the glint of his white hair in the dim light, wondering what kind of thoughts were going through that Jedi-trained mind. 

	How did Jedi think, he wondered suddenly. He knew something of how they acted and reacted, and as the man who often delivered Palpatine's messages to the Jedi Council, he had long since learned how to use their concerns and priorities to persuade them to do what he wanted. 

	But how exactly did they think'! Was it basically the same as normal people? Or was there something about their training that left them more alien than any of the species making up the Republic? 

	In the distance to the south came the faint sound of multiple explosions. As it was joined by the stutter of blaster fire, Tories seemed to straighten fully up. "Nothing comes to mind, Commander," he said, sliding his lightsaberfrom beneath his robes. "Let's do it." 

	He set off toward Spaarti Creations, walking with a swift, firm pace. Three steps into the trip, he ignited his lightsaber, the green blade blazing upward like a beacon as he strode off into the darkness. "Well, don't just stand there, Lieutenant," Roshton said. 

	"Yes, sir," the other said, sounding a bit startled by the Jedi's bold move. "All troops: advance." 

	Doriana felt his breath catch in his throat. Suddenly, the area around them was swarming with clone troopers, emerging from shadows or piles of leaves or from beneath camouflage ground covers. They set off behind Tories, forming into neat ranks as they went. 

	Roshton was saying something. "I'm sorry?" Doriana said, tearing his eyes away from the silent soldiers. 

	"I asked if the Supreme Chancellor's representative would care to join us," the commander repeated as he slipped on a clone trooper headset. 

	"Thank you, but I think I'll stay here," Doriana said, getting his mind back to business. "I've already seen your men in action, but I haven't had a chance to observe General Tiis's troops." 

	He couldn't see Roshton's expression in the darkness, but there was no mistaking the cynical edge in his voice. "Of course," the commander said. 

	"Shall I leave you a guard?" 

	"That won't be necessary," Doriana said. "But I'd like to borrow your other comlink, if I may, so I can keep up with what's happening."  

	"Sure," Roshton grunted, pulling out his belt comlink. "Over there behind that thick tree would probably be a good place to observe from." Doriana smiled to himself. It amazed him sometimes how easily people seemed to think they could offend him. "Thank you, Commander," he said calmly. "I'll expect a full report when you return." 

	They'd made it perhaps halfway to Spaarti Creations when the first response came from the picket line around the plant. Blaster bolts began to sizzle across the distance as the droids opened fire, passing harmlessly between the marching soldiers or bouncing almost as harmlessly off their armor. Tories peered ahead into the gloom as his lightsaber deflected away the bolts that came his direction, using the light of the enemy's own fire to see how they were configuring their battle line. The droids directly between them and the plant's east door were standing fast, while more droids were hurrying from north and south of that position to join them. 

	"Looks like this whole section of the picket line is pulling in to face us," Roshton murmured from beside him. 

	"Yes," Tories agreed, looking back over his shoulder. All he could see back there were the lights of the city and spaceport. "Any sign of that crossfire yet?" 

	"Two AATs and about fifty droids have just headed northeast," Roshton said. "We should see them soon. Ah." 

	Tories turned back. The plant's east door had opened, revealing a new set of droids hurrying through to join the picket line. "Here come the reinforcements," Roshton said. "I'd guess we'll be seeing those AATs very soon." 

	And with that, Tories knew, it was time to go. "How long can you hold out against them?" he asked, deflecting one last bolt and then closing down his lightsaber. 

	Roshton threw him a sideways look, wrapping his free hand around his headset's voice pickup. "What do you have in mind?" 

	"We're assuming they've largely emptied the plant of combat droids," Tories told him. "If I can get inside, I should be able to get the drop on the Neimoidians. If they're as cowardly as you say, maybe I can persuade them to surrender even if Tiis isn't able to take out the command ship." 

	"How do you expect to get in?" Roshton asked. "They'll have picket lines at all the doors." 

	"Leave that to me," Tories said, nodding to the left. "But I have to go before they close off that gap. So again: how long can you hold out?" 

	"As long as necessary," Roshton said, glancing around as he released his grip on his voice pickup. "Lieutenant: looks like there's a small hollow ahead and to the right. We'll deploy in defensive formation there." He looked at Tories again. "Good luck." 

	Tories nodded and turned to the left, taking a moment to get his bearings. Then, stretching out to the Force, he dropped into a crouch and ran. 

	Jedi were capable of incredible bursts of speed when necessary, at least over short distances. Tories used every bit of that capability, his legs pumping in a blur against the ground as he slipped around the end of the picket line now beginning to close into a semicircle around the beleaguered clone troopers. A pair of droid stragglers suddenly loomed in front of him in the darkness and then collapsed into broken rubble as he used the Force to shove them backward. By the time the burst of energy and speed faded and he trotted to a halt, he was standing at the southeast corner of the plant, just clear of the forbidden south lawn, facing a sheer, three-story-high wall. 

	He gazed up at the dark slab rising above him. Three stories was an impossible jump, at least for him. But halfway up the wall, a distance he could reach, was a line of louvered air vents, each about ten centimeters across. 

	He could only hope Lord Binalie's father had built the vents and louvers with the same ruggedness with which he'd built everything else in Spaarti Creations. Getting a good grip on his lightsaber, making sure his hand was safely away from the activation stud, he bent his knees, stretched out to the Force, and jumped. 

	He was near the top of his arc when he spotted the nearest vent, dimly lit by the flashes of laser and blaster fire coming from Roshton's position. With a quick flick of his mind, he reached out to the louvers, angling them up into a horizontal position. 

	And as his upward momentum slowed to a halt, he slipped his lightsaber hilt between two of the louvers. 

	The metal creaked in protest as his full weight came onto the hilt, but to his relief the louvers held. Stretching out to the Force, he pulled down hard against the wedged lightsaber, hurling himself upward again. 

	He made it with three centimeters to spare, catching the edge of the roof with his outstretched fingertips and heaving himself the rest of the way up to sprawl onto his belly on the cold permacrete. Swiveling around, he leaned partway over the edge, extricating his lightsaber hilt from the louvers and calling it back to his hand. 

	The blaster fire in the east seemed to be intensifying as he slipped silently across the roof toward the nearest skylight. He reached it, rubbed off some of the collected grit with his sleeve, and peered inside. 

	The factory floor below was deserted. He stretched out to the Force, trying to track down the agitated alien minds he could sense beneath him. Further to the west, perhaps? Yes, he decided: somewhere a little ways west of his position. He frowned, trying to visualize the layout of the plant... Of course. Cowardly or merely very cautious, the Neimoidians would have set up shop in Production Area Four, where they could keep an eye on the tunnel leading to the Binalie estate. 

	He set off that direction, keeping a wary eye overhead for wandering STAR patrols. But all the ones he could see were a good distance away, either swooping behind him to the east near Roshton's position, or else doing tight circles around the C-9979 landing ship over near the plant's west door. The cacophony from Roshton's position was definitely growing louder, possibly the droids from the landing ship now close enough to add their strength to the attack. A new sound shrieked through the air, and he turned in time to see a Republic gunship dive toward the ground, sweeping the droid positions with rapid-fire laser fire. It swung upward again, and was cutting around for another pass when it exploded in a brilliant red-and-yellow fireball. And then he was at the skylight over the Area Four control station. Again cleaning off a section of the transparisteel, he looked down. 

	There they were, directly below him on the control platform: the two Neimoidians who had earlier invaded Lord Binalie's office, plus a few more in much drabber clothing, all gathered together around a plotting display that had been set up in front of the Cranscoc twillers. The Master Creator, Gehad, was jabbing at something on the display, apparently arguing with Commander Ashel about it. Milling alertly around the control platform were a half dozen battle droids, their attention and blasters turned outward. The skylight's fastening catch was at the inside base directly across from Tories. Reaching out with the Force, he undid it and swung the skylight open on its hinges. Taking a deep breath, he dropped through the opening. 

	He landed on the platform directly behind Commander Ashel, his knees bending to absorb the impact. Ashel had time to twitch, and someone else had time to give a startled squeak, before Tories was upright again with his arm firmly around Ashel's chest and the business end of his lightsaber pressed just as firmly against the side of the Neimoidian's head. "Everyone stay still," he warned. But the droids' reflexes were apparently set on hair-trigger. Before Tories could say more, or Ashel could say anything at all, they whirled toward the platform, their blasters spitting fire toward him. Tories took a long step away from Ashel and the others, igniting his lightsaber and whipping it against the incoming blaster bolts. Two seconds later, all six droids lay shattered and smoking, destroyed by their own backscattered fire. Before the stunned Neimoidians could react, Tories took another long step back and regained his grip on Ashel's robes. "Let's try that again," he said mildly. "Everyone stay still." 

	"What do you want?" Ashel asked, his voice shaking. 

	"I want this to be over," Tories told him. He glanced at the Cranscoc twillers crouching down in front of the control system mud flow, wondering how they were taking all this. 

	But if they were worried, surprised, or even fully aware of what was going on, he couldn't see it. "Contact the command ship and order them to surrender." 

	"Impossible." Ashel made a cautious gesture toward the ruined droids. "We cannot communicate except through the droids, and you have destroyed them all. " 

	"Really," Tories said. It was almost certainly a lie, but there was an easy way to call the other's bluff. "Fine. Come on." 

	"Where do we go?" Gehad asked timorously. 

	"It just so happens I know where there are other droids you can use," Tories told him. "And watch it. I doubt you want the kind of trouble I can make for you." 

	Keeping a grip on Ashel's robe, he led the way down the platform steps. The Neimoidians' sealing of the tunnel exit had been achieved by the simple procedure of welding the leading edge of the ramp solidly to the floor, and it took him only a couple of seconds to cut through the weld with his lightsaber. Ashel quivered in his grip as he did so, but said nothing. 

	Their footsteps echoed eerily as they headed east through the empty plant. Tories kept alert for a surprise attack, but apparently the Neimoidians really had sent all the rest of the droids outside. 

	The battle was still going on as they reached the east door and stepped out into the night air. "There are your droids," Tories said, giving Ashel an imperative push toward the light and noise. "Let's go talk to them." 

	"You cannot be serious," the Neimoidian protested, cringing back against Tories' grip. "We are not equipped for battle." 

	"Too bad," Tories said. "But if that's the only way to stop them..." 

	He broke off as, abruptly, the circle of blasters around Roshton's position fell silent. Something in the sky to the left caught his eye, and he looked over as a pair of STAPs plummeted to the ground. 

	He craned his head to look up into the night sky. There, almost directly above him, was the fading light of an expanding gas cloud. 

	General Tiis and the Whipsaw had come through. 

	"I guess we won't need to talk to the droids, after all," he commented. He could see movement from Roshton's position now as the clone troopers abandoned their positions, running toward him and the plant now wide open behind him. 

	"Come on," he added, returning his lightsaber to his belt and nudging the Neimoidians toward the approaching troops. 

	The two groups met halfway. "I see you've been busy," Roshton greeted Tories as he trotted to a halt, gesturing his troops to continue on toward the plant. 

	"What's it like inside?" 

	"Empty, as far as I could tell," Tories told him. "The tunnel's been unsealed, too, if you want to get the techs back in." 

	"Excellent," Roshton said in grim satisfaction. "We'll get the Cranscoc to undo any retooling they did, then get back to work. 

	"I doubt the Neimoidians got very far with their retooling," Tories said. 

	"Speaking of which, what should I do with them?" 

	Roshton glanced past him toward the plant. "Would you mind taking them to Commander Bratt? He's in one of the gunships heading over to shut down the Number Two C-9979." 

	"No problem," Tories said. "I'll see you later." 

	Roshton nodded and hurried off after his men. Tories started his own party off in the opposite direction. "It is not yet over," Ashel warned as they walked. 

	"We have not yet been defeated." 

	"You just keep thinking that," Tories said. They'd reached the site of Roshton's stand now, and he paused for a moment, gazing across the battlefield. The ground was almost literally covered with the wreckage of droids, with the bodies of probably a dozen clone troopers lying among the debris, their armor no longer white. Fires were still burning in the remains of a couple of vehicles, one of them the gunship Tories had seen being destroyed. Standing amid the general carnage were probably a hundred more droids, still upright yet with an oddly sagging look about them, where the loss of their control ship had left them. 

	He was still gazing at them when, with a sort of collective twitch, they came back to life. 

	For perhaps half a second the sheer unexpectedness of it froze him to the spot. But for the Neimoidians, that half-second was all the time they needed. At a barked word from Ashel, the Neimoidians dropped flat on the ground. 

	And Tories found himself standing alone in the middle of a ring of blasters. There was no time for anything fancy, and literally nowhere to go but up. He leaped up and sideways, igniting his lightsaber and slashing behind him as he arced over the revived droid army, trusting in the Force to guide his hand and deflect the shots. He hit the ground running and dodging, heading away from the plant toward the city, a hail of blaster bolts nipping at his robes. 

	"Yes, run, Jedi," Ashel's mocking voice wafted after him, more painful even than the blaster bolt near-misses. "Tell us again of this trouble you can make for us." 

	Tories didn't answer. Ahead, he could hear the sounds of renewed blaster fire coming from Foulahn City, and from the sense of startled anguish rolling over his mind it was clear that the rest of the Republic forces had been taken as much by surprise as he had. Unless he could get to them in time, to lend his strength to theirs, the battle would be lost. 

	He couldn't. 

	And it was. 

	"I guess the Separatists have finally learned from their past mistakes," Doriana commented as he, Tories, and Binalie stood on one of the mansion's north-facing balconies. "They must have found a way to make a control matrix compact enough that they could bring a backup down to the planet surface. My guess is that it's probably in one of the landing ships. Not that it really matters." 

	"And not that we'll ever know for sure," Binalie said bitterly, shivering in the cold night air. "They're all dead, then?" 

	"Dead, or scattered," Tories said quietly, and Doriana could hear the pain and self-reproach in the Jedi's voice. "Except for the ones Roshton took into Spaarti with him." Binalie sighed. "And they're as good as dead, aren't they?" 

	"I can't see it any other way," Doriana agreed, gazing out toward Spaarti Creations. Above the plant, a hundred STAPs were circling through the night sky like carrion-eaters, glinting with the light from a dozen distant fires. On the grounds around the plant, invisible from where the three men stood, a thousand combat droids and a dozen battle tanks stood their own silent watch. 

	And between the Binalie mansion and the plant, acrid smoke still rose from the crater where the Separatist hailfire droid had emptied both of its missile pods into the ground, collapsing the tunnel and cutting off the clone troopers' last avenue of escape. The Separatists had been nothing if not thorough. "The only reason they're still alive is that the Separatists don't want to wreck the plant trying to force them out," he added. 

	"But then, they don't have to, do they?" Tories said quietly. "By the time General Tiis can return with enough ground troops, they'll likely have starved in there." 

	"Yes," Binalie said. "Ironic, isn't it? Commander Roshton spent all that effort to retake the plant. And he succeeded. 

	"And that's where he's going to die."

	Star Wars  

	Star Wars Insider 

	N 70 

	Hero of Cartao. 

	Part 3 

	Hero's End. 

	by Timothy Zahn. 



	############################################################################### 

	The streets of Foulahn City were dark and deserted as Kinman Doriana picked his way through the litter of broken droids, small missile craters, shattered buildings, bodies, and the general clutter of war. The military comlink he'd borrowed from Commander Roshton had allowed him to listen in on the Republic side of the battle, and he'd known the fighting here and at the Triv Spaceport had been fierce. But even that knowledge hadn't prepared him for the actual carnage the soldiers had left behind. 

	A half dozen craters overlapped each other across the street in front of him, half filled with rubble from the buildings the missiles had destroyed and a few mutilated bodies of the civilians who'd been caught in the crossfire. The fighting here must have been particularly bad, he decided, with a higher-ranking officer directing the Republic side of the attack. Maybe here he'd finally find what he was looking for. 

	He hoped so. It was well after midnight, he was achingly tired, and the new Separatist masters of this part of Cartao undoubtedly had a curfew in place for the citizenry. The first patrol that spotted him would be trouble, and he wasn't in the mood for arguing with combat droids. Despite the dramatic events and reversals of the past few hours, things were still adhering reasonably closely to Lord Sidious's plan, but that didn't mean Doriana himself had to enjoy the situation. He'd had his fill of battles a long time ago, and very much preferred to stay at his desk in Supreme Chancellor Palpatine's office and handle his schemes and manipulations long-distance. 

	A glimmer of white to the left caught his eye, and he picked his way carefully toward it through the shattered road material. Probably just another piece of the deco-rative white roof trim Foulahn's residents were so fond of, he thought sourly, but it still had to be checked out. 

	But it wasn't a piece of roof trim. It was the half buried body of a clone trooper. A lieutenant, from the markings on his armor. 

	Finally. 

	Under normal circumstances, it would have been the work of perhaps two minutes to dig the body out of the rubble. With the need for absolute silence, it took Doriana closer to ten. But it was worth the effort. Hidden away in the back of one of the survival pouches on the lieutenant's utility belt was an unlabeled datacard. Slipping it into his pocket, Doriana resealed the survival pouch and started to straighten up. 

	"Halt," a flat mechanical voice ordered from behind him. Doriana froze in mid-crouch. "Don't shoot," he called, stretching his hands slowly to the sides so that the droids could see they were empty. "I'm an official medical observer." 

	"Turn and identify," the voice ordered. 

	Doriana obeyed, turning carefully on the uncertain footing. It was a complete patrol, all right: six of the old-style battle droids, one of them standing slightly in the lead. In the dim light, Doriana couldn't tell whether there was anyone of command rank among them. "Identify," the droid in the lead repeated. 

	"My name is Kinman Drifkin," he told them. "I'm a member of the Aargau Medical Observer Corps. We're a neutral power sworn to observe and report on any atrocities taking place during this conflict." 

	The droid seemed to digest that. "Come forward," he ordered. "Do you have official identification?" 

	"Of course," Doriana said, slipping his hand into his ID pocket as he walked toward the group. The droids lifted their blasters warningly as he withdrew his hand, relaxed slightly as they saw he held only a datacard. "Which of you has a reader?" he asked. 

	"I will take it," the spokesman said, shifting his grip on his blaster and extending a claw-like hand. 

	Doriana stepped to him and handed him the datacard. So this one was definitely the leader; and at this distance, he could see now the pale yellow markings of a command officer on its head and torso. Excellent. "I believe you'll find my credentials are in order," he added, glancing casually around. There was no one else in sight, human or droid. 

	"We will see," the officer droid said, taking the datacard and sliding it into a reader slot set into the lower part of its jaw line. "It says here that your assigned observation area is...' 

	"Barauch seven-nine-seven," Doriana said in a low voice. "Filliae gron one-one-three." 

	The officer broke off in midsentence. Doriana eased a few centimeters to his right, watching to see if the droids and their weapons would track his movement. 

	They didn't. To all appearances, the entire squad was frozen and oblivious. "I'll be crocked," Doriana murmured to himself, feeling muscles relax that he hadn't noticed were tense. So, the magic backdoor lockout code that Sidious had given to him actually worked. 

	And if the lockout code worked... "Pinkrun four-seven-two aprion one-eight-one-one," he said, reaching out to the spokesman's jaw and retrieving his false ID. "Backskip three minutes; pause one minute; restart. Execute." 

	The patrol gave a group shiver. "Accessed," the spokesman said, his mechanical voice sounding somehow even flatter than it had before. 

	Smiling tightly, Doriana sidled past them, heading back the direction they'd come from as quickly as he could manage without twisting his ankle on the loose stone. He had just one minute to disappear before the droids came out of their freeze and restarted their patrol, with this little incident conveniently erased from their group memory. He reached the nearest corner and ducked around it, pausing there to listen. A few seconds later he heard the distinctive clunk as the droids came to life again. With more clattering, they continued on their patrol, their footsteps fading off into the night breezes. Smiling again, Doriana detached himself from the wall and headed back toward the Binalie estate. 

	"You all right?" a voice asked softly from the shadows. Doriana jumped violently. "Who's there?" he hissed. 

	"Relax," Jafer Tories calmed him, stepping into view from a doorway, his lightsaber ready in his hand. "It's just me." 

	Doriana took a deep breath. "You nearly stopped my heart there," he said reproachfully. "In the future, kindly practice your Jedi skulking techniques on someone else." 

	"Sorry," Tories said with a faint smile. "But for a moment there I thought I was going to have to demonstrate more than just skulking. What happened over there?" 

	"What do you mean, what happened?" Doriana hedged, wondering uneasily just how much the Jedi had seen. "It was just a standard security patrol." 

	"Who looked at your ID and then let you go," Tories said pointedly. "Since when do the Separatists give free passes to Palpatine's advisors?" 

	Doriana started breathing a little easier. So, the Jedi had been close enough to see the confrontation, but not to hear what was said. Good enough. "No free passes for advisors, no," he told Tories, digging out his false ID again. "But plenty for neutral observers. Kinman Drifkin, Aargau Medical Observer Corps, at your service." 

	"Cute," Tories said. He took the ID, peered at it, and handed it back. "Holds up to baseline scrutiny, does it?" 

	"As you saw," Doriana reminded him, putting the datacard away again. "Supreme Chancellor Palpatine can hardly afford to let his people get picked up by the enemy in the middle of a war zone. Speaking of which, what are you doing out here, anyway?" 

	"Funny; I was going to ask you the same question," Tories said, his voice suddenly going a little odd. "Lord Binalie said you'd gone into the city and asked me to see if you might be in trouble. So what are you doing?" 

	"Feeling mildly pleased with myself, and ready to get out of here," Doriana told him. "Has Lord Binalie found a place to settle in yet?" 

	"We've got one, yes," Tories said. 

	"Good," Doriana said. "Take me there, and we'll all sort it out together. " 

	For just the briefest moment Tories continued to gaze at him in that discomfiting way Jedi all over the galaxy seemed to have learned to perfection. Then, reluctantly, Doriana thought, he nodded. "All right. Follow me." 

	He headed off down the deserted streets. Doriana followed, scowling to himself. It was Tories' fault, after all, that the situation had ended up the way it had, with Roshton and his clone troopers holding the plant while the Separatist droid armies waited uselessly outside. It wasn't at all the way Darth Sidious had planned this operation, and he winced as the thought of what the Sith lord would say about it the next time Doriana contacted him. 

	Still, the situation was far from lost. Republic reinforcements were undoubtedly days away, which gave Doriana time to put things back on track. 

	And as for the Jedi... 

	He gazed at Tories' broad back as the other picked his way around yet another missile crater. Now that he thought about it, Tories' unabashed heroics tonight might actually work to Doriana's advantage. Certainly the other had risen to new heights of respect and prestige in the handful of days since Doriana had landed on Cartao. 

	Which would make it that much more of a pleasure to bring the Jedi down. 

	With the tunnel under the Spaarti Creations' south lawn collapsed and impassible, there was no longer any reason for the Neimoidians controlling the Separatist forces to occupy the Binalie estate. They had occupied it anyway, probably out of spite for the way Tories had helped chase them out of the mansion not too many hours earlier. With his home occupied by battle droids, it had become necessary for Lord Binalie and his son Corf to find other accommodations. 

	The estate's greenhouse had been probably the least likely possibility, given the near-complete visibility through the building's long transparisteel panels. Which was precisely why Tories had suggested it. What any searchers would assume-at least, what Tories hoped they would assume-was that there was no chance of anyone hiding in such an open place and move on to more likely prospects. 

	What any such searchers would have forgotten was the profusion of plants inside the greenhouse, plants that could be shifted and adjusted and layered to form hidden areas as sheltered and invisible as a military camp in deep forest. 

	Binalie and Corf had nearly finished setting up their new quarters when Tories and Doriana arrived. "Ah; Master Tories," Binalie said, setting a package of emergency food rations beside three more against a line of tall plants with wide overhanging fronds. "Did you find Doriana? Oh-there you are," he added as he caught sight of Doriana in the dim starlight. "Any trouble?" 

	"None," Tories said. "I found him bluffing his way past a droid patrol." 

	"Really," Binalie said. His voice was casual, but Tories could sense the sudden suspicion in his sense. "And how exactly do you bluff battle droids?" 

	"With the judicious use of false credentials," Doriana told him briefly. "But never mind that. I have something to show you that should be considerably more interesting. Is there a place where we can have a little more light?" 

	"I suppose," Binalie said reluctantly. "Master Tories-?" 

	"Why don't you go ahead and take him downstairs," Tories suggested. "I'll go take a quick look around outside." 

	"Thank you," Binalie said, sounding a bit relieved. "This way, Master Doriana." 

	By the time Tories returned from his sweep of the surrounding area, Binalie, Corf, and Doriana had taken up seats in the greenhouse's underground storeroom. "All clear," the Jedi confirmed, lowering the trap door back into place and plunging the space into complete darkness. "Go ahead, Corf." 

	A moment later he found himself squinting as the boy flicked on a small ceiling light. "All right, Master Doriana," Binalie said. "Let's hear it." 

	"This is a soldier's ID," Doriana said, producing a datacard. "I took it from a dead clone trooper lieutenant. Normally, it contains nothing but name, rank, and operating number. A field officer's card, however, also has something called a contingency deployment profile. It gives detailed instructions as to where and how to regroup in case of command structure disruption or the kind of disaster we've just experienced." 

	"I've never heard of anything like that," Binalie said. 

	"It's not well advertised, for obvious reasons," Doriana said dryly. "For the same reasons, the information's also not easy to access." 

	"But you can do that?" 

	"Yes," Doriana said. "By morning, when the townspeople are allowed to move around outdoors again, you and Master Tories should be able to casually travel to the rendezvous point and make contact with the survivors of last night's battle." 

	"Just the two of us?" Tories asked. "You're not coming?" 

	Doriana shook his head. "Now that the Separatists are in control here, I need to keep as low a profile as possible. My face might have been seen in the background on one of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine's broadcasts, and I can't take the risk that someone will recognize me. I can give you an authorization datacard, though, that will confirm you have the authority to give them orders." 

	"Wait a second," Binalie said, frowning. "What orders?" 

	"We have to get Roshton and his people out of there, Lord Binalie," Doriana said, his voice suddenly low and sincere and very persuasive. 'The longer they're trapped inside Spaarti, the weaker and more vulnerable to attack they'll become. Don't forget, all those techs he took in with him probably weren't carrying soldiers' field packs, which means the whole group is starting out critically low on food and water. If we let them get too weak, our chances of getting them out alive will slip from poor to nonexistent." 

	"And you don't think the Republic will send help?" Corf asked quietly. 

	Tories focused on the youth. It was remarkable, he thought distantly, how rapidly Corf had grown up over the past few days. He'd started out as a cheerful, carefree boy, content to track down siviviv weeds or just hang out with Cartao's resident Jedi Guardian. 

	And then Doriana had arrived, and the events that had followed had turned Corf's home and his neighborhood into a war zone. Now, he was quieter, more thoughtful, more brooding. 

	The war had come to Cartao. Sadly, it had also come to Corf Binalie. 

	"I don't know, Master Binalie," Doriana admitted, his voice as grave as the boy's. "I've spoken with Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, and I know he truly wants to help. The question is whether there are any Republic forces strong enough and close enough to deal with this particular Separatist army. I'm sure you understand that there are many other worlds and systems out there in equally desperate situations." 

	He looked at Tories. "Unless there are other forces available that I don't know about?" 

	Tories frowned. "What do you mean?" 

	For a moment, Doriana gazed at him as if trying to read something hidden. Then, almost too casually, he shrugged. 

	"Nothing," he said. "I just thought you might have a line to-never mind." 

	He gestured to the trap door above them. "I'd suggest the three of you go back up and get some sleep," he said. "I need to stay down here for awhile and get this contingency deployment decrypted." 

	Binalie looked at Tories, his eyebrows lifted slightly. Tories shrugged microscopically in return. He could sense an air of secretive-ness surrounding Doriana's mind, but that could be nothing more than the natural caution of a man dealing with high-level military security. "All right," Binalie said. "Let us know when you're ready to come back up." 

	"I will," Doriana promised, turning off the light so the others could open the trap door without giving their presence away. 

	"Good-night. And don't worry," he added, his tone suddenly thoughtful in the dark. "I have a feeling that by tomorrow night this will all be over." 

	There had been seven possible rendezvous points listed on the contingency deployment datacard, ranked in descending order of preference. The first, one of the hangars at the spaceport, was already occupied by Separatist forces busily working on damaged vehicles. The second, a warehouse on the northern edge of the city, had been effectively demolished in the night's battle. At the third, an automated hydroelectric plant straddling the Quatreen River, Tories and Binalie found the Republic forces. 

	"This is all rather irregular," their commanding officer, a young-looking lieutenant, said as he handed back the introductory datacard Doriana had given them. "But it does seem to be in order." He gave a hand signal, and the ring of clone troopers that had suddenly appeared on their third step through the door lowered their blasters. "I'm Lieutenant Laytron. What's this all about?" 

	"What it's about is a couple hundred Republic troops and a thousand Republic techs trapped inside the Spaarti Creations plant," Tories told him. 

	"Yes; Commander Roshton's group," Laytron said. "We've been in brief contact with him. It sounds like they're making good progress on whatever the project is they're working on in there." 

	"That's nice to know," Binalie said sourly. "Did he happen to mention food or water or other irrelevant subjects?" 

	Laytron regarded him coolly. "For the moment, he seems to be doing all right." 

	"Which is a complete illusion," Tories pointed out. "And you know it." 

	"The question is, what are you doing to do about it?" Binalie added. 

	"Look around you, gentlemen," Laytron said darkly. "We hit Cartao with ten gunships and four hundred fifty officers and men. I'm the last officer still alive, and I have exactly two hundred thirty-three troops - and no vehicles-left to work with. Balance that against probably two thousand functional combat droids, plus STAPs and battle tanks, and you're talking seriously poor odds. I'm cut off from higher authority, and I can't legally justify taking action on my own without a reasonable chance of success. That chance doesn't exist." 

	"So you're not even going to try?" Binalie demanded. 

	"I'm sure reinforcements are on the way," Laytron said. "When they arrive, my men and I will be right there fighting beside them. Until then, there's nothing I can do except hope that Roshton's people can hold out." 

	"What if we lower our expectations a little?" Tories suggested. 

	"Instead of defeating the Separatists, how about if we just get Roshton and his people out?" 

	"Leaving the place open for the Separatists to move in?" The lieutenant shook his head. "I'm sorry, but our mission parameters were very specific on that point." 

	"Then you condemn those troops and civilians in there to death," Binalie shot back, starting to sound angry. "Roshton won't surrender - he's too stubborn for anything that sensible. Do your mission parameters have anything to say about that!" 

	"We understand your orders, Lieutenant," Tories said, throwing Binalie a warning look. "But what if the Separatists didn't know Roshton's people had escaped?" 

	The other's eyes narrowed. "Explain." 

	"I'm sure you came here equipped with a map of the area," Tories said. "Do you remember how Spaarti Creations is laid out? A central manufacturing plant, plus three underground Outlinks two to five kilometers away for storage and product transfer?" 

	"All of them connected to the main plant via underground tunnels," Laytron said, nodding. "Unfortunately, the Separatists have the same maps we do. They've got the Outlinks and their tunnels covered." 

	"Actually," Tories said, "they don't." 

	He lifted his eyebrows at Binalie. The other still wasn't happy about this, Tories could tell, but he'd made up his mind to go through with it. 'The fact is, Lieutenant, that the maps are wrong," Binalie said. "We've actually built a fourth Outlink, west and a little south of the plant and about two kilometers away. It's not quite ready yet, which is why it's not on any of the official maps. But the Outlink structure itself is built." 

	"More to the point, so is the connecting tunnel," Tories said "The only thing missing is the opening into the main complex itself." 

	"Which a lightsaber-equipped Jedi could easily remedy," Laytron said, sounding thoughtful. 

	"Exactly," Tories agreed. "If you can stage some kind of diversion to draw the roving patrols away from that part of the grounds, I should be able to slip in and get Roshton's people out without the Separatists being any the wiser." 

	"Interesting idea," Laytron agreed. "You have any particular diversion in mind?" 

	"We were hoping you could come up with something," Tories said. 

	"I'm sure you have a better grasp of the military situation than either of us do." 

	"Well, there's one obvious possibility," Laytron said. "With their control ship destroyed, they have to be running their droid army off the secondary control matrix they brought down here with them. If we threaten that, they'll have no choice but to respond." 

	"Good idea," Binalie grunted. "Question is, where is it?" 

	"It's not in one of the battle tanks or MTT transports," Laytron said. 'There's only so much miniaturization you can do with something like that. It therefore has to be in one of the landing ships." 

	"Unless it's not even in this area," Binalie pointed out. "There are about a million square kilometers of empty space out there where they could have hidden it." 

	"No," Laytron said, shaking his head. 'There's no combat droid presence anywhere else on the planet, at least nothing serious. Neimoidians aren't nearly daring enough to leave something that important lying around without a full defense screen around it. No, it's definitely in one of the landing ships. Question is, which one?" 

	An image flashed back to Tories' memory: hurrying through the darkness across the plant rooftop, noticing the STAPs circling the first landing ship that had put down by the plant's west door. "It's in the first one," he said. 'The one sitting right beside the plant." 

	"How do you know?" Laytron asked, frowning. 

	"It was under heavy guard during the battle last night," Tories told him. "If the Neimoidians are as nervous as you say, they'd certainly want it where their ground forces can protect it at the same time they're protecting the plant." 

	"Besides, the plant's the one place on Cartao both sides are intent on protecting," Binalie agreed. "I think Jedi Tories is right." 

	"I suppose," Laytron said doubtfully. 'That's going to make for a much trickier diversion, though. The Outlink isn't all that far from the siege line around the plant, and from what you said it sounds like the tunnel passes almost directly beneath the landing ship." 

	"Are you saying there's no way to do it?" Binalie asked. Laytron smiled tightly. "Not at all," he said. "When did you want to start this operation?" 

	"As soon as possible," Tories said. "It would be nice to get to them while they still have the strength to walk out under their own power." 

	"Fine," Laytron said, waving over one of the clone troopers."This afternoon, just before sundown, then. I suggest, Master Tories, that you be ready." 

	"Master Tories?" Corf's voice called softly. "It's time." 

	Tories blinked his eyes open, letting the Jedi meditation trance fade away into the corners of his mind. Corf was standing over his cot, a pinched look on his face. 'Thank you, Corf," Tories said, yawning and stretching his arms and hands. "Where's your father?" 

	"He left with Master Doriana and that Republic lieutenant about an hour ago," Corf said. "Dad said you were supposed to meet him at Outlink Four." 

	"I know," Tories said, glancing at his chrono. Still early. Plenty of time for a nice casual stroll through the woods west of Spaarti Creations. "How are you holding up?" 

	The boy shrugged. "Okay, I guess," he said. "A little worried."  

	"No need for that," Tories assured him. "I'll make sure your father stays clear of the fighting." 

	"I know," Corf said. "Dad promised me that, too. I'm mostly worried about you." 

	"I'll be fine," Tories said, smiling. "I'm a Jedi, remember?"  

	"Oh, that's right," Corf said. He tried to smile in return, but his heart clearly wasn't in it. "I forget sometimes." 

	"Well, don't," Tories admonished him lightly as he tucked his lightsaber inside his robes. "Stay out of sight and trouble, and I'll see you later." 

	"Okay," Corf said; and to Tories' surprise, he stepped forward and gave the Jedi a quick hug. "Be careful." 

	Tories had spent part of the day wondering about Laytron's seemingly casual choice of timing for the operation. It was only as he slipped off the Binalie estate and made his way westward through the edge of Foulahn City that he realized the timing hadn't been nearly as random as he'd first thought. At sunset, most of the enemy forces surrounding Spaarti would have to face directly into the setting sun to see Roshton's quiet exit from Outlink Four. Even droid optical sensors had trouble with direct sunlight, and Tories' estimation of the young lieutenant had gone up as he realized the young man had taken that weakness into account. 

	Twice along the way, Tories had to take quick cover as a pair of droids on wide picket marched past. But he'd planned for possible delays when he'd scheduled his wake-up call, and he reached the flat, sod-covered roof of Outlink Four with time to spare. 

	Binalie was waiting beneath a cluster of trees, along with a pair of armored clone troopers. "Master Tories," Binalie greeted the Jedi, his voice and sense tight with nervous anticipation. 

	"Anyone see you?" 

	"No one shot at me, anyway," Tories told him, eyeing the camouflaged roof. "We aren't going to have to raise the whole roof to get in, are we?" 

	Binalie shook his head. 'There's a service stairway along the side." 

	"Then let's get to it," Tories said, peering into the sky. A dozen STAPs were circling in the east, patrolling the sky over the plant and the landing ship beside it. 

	"Shouldn't we wait for the diversion to start?" Binalie asked. 

	"We can't afford to," Tories said. "We'll need every bit of diversion time just to move all those people out of the plant." 

	"You're right." Binalie took a deep breath, and set off across the open ground. "Follow me." 

	The section of roof over the service stairway swung open with gratifying speed and silence. Binalie led the way down the steps, then waited at the bottom for the others to catch up before using the small control panel attached to the railing to seal the top again. "All the wiring is in place," he said as he flicked on a pair of glow rods and handed one to Tories. "But I thought running any power in here, even just enough to handle the lights, might be risky." 

	"Good point," Tories agreed, turning to the clone troopers. "You two stay here and guard the exit," he ordered. 

	"Acknowledged," one of them said. 

	Tories nodded, and he and Binalie set off at a quick jog down the empty tunnel. Ten minutes later, they reached the other end. 

	"There should be a set of pumps right here, and the intake for the tunnel's ventilator system about here," Binalie said, pointing out spots to the left and right of the wall. "It would make this operation a whole lot cheaper if you could manage to miss both of them." 

	"I'll do my best," Tories said, igniting his lightsaber. Pushing the tip of the blade carefully through the center of Binalie's indicated safe zone, he began to cut. 

	A minute later had carved a man-sized rectangle. Closing down the lightsaber, he stretched out with the Force and deftly pulled away the half-meter-thick section of wall. 

	To find himself gazing down the muzzles of a half dozen blaster rifles. "Commander Roshton?" he called. 

	The muzzles instantly lifted. "About time," Roshton said, stepping into view in front of his troops, a grim look on his face. He was equipped for action, Tories noted, wearing his usual clone trooper comlink headset and a pair of bolstered blasters on his belt.. "I was starting to wonder if you'd been caught." 

	"What are you talking about?" Binalie asked. "We're right on time." 

	"You're two minutes late," Roshton corrected tartly. "If Lieutenant Laytron is on schedule, the diversion will be starting in fourteen minutes. We want to be already moving people out the other end of the tunnel by then." 

	"Then we'd better get started," Tories said. "Your people ready to move?" 

	In answer, Roshton lifted a hand. The clone troopers who'd been pointing their rifles at Tories lifted the weapons into carry position across their chests and passed single-file through the newly made opening. Reforming into ranks of three, they set off down the tunnel at a quick jog. They were followed by another squad of six, and another, and another. "What about the techs?" Tories asked as the fifth batch of troopers jogged past him. 

	"When will they be coming through?" 

	"When we've got enough firepower at the other end to protect them," Roshton grunted, stepping through himself and giving Binalie a nudge. "Come on, both of you. Our turn to move." The clone troopers who'd gone on ahead of them were waiting at the far end of the tunnel when Tories, Binalie, and Roshton arrived. 'Two minutes to go," the commander said, consulting his chrono. "What's cover like up there?" 

	Binalie opened his mouth to answer - "Open space for three meters to the north, twenty meters to the south," one of the clone troopers they'd left behind on guard duty spoke up. 'Tree cover begins five meters to the east and remains intermittent." 

	"Not perfect, but it'll do," Roshton decided. "Line up on the stairway. Lord Binalie, is there any trick to operating the exit door?" 

	"The controls are right there," Binalie said, pointing to the panel, his tone suddenly sounding strange. "But-" 

	"But what?" Roshton demanded, glaring at him. 

	Binalie threw a quick, ambiguous glance at Tories. "Nothing," he muttered. "It'll keep." 

	"Fine." Roshton looked up the stairway as his troopers headed up. "Get in position," he called softly. "We break cover at the sound of the first shot." 

	"Two minutes to go," Lieutenant Laytron said, consulting his chrono. "All squads, report by number." 

	He fell silent, listening intently to the reports coming in over his headset. Doriana found himself gazing off to the north, across the open grassland and the picket line of combat droids standing guard there. The force was largely a token one, of course, since there were no doors or windows on the southern side of the plant. The main droid army, plus all their remaining AAT battle tanks, was concentrated around the more vulnerable eastern, western, and northern approaches. 

	But even a single person or machine on that forbidden stretch of lawn was anathema to the Cranscoc twillers who were the actual heart of the Spaarti operation. They were probably still twitching their indignation, in fact, over all those droids standing around out there. But of course, the Separatist commanders didn't care about that. 

	On the other hand, since the plant's tooling was still set for the cloning cylinders the Republic forces had been sent to Cartao to manufacture, Roshton probably didn't much care if the twillers were upset, either. Two huge political systems, locked in a massive battle of wills and weapons and death, completely oblivious as to how their actions affected those around them. But those actions frequently involved a lot of unexpected collateral damage. That was a lesson someone was going to learn today. 

	"One minute," Laytron said. "Stand ready." 

	Doriana took a deep breath, willing calmness into himself. He had carried out his part of the plan, he knew, maneuvering both sides to precisely the right place and the right time. The rest was now out of his hands, and he could feel the churning sense of frustration that always came upon him at times like this. 

	"And... go." 

	With the multi-level roar of a dozen different engine models, a dozen commandeered civilian landspeeders leaped into view from concealment among the hills dotting the landscape, each loaded with anywhere from four to eight clone troopers. Quickly, they maneuvered around their hills to form an attack line on the southern edge of the grassland. Then, as the enemy pickets and the high-flying STAPs seemed to take notice, the engine pitches changed, and the vehicles set off at full speed toward the plant. 

	"Stand by, cover fire," Laytron ordered. The STAPs were swooping in to the attack, their twin blasters spitting fire at the landspeeders. Ahead of the advancing landspeeders, the picket forces were drawing inward to form a solid counterline between the clone troopers and the plant. Their blasters opened up, too, searching for the range... 

	"Fire," Laytron said. 

	The tops of a dozen nearby hills suddenly blurred as camouflage covers were thrown off and heavy weapons scavenged from damaged gunships and AATs were swung around to bear on the enemy. Laser cannon bolts sizzled across the incoming STAPs, destroying half a dozen in the first salvo and sending the rest twisting away into evasive maneuvers. A pair of missiles streaked from one of the hills to hit the droid counterline dead center. When the smoke, dust, and purple afterimage of the explosion cleared from Doriana's sight, there was nothing left of the picket line but a crater and a hundred smoking pieces of combat droid. 

	"Here they come," Roshton murmured, pointing to the east. Doriana shifted his eyes that direction. Three AAT battle tanks had appeared around the side of the building, laying down fire of their own as they lumbered toward the incoming landspeeders. 

	"They're too late," Doriana said, estimating distances and speeds. 

	"Absolutely," Laytron agreed as the hilltop covering fire shifted aim and began pummeling the AATs. "The fatal flaw of droid armies, Master Doriana: the soldiers actually on the scene can't think or anticipate." 

	Doriana smiled. "Which is why the Republic is going to win." 

	The battle tanks were still firing uselessly as the landspeeders reached the plant. Even before the vehicles came to a complete stop the clone troopers were leaping out, slinging their heavy rifles over their shoulders as they formed up beside the wall. The first two dozen to reach position lifted liquid-cable guns and fired upward. The grapplers caught the top edge of the rooftop, and a moment later, the soldiers were being reeled swiftly upward as their comrades held guard position beneath them. The remaining STAPs swung to this new threat, managing to kill two of the rising clone troopers before fire from the troopers below eliminated that threat. 

	The first wave reached the roof and scrambled up onto it, unslinging their rifles and setting up a defensive perimeter. The second wave was already halfway up the side of the building by the time they were in position, with the final wave just leaving the ground. 

	"And that's that," Laytron said with grim satisfaction as the clone troopers regrouped and started across the rooftop, weapons at the ready. "The Separatists can't fire on them without risking damage to the plant, but they'll be able to fire on the landing ship as soon as they're in range. Is that the sort of diversion you were thinking about, Master Doriana?" 

	Doriana smiled. "Yes, Lieutenant," he said softly. "That should do nicely." 

	The sounds of distant blaster fire were clearly audible as Tories emerged from the tunnel into the late afternoon sunlight. 

	"Sounds like it's started," he muttered to Binalie as the two of them raced for the trees where most of the clone troopers who had gone before them had already taken cover. "I just hope they can keep it up until everyone's out." 

	"Doesn't matter," Binalie said as they reached the trees. 

	"What do you mean, it doesn't matter?" Tories asked as they squatted beneath the cover of a wide-crested forlaline bush. 

	"That's the whole point of this exercise." 

	Binalie shook his head. "Maybe it was your point, and mine," he said, his voice tense. "But it wasn't Roshton's. He has no intention of getting those techs out." 

	"What are you talking about?" Tories demanded, frowning. 

	"Didn't you hear him?" Binalie countered. "Him and his soldiers? He asked about cover, and they gave him the stuff north, south, and east. They never said anything about cover to the west; and he never asked." 

	Tories blinked as the memory of that conversation flashed back to him. Binalie was right: Roshton hadn't inquired about conditions to the west. Yet west was the obvious direction for anyone fleeing the plant to go. 

	But if they weren't leaving... 

	His eyes flicked around, looking for Roshton, understanding suddenly stabbing into his stomach. He spotted the commander standing beside the tunnel entrance, gazing down the stairway as clone troopers continued to file out. 

	Tories rose to his feet and started toward him. He'd taken perhaps three steps when Roshton lifted a hand and pointed east. And suddenly, the army was on the move, blasters at the ready, running toward the landing ship towering above the treetops. The last of the troopers was passing Roshton when Tories caught up with him. "What are you doing?" he demanded, catching the commander's arm. "This was supposed to be a rescue mission." 

	"Out of my way, Jedi," Roshton snapped, shrugging off his arm. "Of course it's a rescue mission. It's a rescue of Lord Binalie's precious manufacturing plant." 

	"But..." 

	"No buts," Roshton cut him off, gesturing with his blaster. "This is our one chance to get into that landing ship and destroy the droid control matrix. You want to help, fine, we'd be glad to have you. If not, just get out of our way." 

	Tories looked back at Binalie, still crouching beside his bush, his face rigid with anger and fear and frustration. "Go back to the estate," he called to the other. "I'll meet you there." 

	Binalie's eyes flicked over Tories' shoulder toward the plant. 

	"Go," Tories repeated. 

	Binalie's expression still looked pinched, but he nodded. "All right." 

	He slipped away through the trees, and Tories turned back to Roshton. "I'll come with you," he said, pulling out his lightsaber. "But we will talk about this later." 

	"Sure," Roshton grunted. "Come on." 

	They headed off after the soldiers, dodging between trees and around bushes. Occasionally Tories caught a glimpse of white armor ahead of them, but the clone troopers were traveling at least as fast as they were and had a fair head start on top of it. "So what's the plan?" he asked Roshton. "The new revised plan, I mean." 

	"Laytron's got men up on the plant roof laying down fire," Roshton panted. 'The droids by the landing ship are currently trying to pick them off without damaging the plant. With luck, they should all have their backs to us when we hit them." Tories grimaced. And when they found their army in a crossfire, what would the Neimoidians controlling the droids do? Whatever they deemed necessary to defend themselves, including wrecking the Spaarti plant? Probably. 

	It was up to Tories to make sure that didn't happen. 

	"First elements have reached firing position," Roshton reported, pressing his headset tighter against his ear. "Following units are fanning out. If we're lucky, and they're not spotted-" He broke off, and Tories caught his breath as the volume of the firing ahead suddenly changed. 'They were," Roshton growled. 

	"All units: fire at will." 

	He leaped ahead, picking up his pace. "Spotted?" Tories asked, catching up with him. 

	"By one of the guards at the landing ramp," Roshton confirmed as weapons of a different pitch joined the sounds ahead. "But we've still got the advantage." 

	They ran another fifty meters through the forest. And then, suddenly, they were there. 

	Square in the middle of a pitched battle. 

	Roshton ducked into the partial cover of a nearby tree, his blaster already blazing away against the enemy. Tories stopped beside a tree of his own, trying to get a quick sense of the action. Two AAT battle tanks, which had been facing the door into the plant, were trying to turn around to deal with this new threat, their maneuvering slow and awkward as they fought the tangle of underbrush and heavy fire from two directions. Advancing briskly toward Roshton's group of clone troopers were three ranks of super battle droids supported by a few D60 assault droids. The whole line was taking considerable damage, but was still coming. 

	The tanks, Tories decided, were his first priority. "I'm going in," he called to Roshton over the noise, pointing toward the tanks. "Cover me." 

	"Right," Roshton shouted back as Tories ignited his lightsaber. 

	"All units: cover fire left!" 

	The rain of fire from the clone trooper blasters abruptly changed focus, concentrating all their fury on the left flank of the advancing forces and blowing the droids on that side into a chaos of shards and rubble and smoke. Gathering his feet beneath him, Tories ducked under the friendly fire and dodged around the end of the disintegrating enemy line. 

	The droids in the AATs saw him coming, of course. Even as their primary laser cannon began chewing up the landscape along the right flank of the Republic forces, the short-range defensive blasters on either side of the main air-cooling intake began firing at him. Tories' lightsaber flashed in answer, deflecting the bolts away or bouncing them into the backs of the advancing droids whenever he could manage it. 

	He reached the nearest AAT and jumped up onto the front. Positioning himself in front of the air intake where he was out of reach of both defensive blasters, he stabbed his lightsaber downward through the heavy armor into the forward repulsor disk. The vehicle pitched forward, its nose slamming into the ground like a quadruped that had had both front legs kicked out from under it. Tories leaped straight up as it dug itself half a meter into the dirt, landing just in front of the top hatch, and with three quick slashes sliced off the primary laser cannon and the two side-mounted secondary laser guns. 

	The second AAT had abandoned its attack on the clone troopers and had swung to this new threat. For a moment Tories stayed where he was, balancing on the now badly sloped top of the grounded battle tank as he deflected a couple of shots from the second tank's defensive blasters. One of the bolts went straight back down the blaster's muzzle, eliciting a burping sort of explosion from the weapon. Taking advantage of the momentary chaos inside the tank, Tories stretched out to the Force and made a giant leap across to the second tank, dealing with its primary and secondary lasers as he had with the first. Leaning over the hatch, he swung his lightsaber one more time, cutting off the vehicle's command receiver antennas. 

	A droideka appeared from around the landing ramp, bouncing a lit tle as it rolled across the uneven ground. Stretching out to the Force, Tories lifted one of the two secondary laser guns he'd cutoff the first AAT and sent it flying into the center of the wheel shape. There was a screech of stressed metal, and the droideka came to an abrupt halt. For another second it held position, its micro-repulsors fighting to keep it balanced. 

	Then, something inside it failed, and it toppled ignomin-iously over onto its side. 

	A stutter of multiple blaster fire sliced through the air over Tories' head. He ducked reflexively, turning to see a group of super battle droids disintegrating behind him. The friendly fire was coming from above, he saw, and he looked up to see a group of clone troopers firing from the edge of the Spaarti roof. He waved his thanks; in response, one of them jabbed a hand toward the landing ship base. 

	Tories shifted his eyes that direction. Another battle tank was lumbering down the ramp, clearly intent on joining the battle. He gave a quick acknowledging wave to the rooftop snipers, then jumped off the crippled vehicle he was still standing on and began to weave his way through the chaos toward the landing ship. If he could slip up onto the ramp beneath the tank, he might be able to take out its repulsorlift coils and disable it on the spot. 

	"Jedi!" 

	Tories paused, turning as the faint shout came to him over the noise of the battle. The advancing droids were closing on the Republic forces, considerably fewer now than had started, but still coming. The clone troopers didn't seem to need his help; but there'd been a definite note of urgency in that call. 

	"Jedi!" 

	This time he was able to get the direction of the shout, and he looked over to where Roshton was standing beside his tree. The commander was looking back at him, beckoning frantically toward himself. Frowning, Tories changed direction, lightsaber blazing as he again skirted the droid attack line to the relative safety of the trees. "What is it?" he called as he came within shouting distance of Roshton. 

	"Didn't you hear me?" Roshton shouted back. 'The Jedi!" 

	"What about me?" Tories demanded, thoroughly confused now. 

	"Not you." Roshton jabbed a finger skyward. "The Jedi. 

	"The Jedi have come." 

	"The Jedi?" Doriana demanded. 

	"You got it," Lieutenant Laytron said, a mixture of surprise, hope, and relief in his voice as he peered into the eastern sky. 

	"A whole assault transport full of them, the message said, heading in to help. We've got orders to pull back and give them room." 

	"But that's impossible," Doriana objected, watching the other's face carefully. "Where could they have come from?" 

	But if there was any doubt at all in Laytron's mind, none of it reached his face or voice. "I don't know, and I don't care," the younger man declared. "All units: pull back. Where?" He tilted his head upward. "Got it," he confirmed, pointing to the sky. Doriana followed the direction of his finger. There, in the distance, he could see a dark speck moving swiftly toward them. 

	"Hustle on that pull-back," Laytron ordered. 'They're on their way." 

	He grinned tightly at Doriana. "Now we're going to see some seri ous work." 

	Doriana didn't answer. On the near edge of the rooftop the clone troopers had made it back to their ascent lines and were sliding back down them toward the waiting landspeeders. The approaching air vehicle was growing steadily larger, and he could see now that it was indeed a Republic assault transport. 

	And as it grew closer, it opened fire. 

	Laytron inhaled sharply. "What are they doing?" he breathed. 

	"They're..." 

	"Aren't they firing on the landing ship?" Doriana asked. 

	"They're firing on the plant," Laytron snapped, pulling his headset voice pickup closer to his mouth. "Republic transport, cease firing on the plant. Repeat, cease firing on the plant!" 

	The only response was an intensification of the transport's fire, alternating now between the plant and the enemy STAPs swarming to engage it. For a long moment, the Republic and Separatist forces traded fire as the assault transport continued racing forward. 

	Then, without warning, the vehicle suddenly dipped off its approach. Doriana held his breath as the STAR attack was joined by blaster and laser bolts from the Separatist ground forces encircling the plant. The transport dipped even further... 

	And as Laytron reeled off a string of helpless curses, Doriana watched as it plunged straight through the plant's roof. 

	For what seemed like a small eternity, nothing happened. Then, with a horrible series of muffled explosions, whole sections of the roof blew skyward, scattering fragments all around like small erupting volcanoes. The building's walls followed, bulging and cracking and finally shattering into mudslides of rubble. Another, louder explosion echoed across the landscape, and through the roiling smoke and debris Doriana caught a glimpse of a fireball burning into the sky from the western side of the plant. 

	"They've stopped," Laytron said dully. 

	"What?" Doriana asked. 

	The lieutenant pointed wearily across the lawn. "The droids," he said. "They've frozen up. That last blast must have taken out the landing ship and control matrix." 

	"I see," Doriana said slowly. "Do we count this as a victory?" 

	Laytron snorted. "The Jedi might," he said bitterly. "Who knows how they think? But the rest of us certainly won't." 

	"To save the world," Doriana murmured the old cynic's saying, "we had to destroy it.'" 

	"That's about it." Laytron shook his head tiredly. "Come on. Let's go find Commander Roshton." 

	Lord Binalie said very little as the three of them walked across the littered floor, their boots crunching through the remains of what had once been Spaarti Creations. Corf, walking at his father's side, was even quieter. "I don't know what to say," Tories said softly as they came to a halt beside a mixed group of Cranscoc and human bodies. "Except that I'm very sorry." 

	"Of course you are," Binalie said, his voice under rigid control. "You're sorry, Commander Roshton is sorry, Master Doriana is sorry. I'm sure the entire Jedi Council would be sorry, too, if they would pause long enough in their search for someone to blame for their part in this." 

	He turned dead eyes on Tories. "What good is any of it?" 

	Tories shook his head. "None," he conceded. "I don't suppose there's any chance...?" 

	"That we can rebuild? With nearly all the twillers dead?" Binalie shook his head. "No. Not for another generation at least. And then only if we can get the Cranscoc to trust us again." 

	He turned away. "I certainly wouldn't if I were them. Trusting the word of a human is a stupid thing to do." 

	Tories winced. "I'm sorry," was all he could think of to say. 

	"I'm sure we'll see you later, Master Tories," Binalie said, not turning back around. 

	It was a dismissal. "Yes, of course," Tories said. "Good-bye, Lord Binalie. Good-bye, Corf." 

	Neither of them replied. With a sigh, Tories turned and trudged toward the broken wall where he and the others had come through into the ruined plant, his heart feeling like a lump of blackened and twisted hull metal within him. So, that was that. Despite all his efforts - despite even the efforts of the Republic and Separatist forces, for that matter-Spaarti Creations was gone. Destroyed by carelessness, stupidity, and arrogance. 

	The carelessness, stupidity, and arrogance of the Jedi. 

	He closed his eyes briefly against the depth of sadness washing through his soul. Losing the plant was bad enough, but for himself Tories had lost something far more valuable. Binalie was very clearly blaming him personally for the Jedi intrusion, despite the fact that he had had nothing to do with it. And while civility and politeness might eventually come back to their relationship, the trust and friendship that had once been there would probably never return. 

	And Corf, who had once looked on the old Jedi Guardian with the respect and awe usually accorded to the greatest of heroes, now hated him. And would probably continue to do so for the rest of his life. 

	He reached what was left of the wall and picked his way over the rubble, an edge of anger stirring through the well of sadness. The Jedi Council could claim as loudly as it wanted that it knew nothing about what had happened here today. But there had been Jedi robes and broken lightsabers among the assault transport's wreckage-Tories had seen them with his own eyes. Someone on Coruscant knew where those Jedi had come from, and who exactly had sent them. 

	One way or another, Jedi Guardian Jafer Tories was going to track that person down. 

	The hooded face of Darth Sidious blinked into view above Doriana's holoprojector. "Report." 

	"The operation has been successful, my lord," Doriana said. "The Spaarti Creations plant has been destroyed." 

	"And the Jedi?" 

	"As far as the public is concerned, the blame rests entirely on their shoulders," Doriana said. 

	"Excellent," Sidious said with satisfaction. "Has anyone expressed interest in examining the assault transport?" 

	"Commander Roshton suggested it should be done," Doriana said. "But it was a half-hearted remark, focused mainly on seeing whether they could identify who had been aboard from the designs of the various lightsabers in the wreckage." 

	"Encourage him to continue along that line," Sidious ordered. "By the time he discovers that such an examination is a dead-end, all evidence of the transport's remote-control system will have vanished into the scrap recyclers. " He smiled thinly. "One of the many small advantages of dealing with Jedi, Master Doriana. With a few small props-a robe, a lightsaber, an unrecognizable body-you can easily create the illusion of a fallen hero." 

	"Indeed, my lord," Doriana agreed. "I presume the remote operator himself will be leaving Cartao soon?" 

	"He is already gone." There was a pause, and Doriana had the sense of those unseen eyes probing his face. "You still disapprove of this operation, don't you?" 

	"I don't disapprove, my lord," Doriana hastened to assure him. "But I am still puzzled. Why deliberately destroy Spaarti? It could be of immense service to the Separatists. Why not keep it intact for experimentation and manufacture?"

"Because by its very nature it is indefensible," Sidious told him. 'The Republic might instead gain hold of it and could utilize it with equal devastation against us." 

	He shook his head. "No, Master Doriana. With a wild card of this potential, it's far better to take it off the table entirely." He smiled again. "Especially when other long-term advantages can be squeezed from it." 

	"That part was most definitely a success," Doriana agreed, nodding. "I don't think Jedi are going to be very welcome on Cartao for a long time to come. Certainly not if Lord Binalie has anything to say about it. Even Tories, who had become something of a hero among the people in all this, is pretty well finished." 

	"And as the economic ripples of Spaarti's destruction spread through that region, so will that attitude," Sidious said. 'The destruction of the Jedi will be only half a victory if the people of the galaxy mourn their loss. Thanks to your work there today, few in Prackla Sector will shed a even tear at their passing." 

	"Absolutely," Doriana said, nodding. "Have you further orders, my lord?" 

	"No," Sidious said. "Stay long enough to clean up any final details, then you may report back to your post on Coruscant." The other's head tilted slightly. "One other matter. The reports I saw indicated that the clone cylinders created during the Republic's time in the plant were destroyed in the attack. Is that true?" 

	"No, my lord," Doriana said. "They were stored in one of the Outlinks several kilometers away from the main complex and made it through undamaged. Supreme Chancellor Palpatine has instructed me to transport them secretly to an old underground fortress on Wayland that he recently reactivated." 

	"Really," Sidious said thoughtfully. "How many are there?" 

	"Several thousand." Doriana hesitated. "If you'd like, I could arrange for them to be lost." 

	Sidious pursed his lips in thought, and Doriana held his breath. It would be easy enough for him to sabotage the transport of the cylinders in transit, of course, or even before they left Cartao. The problem was that with so few people in on the secret, that kind of action would open him up to a dangerously high risk of discovery. Still, if Sidious wanted it done... 

	But the Sith lord shook his head. "Don't bother," he said, his lips twisting contemptuously. "A few thousand extra cloning tanks will hardly make a difference to the war effort. Let Palpatine have his little trophies." 

	Quietly, Doriana let out his breath. "Yes, my lord." 

	"I'll contact you soon," Sidious continued. "Once again, well done. The plan continues to move forward." 

	"And I look forward to its completion," Doriana said. "Farewell, Lord Sidious." 

	Sidious smiled. "Until next time, Master Doriana." 

	The End 

	

Star Wars 

Short Story Collection

EQUIPMENT

by Matthew Stover



###############################################################################

A Personal Account of the Sub-orbital Action at Haruun Kal, as reported by Auxiliary Heavy-Weapons Specialist CT-6/774.

We popped out of hyperspace above the plane of the ecliptic. Al'har's light was brilliant yellow. Haruun Kal was a bright blue-green crescent.

Two asteroid belts sparkled yellow among the black-and-white starfield: one beyond Haruun Kal's orbit, vast and old, spreading toward the gas giants that swung through the outer system, and a smaller, younger belt in orbit around the planet itself: remnants of what once had been the planet's moon.

I snugged my helmet and checked my armor's life-support parameters, then dogged the transparisteel hatch of the bubble turret.

My helmet's speakers crackled softly. "Comm check," Lieutenant Four-One said.

The Lieutenant's our pilot. The 2nd Lou, cl-33/890, handles nav. He checked in with a "Nav is go." I reported my turret as go, and my port-side partner, ct-014/783, did the same from his.

The Halleck swung down out of interstellar space and inserted into planetary orbit almost halfway out to the moon-belt, more than ten thousand klicks from the surface. Intel had reported a rumor that Haruun Kal might have a small number of planetary-defense ion cannons, and a medium cruiser is a very large target.

Just before we lit engines and lifted out of the Halleck's ship bay, I clicked my comm over to the dedicated turret-freq. "Take care of the equipment, Eight-Three." My partner answered the way he always does: "And the equipment will take care of us, Seven-Four."

That's how we wish each other luck.

The mag-screen de-powered. The ship bay's atmosphere gusted out toward the star in a billow of glittering ice crystals.

Blue-white pinpoints fanned out before us: ion drives of our starfighter escort.

The transparisteel of my bubble-turret hummed with sympathetic resonance as one of the Jadthu-class landers undocked and followed them, then it was our turn.

Our flight leader took point. We sucked ions on left wing. Five gunships left the Halleck.

None would come back.

Take care of your equipment, and your equipment will take care of you.

That's one of the first things they teach us in the creche-schools on Kamino.

Even before we're awake. By the time we are brought to consciousness for skillsdevelopment, the knowledge pumps have drilled "Take care of your equipment" so deeply into our minds that it's more than instinct. It's practically natural law.

We live or die by our equipment.

I am a clone trooper in the Grand Army of the Republic.

My designation is ct-6/774. I serve on a Republic close-assault gunship. I am the starboard bubble-turret gunner.

I love my job. We all do; we're created for it.

But my job is special. Because my partner-ct-014/783, the port bubble-turret gunner-and I are the ones who take care of the equipment.

Our weapons platform, the RHE LAAT/i, is an infantry-support weapon. We soften up and harass the enemy; our targets are bunkers, armored vehicles, mobile artillery, and enemy footsoldiers. When our infantry brothers need to get to the enemy, we're the ones who blast down the door.

Our job-me and Eight-Three, the bubble-turret gunners-is to handle everything that comes up against us. Each turret is a sphere of transparisteel that tracks along with our cannons; my partner and I also each control a launcher loaded with four short-range air-to-air rockets. If anything comes at us, we shoot it down.

That's what I mean about taking care of the equipment.

Let's say we're cracking a hardened bunker on a desert planet. We come in low over the dunes, pumping missiles and cannonfire against the target emplacement.

Let's say you're operating an anti-aircraft cannon half a klick away, and you open fire on us. The pilot and the navigator don't even have to look up. Because I'm there.

Go ahead and take your shot. You won't get two.

Fire a missile at us. I'll blast it to scrap. Launch a proton grenade. I'll blow your head off. Make an attack run riding a speeder bike. But make out your will, first.

Because if you attack us, I will take you out.

That's what I do.

I love my job, and I am very, very good at it.

I have to be: because sometimes my gunship has to do things it's not designed for. That's how it goes when you're fighting a war.

Like at Haruun Kal.

We were assigned to the Republic medium cruiser Halleck, on station in the Ventran system. A regiment of heavy infantry, twenty Jadthu-class landers, an escort of six starfighters.

And us: five rhe LAAT/i-s.

We weren't supposed to know why we were there, naturally; just as naturally, we knew anyway. It was clear this would be a VIP extraction on a hostile planet.

It wasn't hard to figure. Those Jadthu-class landers are basically just flying bunkers. They go in fast, land, then stand there and take a pounding until it's time to take off again. Nothing but armor, engines, two heavy laser turrets and an Arakyd Caltrop-5 chaff gun. They're plenty fast in a straight line, but they are the opposite of nimble. There is no evasive action in a Jadthu.

The Halleck had twenty of them: that meant the landing-zone would be hot.

Maybe very hot. Maybe nova-class. The starfighters were for orbital cover. Suborbital and atmospheric cover was our job.

Ventran is on the Gevarno Loop, one of half a dozen systems linked by hyperspace lanes that run through Al'har. Haruun Kal is the only habitable planet in the Al'har system.

Haruun Kal is Separatist.

General Windu-that's Jedi Master Mace Windu, General of the Grand Army of the Republic and Senior Member of the Jedi Council-had gone dirtside on Haruun Kal, alone and undercover, tracking a rogue Jedi. Why had a General gone in personally? We didn't know. Why had he gone in alone? We didn't ask.

We didn't care.

It wasn't our business.

This is what we knew: If nothing went wrong, we wouldn't have anything to do.

We'd cruise our station in the Ventran system for a week or two, then jump back for reassignment.

Something went wrong.

Our business was to get General Windu out again.

The moon-belt was where they were hiding. Waiting for us.

The whole system was a trap.

They must have been there for weeks, powered down, clamped to drifting asteroids.

Undetectable. Waiting for a Republic ship to enter orbit.

Which the Halleck had just done.

Against the glittering weave of the belt, they were close enough to invisible that I couldn't pick them out until Lt. Nine-Oh muttered from nav: "Hostiles incoming.

On intercept. But not for us, sir! They're after the Halleck!" Lt. One-Four: "How many, nav?" 

"Calculating. No. Sorry, sir. No hard numbers available. Sensors keep picking up more." 

"How many so far? What are we looking at?" 

"Acceleration and drive output profiles indicate starfighters. Droid starfighters, sir." Automated weapons systems directed by sophisticated droid brains.

"Probably Geonosian. So far, I'm reading sixty-four." 

"Sixty-four!" 

"Strike that. Ninety-one. One-oh-five. One-twenty-eight, sir." One hundred and twenty-eight droid starfighters streaked toward us: a vast array of crescent sparks haloed by blue-white ion scatter. Faster, more maneuverable, and more heavily armed than anything in our little twelve-ship flotilla-and the droid brains piloting those starfighters have reflexes that operate at the speed of light.

And the Halleck was directly in their path.

"Hear that, turrets? This will be hot space. Repeat: we are entering hot space." 

"Starboard reads, sir," I told him as I charged my cannon. "And I am go." 

"Port reads, sir. Go." 

"Signal from the Halleck, sir!" Nine-Oh said. "Recall: All ships abort. The Halleck is under attack-she's all alone back there, sir!" 

"Not for long." Lt. Four-One spun our ship through a spiral that whipped us around and aimed us back toward the Halleck. The cruiser was a star-specked wedge of shadow transiting the grid of droid starfighter drive-streams. Now turbolasers started blasting out from that shadow toward the grid; from here the huge particle beams looked like hairlines of blue light. I worked my pedals and swung the fire-control yoke so that the turret's servo-boom angled my weapon to bear on the grid-formation of starfighters.

I knew Eight-Three was doing exactly the same.

"Fire at will, turrets." They were still far beyond the effective range of my cannon. I squeezed the yoke anyway. Even through my armored gloves, the hum of the yoke buzzed up my arms as four arcs of electric blue energy joined in front of the cannon's oval reflector-shield, then flashed away through the vacuum. I held the triggers down. Concentrating on evading the Halleck's turbolasers, a droid starfighter might just blunder into one of my shots by accident. You never know.

The grid formation began to break up as the droids took evasive action. Our own starfighters-all six of them-flashed past us in pairs that swung and scissored and looped into battle.

We made for the Halleck as fast as our external drives could push us. Our gunship was never intended to dogfight against starfighters. That didn't stop us. It didn't slow us down. But we never got there.

They came out of nowhere.

The first I knew of the new ambushers was when our ship shuddered under multiple cannon-blasts. A droid starfighter flashed past not thirty meters from my turret. I twisted my yoke and the turret spun and my bolt caught one of the starfighter's aft control-surfaces. It broke up as it spun, but I didn't have time to enjoy the view because they were all over us.

Must have been at least half a wing: thirty-two ships. They were everywhere.

Four-one had our gunship spinning and whirling and dodging side to side: from the turret it looked like the whole galaxy was yanking itself in random directions around me. All I could do was hold on to my fire-control yoke and try not to hit friendly ships. My cannon sprayed green fire and I scored on at least five hits-two of them kills-but there were always more incoming.

I saw the lander crack open and then explode: huge chunks of its armor spun out like ship-sized shrapnel to crush two of the starfighters that had blasted it. I saw another LAAT/i drifting through a slow barrel-roll, its engines dark, sparks spitting out through the twisted blast-gap where its cockpit used to be. One of its bubble-turrets was shattered; in the other, a trooper struggled with the turret's access hatch. I never got a chance to see if that gunner made it out; another flight of enemy fighters swarmed around us, and I was too busy shooting to watch.

Then I felt a shock that bounced my turret. The spin of the galaxy changed, and I knew I was in trouble.

That last shock had been a cannon-blast hitting my turret's servo-boom. It had blown my turret right off the ship. Now it wasn't even really a turret anymore. It was just a bubble.

Spinning lazily, I drifted through the battle.

I didn't have any illusions about surviving. Turret-gunners don't wear repulsorpacks; no room in there. My emergency repulsorpack was back in the troop bay of my gunship. If my gunship even existed anymore.

From inside my slowly spinning bubble, I saw the rest of the battle. I saw the Halleck absorb blast after blast, until a pair of droid starfighters streaked in and rammed the bridge. I saw the other nineteen landers undock from the cruiser and lumber through the swarm of hostiles. I saw the cruiser streak away into hyperspace.

I saw landers peeled like meatfruit, spilling troopers into orbit. These were the heavy infantry and the rp troopers-the repulsorpack men. They knew they were going to die. So each and every one of them decided to die fighting. How do I know that?

They are my brothers. And that's what I would do.

The heavy infantry opened up on the droid starfighters with their handweapons and small arms; some of them scattered miniature minefields of magnetized proton grenades. Others had shoulder-fired light missile launchers. Some of the rp troopers had nothing but their dc-15 blaster carbines, which couldn't put much of a dent in a starfighter, so they used their repulsorpacks to deliberately move themselves into the paths of streaking enemy ships. At orbital combat speeds of thousands of kilometers per hour, a starfighter that strikes a combatarmored trooper might as well be flying straight into the side of an asteroid.

The landers did what they could to help us out; those chaff guns they carry shoot out huge clouds of durasteel fragments, intended to confuse enemy sensors and interfere with enemy cannonfire. Those fragments don't have the velocity to penetrate the armor of drifting troopers, but any enemy ship whipping through a cloud of them at a couple thousand kph just comes apart.

But the landers hadn't come out there to fight for us; General Windu had ordered the whole regiment down to the surface. I imagine you've already heard about the Battle of Lorshan Pass, and the firestorm in Pelek Baw, and everything else that happened planetside.

I wasn't in any of that.

Though I did fire the last shot in the orbital battle.

Most of the landers broke through, and pretty much all the droid starfighters followed them in. After that, things got pretty peaceful there in orbit.

Most of us were dead.

RP troopers flew from one drifting body to the next, gathering those who'd survived and salvaging life-support packs from the armor of the corpses. A couple of the rp troopers stopped by my bubble; they managed to halt my spin, but there wasn't much else they could do for me, and we all knew it.

I was headed down into the atmosphere.

That was when we saw the last of the starfighters, heading right toward us. It was pursuing what was, to me, the single most beautiful thing I should ever hope to see: battered, shot full of holes, one wing gone, limping along on a single engine at half-power, one bubble turret missing, the other smashed: an LAAT/i.

My LAAT/i.

Missiles exhausted, it was trying to hold off the droid starfighter with pinpoint fire from its antipersonnel turrets, without much luck.

But I had a surprise. Bubble turrets pack powercells to maintain weapon-charge for short periods if all enginepower is shunted to maneuvering.

I still had a couple of shots left.

The RP troopers who had stabilized me rotated my turret and steadied it for the shot, and I led the enemy ship and squeezed the fire-control yoke - And it flew right into my shot.

I enjoyed the explosion.

Between the RP troopers and my ship, we collected every single one of the drifting survivors. The gunship was in no shape for atmospheric flight, so we limped out to the moon-belt and docked on to an asteroid. The lieutenants put me in for a commendation.

Salvaged life-support packs kept us all breathing for two standard days-which was when the Republic task force arrived.

The first thing they did was pick up survivors.

Because we are equipment, too.

As long as the Republic takes care of us, we'll take care of it.

Our job-me and Eight-Three, the bubble-turret gunners-is to handle everything that comes up against us. Each turret is a sphere of transparisteel that tracks along with our cannons; my partner and I also each control a launcher loaded with four short-range air-to-air rockets. If anything comes at us, we shoot it down.

That's what I mean about taking care of the equipment.

Let's say we're cracking a hardened bunker on a desert planet. We come in low over the dunes, pumping missiles and cannonfire against the target emplacement.

Let's say you're operating an anti-aircraft cannon half a klick away, and you open fire on us. The pilot and the navigator don't even have to look up. Because I'm there.

Go ahead and take your shot. You won't get two.

Fire a missile at us. I'll blast it to scrap. Launch a proton grenade. I'll blow your head off. Make an attack run riding a speeder bike. But make out your will, first.

Because if you attack us, I will take you out.

That's what I do.

I love my job, and I am very, very good at it.

I have to be: because sometimes my gunship has to do things it's not designed for. That's how it goes when you're fighting a war.

Like at Haruun Kal.

We were assigned to the Republic medium cruiser Halleck, on station in the Ventran system. A regiment of heavy infantry, twenty Jadthu-class landers, an escort of six starfighters.

And us: five rhe LAAT/i-s.

We weren't supposed to know why we were there, naturally; just as naturally, we knew anyway. It was clear this would be a VIP extraction on a hostile planet.

It wasn't hard to figure. Those Jadthu-class landers are basically just flying bunkers. They go in fast, land, then stand there and take a pounding until it's time to take off again. Nothing but armor, engines, two heavy laser turrets and an Arakyd Caltrop-5 chaff gun. They're plenty fast in a straight line, but they are the opposite of nimble. There is no evasive action in a Jadthu.

The Halleck had twenty of them: that meant the landing-zone would be hot.

Maybe very hot. Maybe nova-class. The starfighters were for orbital cover. Suborbital and atmospheric cover was our job.

Ventran is on the Gevarno Loop, one of half a dozen systems linked by hyperspace lanes that run through Al'har. Haruun Kal is the only habitable planet in the Al'har system.

Haruun Kal is Separatist.

General Windu-that's Jedi Master Mace Windu, General of the Grand Army of the Republic and Senior Member of the Jedi Council-had gone dirtside on Haruun Kal, alone and undercover, tracking a rogue Jedi. Why had a General gone in personally? We didn't know. Why had he gone in alone? We didn't ask.

We didn't care.

It wasn't our business.

This is what we knew: If nothing went wrong, we wouldn't have anything to do.

We'd cruise our station in the Ventran system for a week or two, then jump back for reassignment.

Something went wrong.

Our business was to get General Windu out again.

The moon-belt was where they were hiding. Waiting for us.

The whole system was a trap.

They must have been there for weeks, powered down, clamped to drifting asteroids.

Undetectable. Waiting for a Republic ship to enter orbit.

Which the Halleck had just done.

Against the glittering weave of the belt, they were close enough to invisible that I couldn't pick them out until Lt. Nine-Oh muttered from nav: "Hostiles incoming.

On intercept. But not for us, sir! They're after the Halleck!" Lt. One-Four: "How many, nav?" 

"Calculating. No. Sorry, sir. No hard numbers available. Sensors keep picking up more." 

"How many so far? What are we looking at?" 

"Acceleration and drive output profiles indicate starfighters. Droid starfighters, sir." Automated weapons systems directed by sophisticated droid brains.

"Probably Geonosian. So far, I'm reading sixty-four." 

"Sixty-four!" 

"Strike that. Ninety-one. One-oh-five. One-twenty-eight, sir." One hundred and twenty-eight droid starfighters streaked toward us: a vast array of crescent sparks haloed by blue-white ion scatter. Faster, more maneuverable, and more heavily armed than anything in our little twelve-ship flotilla-and the droid brains piloting those starfighters have reflexes that operate at the speed of light.

And the Halleck was directly in their path.

"Hear that, turrets? This will be hot space. Repeat: we are entering hot space." 

"Starboard reads, sir," I told him as I charged my cannon. "And I am go." 

"Port reads, sir. Go." 

"Signal from the Halleck, sir!" Nine-Oh said. "Recall: All ships abort. The Halleck is under attack-she's all alone back there, sir!" 

"Not for long." Lt. Four-One spun our ship through a spiral that whipped us around and aimed us back toward the Halleck. The cruiser was a star-specked wedge of shadow transiting the grid of droid starfighter drive-streams. Now turbolasers started blasting out from that shadow toward the grid; from here the huge particle beams looked like hairlines of blue light. I worked my pedals and swung the fire-control yoke so that the turret's servo-boom angled my weapon to bear on the grid-formation of starfighters.

I knew Eight-Three was doing exactly the same.

"Fire at will, turrets." They were still far beyond the effective range of my cannon. I squeezed the yoke anyway. Even through my armored gloves, the hum of the yoke buzzed up my arms as four arcs of electric blue energy joined in front of the cannon's oval reflector-shield, then flashed away through the vacuum. I held the triggers down. Concentrating on evading the Halleck's turbolasers, a droid starfighter might just blunder into one of my shots by accident. You never know.

The grid formation began to break up as the droids took evasive action. Our own starfighters-all six of them-flashed past us in pairs that swung and scissored and looped into battle.

We made for the Halleck as fast as our external drives could push us. Our gunship was never intended to dogfight against starfighters. That didn't stop us. It didn't slow us down. But we never got there.

They came out of nowhere.

The first I knew of the new ambushers was when our ship shuddered under multiple cannon-blasts. A droid starfighter flashed past not thirty meters from my turret. I twisted my yoke and the turret spun and my bolt caught one of the starfighter's aft control-surfaces. It broke up as it spun, but I didn't have time to enjoy the view because they were all over us.

Must have been at least half a wing: thirty-two ships. They were everywhere.

Four-one had our gunship spinning and whirling and dodging side to side: from the turret it looked like the whole galaxy was yanking itself in random directions around me. All I could do was hold on to my fire-control yoke and try not to hit friendly ships. My cannon sprayed green fire and I scored on at least five hits-two of them kills-but there were always more incoming.

I saw the lander crack open and then explode: huge chunks of its armor spun out like ship-sized shrapnel to crush two of the starfighters that had blasted it. I saw another LAAT/i drifting through a slow barrel-roll, its engines dark, sparks spitting out through the twisted blast-gap where its cockpit used to be. One of its bubble-turrets was shattered; in the other, a trooper struggled with the turret's access hatch. I never got a chance to see if that gunner made it out; another flight of enemy fighters swarmed around us, and I was too busy shooting to watch.

Then I felt a shock that bounced my turret. The spin of the galaxy changed, and I knew I was in trouble.

That last shock had been a cannon-blast hitting my turret's servo-boom. It had blown my turret right off the ship. Now it wasn't even really a turret anymore. It was just a bubble.

Spinning lazily, I drifted through the battle.

I didn't have any illusions about surviving. Turret-gunners don't wear repulsorpacks; no room in there. My emergency repulsorpack was back in the troop bay of my gunship. If my gunship even existed anymore.

From inside my slowly spinning bubble, I saw the rest of the battle. I saw the Halleck absorb blast after blast, until a pair of droid starfighters streaked in and rammed the bridge. I saw the other nineteen landers undock from the cruiser and lumber through the swarm of hostiles. I saw the cruiser streak away into hyperspace.

I saw landers peeled like meatfruit, spilling troopers into orbit. These were the heavy infantry and the rp troopers-the repulsorpack men. They knew they were going to die. So each and every one of them decided to die fighting. How do I know that?

They are my brothers. And that's what I would do.

The heavy infantry opened up on the droid starfighters with their handweapons and small arms; some of them scattered miniature minefields of magnetized proton grenades. Others had shoulder-fired light missile launchers. Some of the rp troopers had nothing but their dc-15 blaster carbines, which couldn't put much of a dent in a starfighter, so they used their repulsorpacks to deliberately move themselves into the paths of streaking enemy ships. At orbital combat speeds of thousands of kilometers per hour, a starfighter that strikes a combatarmored trooper might as well be flying straight into the side of an asteroid.

The landers did what they could to help us out; those chaff guns they carry shoot out huge clouds of durasteel fragments, intended to confuse enemy sensors and interfere with enemy cannonfire. Those fragments don't have the velocity to penetrate the armor of drifting troopers, but any enemy ship whipping through a cloud of them at a couple thousand kph just comes apart.

But the landers hadn't come out there to fight for us; General Windu had ordered the whole regiment down to the surface. I imagine you've already heard about the Battle of Lorshan Pass, and the firestorm in Pelek Baw, and everything else that happened planetside.

I wasn't in any of that.

Though I did fire the last shot in the orbital battle.

Most of the landers broke through, and pretty much all the droid starfighters followed them in. After that, things got pretty peaceful there in orbit.

Most of us were dead.

RP troopers flew from one drifting body to the next, gathering those who'd survived and salvaging life-support packs from the armor of the corpses. A couple of the rp troopers stopped by my bubble; they managed to halt my spin, but there wasn't much else they could do for me, and we all knew it.

I was headed down into the atmosphere.

That was when we saw the last of the starfighters, heading right toward us. It was pursuing what was, to me, the single most beautiful thing I should ever hope to see: battered, shot full of holes, one wing gone, limping along on a single engine at half-power, one bubble turret missing, the other smashed: an LAAT/i.

My LAAT/i.

Missiles exhausted, it was trying to hold off the droid starfighter with pinpoint fire from its antipersonnel turrets, without much luck.

But I had a surprise. Bubble turrets pack powercells to maintain weapon-charge for short periods if all enginepower is shunted to maneuvering.

I still had a couple of shots left.

The RP troopers who had stabilized me rotated my turret and steadied it for the shot, and I led the enemy ship and squeezed the fire-control yoke - And it flew right into my shot.

I enjoyed the explosion.

Between the RP troopers and my ship, we collected every single one of the drifting survivors. The gunship was in no shape for atmospheric flight, so we limped out to the moon-belt and docked on to an asteroid. The lieutenants put me in for a commendation.

Salvaged life-support packs kept us all breathing for two standard days-which was when the Republic task force arrived.

The first thing they did was pick up survivors.

Because we are equipment, too.

As long as the Republic takes care of us, we'll take care of it.

Star Wars 

Short Story Collection

Duel

by Timothy Zahn



###############################################################################

The battle for this part of the city was over. The Republic's forces had lost.

They had lost very badly.

Commander Brolis woke suddenly from his uneasy sleep as the proximity alarm buzzed, his hands fumbling for his DC-15 blaster rifle. Wincing at the pain in his side, he raised his head from his chest and peered out through one of the gaping holes in the wall of the ruined building he'd taken refuge in.

The day had given way to early evening while he dozed. But with the remaining daylight, the glow of the fires blazing elsewhere in the city, and the weapons flashes from the battles still raging in the distance, there was more than enough light to see the squad of battle droids making their way across the remains of the town square toward him.

With a grunt of pain, Brolis forced himself to his feet. On one level, it seemed complete waste of time, both for the droids to keep attacking and for him to keep fighting them off. His entire force was dead now, the last two squads whittled away as they waited here in this ruined building for the reinforcements that had never arrived. It was just a matter of time, he knew, before they got him, too.

Except that they didn't want him dead. They wanted him alive; and they wanted him badly enough to keep sending in battle droids, hoping to catch him napping.

Not this time, though. As long as he had a charged blaster and the ability to pull trigger, he would continue to litter the ground with scorched droid parts.

A slight movement across the square behind the battle droids caught his eye, and Brolis grimaced. Eventually, of course, they would get tired of wasting droids and decide to end the game once and for all. And when they did, they had the ultimate game-ender waiting in the shadows: a hailfire droid, towering over the rubble on its two massive hoop wheels, its twin missile launcher pods pointing idly in his direction.

This particular droid had been fitted with the lower-strength anti-personnel missiles, he knew, so that it could take out the troopers without bringing the whole city down on top of it. Just the same, a single one of those missiles through the wall, and it would be all over.

But until then, Brolis had work to do. Hoisting the blaster rifle to his shoulder, he centered his sights on the first battle droid.

"Your weapon, put away." Brolis spun around, nearly losing his balance in his haste. The gruff voice had come from behind him, where there was nothing but rubble from the row of buildings that had been destroyed in the earlier fighting. This had to be some kind of trick.

If it was, it was a very good one. The creature standing there was short, with green skin, large eyes, and even larger ears. Leaning on a gnarled walking stick, he was dressed in the kind of simple robe worn by lower-class beings all across the Republic.

And somehow, he seemed familiar.

"Commander Brolis, you are?" the creature asked.

"Yes," Brolis said, frowning. "Who are you?" 

"The reinforcements you requested, I am," the creature said dryly. "Tell me: into the Fortress of Axion, you have penetrated?" Brolis grimaced. This was his reinforcements? "Briefly," he confirmed. "That's why the Separatists out there want me alive. They want to find out how we got in so they can plug that hole in their defenses." 

"Indeed." The creature smiled, his long ears flattening as he did so. "For that same reason do we also wish you alive. That is why I am here." He lifted his stick and pointed to the opening. "Aside, stand you. Deal with the droids, I will." Without waiting for permission, he hobbled forward. Brolis watched, his brain too frozen with bewilderment and the pain of his injuries to try to stop him. The creature paused just outside the gap, letting his stick drop to the ground and reaching a three-fingered hand in front of him. There was a flicker of motion, and a small cylinder seemed to jump into it from beneath his robe.

And with a snap-hiss, a brilliant green blade blazed into existence.

Brolis caught his breath as the memory finally clicked. Kamino-the embarkation of the Republic's clone army-a small creature distantly seen across the ordered ranks as he led the troops into the transports.

Reinforcements, indeed. This was Jedi Master Yoda himself.

Perhaps the approaching battle droids recognized him, too, or perhaps it was the sight of the lightsaber that turned their stealthy approach into a sudden full-fledged attack. But if they were hoping to overwhelm him with numbers, their strategy was a failure. Yoda never moved from the spot where he had planted himself, his swirling lightsaber blade deflecting away every one of the storm of blaster bolts coming toward him. Some of the shots ricocheted across the square to impact the ruins on the far side, but most reflected straight back to the droids themselves, shattering them into scrap metal.

Half a minute later, it was over. Brolis blinked in amazement, wondering if it was always that easy for Jedi.

And then, across the square, the hailfire droid stirred and began to roll forward.

"Look out!" Brolis called. "There's a-" The rest of his warning dissolved into a fit of painful coughing. But Yoda was already angling across the square away from him, lightsaber held ready as he slipped from one pile of debris to another. The hailfire shifted direction toward the small Jedi Master, swiveling to keep its missile launchers trained on him.

And then, midway between two stacks of rubble, Yoda stopped, facing the droid as if challenging it to a private duel. The droid stopped, too, and for a moment they seemed to be regarding each other. Then, almost delicately, the droid lowered its pods and sent a single missile sizzling through the air.

Brolis tensed, watching helplessly as the rocket streaked across the open space.

Jedi lightsabers, he knew, could defend quite well against the bolts from blasters or plasma weapons. But trying to block a missile that way would merely cause it to explode. If Yoda didn't do something fast, he was going to die.

Then, just as it seemed there was no chance left, Yoda leaped almost casually to the side. The rocket burned through the space he'd just vacated, exploding harmlessly a dozen meters behind him.

From somewhere deep inside the hailfire droid came an annoyed-sounding rumble, the first time Brolis had ever heard one make a noise like that. For a second or two it seemed to be pondering its next move. Then, in rapid succession, three more missiles burst outward, angling into a tight spread as they flew.

Yoda was ready. He leaped back toward his earlier position to let the first pass by, dropped flat onto the ground as the second shot over his head, then rolled and bounded upward in time to avoid the third. He landed on the ground, lifted his lightsaber again to ready position, and waited. Brolis strained his ears, listening for a clue as to what the droid would do.

And then, over the distance, he heard a series of calibration clicks. "Tracking lock!" he shouted toward Yoda.

His lungs heaved with a fresh coughing fit, and he could only hope the other had caught his warning. By activating the tracking system, the droid was setting its missiles to follow their target no matter what. Yoda's only hope now was to find cover before the missiles got a clean lock onto him.

But he remained where he was, waiting. Lowering its launchers again, the droid fired.

Again, Yoda leaped upward as the missile approached. But this time something was different. Instead of simply arcing into the air, he twisted his body into a dizzying set of spins, twisting back and forth like a gymnast performing a complicated aerial routine.

The effect on the missile was startling. It seemed to tremble as it flew, its nose shaking back and forth as if thoroughly confused. It shot past Yoda, still shaking, and continued on to explode across the square.

Brolis grinned tightly. It was the same sort of evasive jinking maneuver he'd seen starfighter pilots perform in order to shake off a target-locked missile. He'd never guessed that any being, even a Jedi Master, could duplicate such a technique on his own.

Neither, apparently, had the droid. Another growl rumbled across the square; and then, suddenly, it was rolling forward, filling the air with a fresh stream of missiles as it charged.

Yoda was already in motion, leaping and spinning, hitting the ground and bounding off again at unexpected angles, making himself an impossible target for even a hailfire's weaponry to tag. Brolis found himself wincing as missile after missile slipped harmlessly past the Jedi Master, shaking the ground and lighting up the square with distant detonations. One of the missiles, which looked like it couldn't possibly miss, somehow bent aside from its path just far enough to collide with another of the salvo, detonating both midway between Yoda and the droid.

And as that premature explosion momentarily blocked the droid's view, Yoda abruptly switched from defense to attack. He hurled his lightsaber toward the machine, the weapon spinning into the obscuring cloud of smoke from the missiles' collision and shooting out the other side.

But the intended target was no longer there. Even as the missiles had collided, the droid had skidded to a halt and reversed direction to roll rapidly backward across the square. The lightsaber blade sliced through the space where it had been; and as the weapon hesitated in midair, the droid fired another missile straight at it. At the last second, the lightsaber dodged out of its way, streaking back to safety in Yoda's hand. The missile itself shot harmlessly past to add yet another crater to the distant landscape.

With that the barrage ceased. For a few seconds Yoda and the droid again seemed to be staring at each other. Then, moving swiftly but warily, Yoda retraced his steps back to the broken building. "It just let you walk away?" Brolis asked, not quite believing it.

"Clever, this hailfire droid is," Yoda huffed as he stepped in through the opening and retrieved his walking stick. "Close enough to engage it in direct battle, it will not allow me. Nor in futile attacks will it expend all of its missiles. That is why it has stopped now, the situation further to assess." 

"So what do we do?" Brolis asked.

Yoda's ears flattened. "Allow it to destroy itself, we must," he said, closing down his lightsaber and gesturing behind Brolis. "Come." Brolis hadn't been to the rear of the ruined building for three days, not since he'd confirmed that there was no escape route there for him and his squad. He walked now past the scattered bodies of his troops, fighting against the pain of his injuries, wondering what exactly the Jedi Master had in mind.

He soon found out. Where once had been merely stacks of collapsed wall and ceiling material, there was now a small, Yoda-sized tunnel stretching back through the rubble. So that was how the other had appeared so unexpectedly behind him. "A series of large caverns there are, in the cliffs behind this part of the city," Yoda said. "Beyond them, my transport is." 

"Yes, I know about the caverns," Brolis said, frowning. The Jedi had stopped beside the entrance to the tunnel and was looking back at him. "I'm not sure I'm up to crawling that far," Brolis warned him, eyeing the tunnel. "My side-" He broke off as, suddenly, he found himself rising gently off the floor, turning over in midair, and floating head-first toward the tunnel. "But the caverns have no other exit," he added, determined not to show surprise or panic in front of this creature half his size, "so we decided they were of no strategic use to us." He frowned as he was deftly threaded into the narrow tunnel. "Or is there a way out that I don't know about?" 

"There is no way out," Yoda confirmed as they moved together down the tunnel.

"Through the side of the collapsed building, I came. But the droid will not know that." The tunnel was suddenly rocked by a terrific explosion from behind them. The piles of debris they were traveling through shook violently, the pressure wave sending a fresh surge of pain through Brolis's injuries. "What was that?" he gasped.

"The hailfire droid, it is," Yoda said, his voice sounding faint and distant through the pounding of the blood in Brolis's ears. "No longer, I fear, does it wish to take you alive. Now, I believe, it will be coming to kill." Another blast shook the tunnel. This time, as the shock wave washed over him, Brolis fell again into darkness.

He awoke to find himself lying beside a boulder, staring upward at a distant and dimly lit ceiling of rock. Rolling over carefully, he got up onto his knees and eased his eyes above the boulder.

He was in a vast, dome-shaped cavern, one of the group Yoda had mentioned just before the hailfire droid had attacked. Scattered around the floor were a handful of glowsticks, enough to show the Jedi Master standing by the cavern's side. He was slicing into the wall with his lightsaber beneath a wide band of rock that stretched up along the curved wall to the ceiling and down the other side, forming a sort of rough arch in the center of the cavern.

Brolis frowned up at the formation. He didn't remember any arch being there when he'd explored these caverns two weeks ago. Could his eyes be playing tricks on him?

He stiffened. Above the lightsaber's hum he could hear another sound: the creaking wheels of an approaching hailfire droid.

Which meant Yoda's plan had failed. Obviously, he'd hoped the droid would try to follow them and get itself stuck in the collapsed buildings long enough for him to cut an exit through the cavern wall. But with persistence and probably a few carefully placed missiles, the droid had managed to batter its way through the rubble, enlarge the entrance to the caverns, and chase them down.

It was approaching now. And they were trapped.

Yoda heard the sound, too. Closing down his lightsaber, he leaped across the cavern to land beside Brolis's boulder. "Ah-awake, you are," the Jedi said. "Good.

Be silent, now, and observe." Across the cavern, the hailfire rolled into view. Its cyclopean photoreceptor eye spotted Yoda at once, and it swiveled to face him. Missile pods aimed and ready, it continued forward.

It had reached the center of the cavern when, from beside the two ends of the stone arch, a pair of clone troopers suddenly rose from concealment behind boulders and opened fire.

Brolis's mouth dropped open in disbelief as the blaster fire raked across the droid. But his troops had all been killed in the fighting. Where in the world had Yoda found these men?

The droid responded instantly to the sudden new threat. Swiveling hard to its right, it fired a missile at the clone trooper there, then rotated to face the opposite direction and launched another at the second trooper. The missiles hit their targets dead-center and exploded.

With a horrendous double crack, the bottom sections of the arch blew apart.

Shock waves raced upward along the walls, shattering the arch into twin waterfalls of falling stone. The waves reached the top of the dome, and with a roar the rest of the arch and the entire center of the ceiling collapsed.

Burying the hailfire droid beneath a massive pile of rock.

And Brolis finally understood. There had been no soldiers, merely empty sets of armor animated by the same mysterious power that had earlier carried him through the tunnel. Yoda hadn't been trying to cut an exit with his lightsaber, but had instead been putting the finishing touches on a booby-trap of loosened rock that he knew would collapse under the droid's attack.

Just as he had promised, he had allowed the hailfire to destroy itself.

"Come, Commander," the Jedi Master said quietly. "Await us, my transport does."

Star Wars 

Short Story Collection

Storm Fleet Warnings

By Jude Watson



###############################################################################

Obi-Wan Kenobi and Anakin Skywalker were returning from a mission, heading back to the Temple by way of the Llon Nebulae. As they approached the Kronex spaceport, they had to reduce speed to minimum levels. Anakin drummed his fingers on the pilot seat. There was nothing worse than piloting an ultra-tweaked starfighter and having to go slow.

Ahead, three stray asteroids bounced on a wave of atmospheric disturbance.

Anakin pushed the throttle. He had only seconds before the asteroids were suddenly in front of him, careening crazily. He cut to the left, avoiding the first one, then zoomed right, just missing the second. Then he flipped over for a screaming dive and made a hard right for open space, missing the last asteroid by a comfortable twenty meters.

Within seconds his Master had drawn his own starfighter level with Anakin's.

Obi-Wan had given the asteroids a wide berth-exactly what he was supposed to do.

The comm unit crackled with his Master's dry tone. "You could have gone around them." 

"It was faster to go through them." 

"Ah. And what do you know about the Llon Nebulae, my young apprentice?" Obi-Wan prodded.

"Smaller cruisers are advised to proceed at minimum velocity. Atmospheric waves can appear without warning," Anakin said dutifully.

"And yet you decided to play 'chase the asteroid,'" Obi-Wan said sternly. "You're too old for these childish games." Anakin pressed his lips together. He couldn't explain to his Master that for him, testing his skills wasn't a childish game. It was a necessary release.

There was a wall between them now. He had done things he could not tell Obi-Wan. He knew things he could not say. The Clone Wars had ripped the galaxy apart. Times were difficult for all the Jedi, but Anakin knew he felt the darkness more than most. It was like a physical presence. It was as though he carried the weight of it in his body.

And so he pushed the darkness away with what had always helped him forget in the past. Speed. Physical training. His Jedi path.

Anakin glanced at his instruments and was suddenly alert. Ships were approaching from the rear. The skirmishes of the Clone Wars had reached every corner of the galaxy. It was always wise to check out your neighbors.

"Looks like large transports behind us," Anakin said.

"Unusual for such a large fleet to be traveling in such close formation," Obi-Wan observed.

Anakin flipped over in a fast roll, and Obi-Wan followed. They split up and paced the three asteroids, keeping them between their starships and the fleet.

Anakin watched the first line of ships approach. They were huge, sheathed in dull black durasteel and advanced weaponry. That wasn't unusual these days.

Even bulk freighters had to arm themselves now.

But these transports were too well designed to be bulk freighters, Anakin realized.

It wasn't obvious unless you studied the lines of the ship and the quality of the fittings.

"They look like they could be from the Kuat Drive Yards," Anakin said. "The proportions and the lines of the design..." 

"Look at the plating on the underside," Obi-Wan said. "Something is odd about it." Anakin followed the lines of the plating. His Master was right. Something was off. It took him several seconds to figure it out.

The Kuat Drive Yards...

"It must be the Storm Fleet," Anakin said.

The Jedi had recently learned that the Separatists had secretly put in an order for a heavily armored fleet of attack ships. Disguised as freighters so that they could travel secretly through the galaxy, they were actually outfitted with so much firepower that smaller planets were completely defenseless against them.

The Jedi hung back while the transports landed at the spaceport. Then they commed for clearance and docked at a landing bay close by.

"We'll never get in to investigate without a battle," Obi-Wan said, surveying the area quickly. "I've been to this spaceport with Qui-Gon, long ago. He has a friend who works here. A mechanic. He ended up here after a brilliant career on the Senate elite security team. He'll be able to help us." 

"Should we head to the mechanic shop, then?" Anakin asked.

A small smile flickered on Obi-Wan's face as he shook his head. "The cantina." Kronex was so large that it had a variety of cantinas. Obi-Wan chose the darkest and noisiest. A large holosign outside with missing letters proclaimed: CHEC WEAP NS AT DO R, but Anakin could see with one glance at the holstered blasters and vibroshivs tucked in belts that the directive was ignored by the clientele.

In a corner a tall being sat, an ale in front of him on the table. He wore a grimy scarf around his head, and his ten-fingered hands were permanently stained with grease. Large pouches underneath his hooded eyes gave him a sad air. He was so still he appeared to be almost asleep.

"That's your contact?" Anakin asked dubiously.

Obi-Wan and Anakin sat down at his table. "Can I buy you another?" Obi-Wan asked, indicating his mug of ale.

"Thank you, stranger, but two is my limit," the being said. His tone was friendly, but his sleepy eyes examined the two Jedi suspiciously.

"I don't remember you ever having limits, Fizz," Obi-Wan said.

Shaggy gray eyebrows rose. The movement seemed to cost the being a great deal of effort. "Everything changes. Everything goes. Including my memory. Do I know you?" 

"We've met," Obi-Wan said. "Perhaps you remember my Master, Qui-Gon Jinn." The being blinked twice, which for him was a substantial reaction. "Qui-Gon Jinn," he said slowly. "The best of the best." He heaved a sigh. "Gone now, like the best of them are. You must be Obi-Wan. You've grown up, I see. And you need a favor, no doubt." 

"A large fleet just landed in docking bays 1211 through 1222," Obi-Wan said.

"We'd like to know where they're going. And we don't want it known the Jedi are asking questions."

"I like that kind of favor. I don't even need to move." He took a small datapad from his pocket, checked it, and frowned. "No data. That means they have special clearance. But if you can't go in the front door, try the back." He pushed away his glass and stood. "Come with me." Fizz used his security card to get them into the service area. There, massive tanks pumped fuel to the receiving stations. With a wave at a fellow mechanic, Fizz used his card to access the control board. Quickly he punched in several numbers.

"That should do it." Fizz ambled toward the door that opened onto the hangar.

"The fuel gauge will tell them something's wrong, and they'll call a mechanic." The Jedi watched as Fizz grabbed a hydrospanner and approached the guard standing by the ramp. Fizz waved his arms. The guard checked a datapad at his waist belt. Fizz pointed to the ship, but the guard shook his head.

"He won't let him board," Anakin said. "Let's go." 

"Wait," Obi-Wan ordered.

The guard reached for a comlink. Fizz began to argue and, in a gesture so graceful it almost looked tender, reached out and tapped the guard behind the ear with the hydrospanner. The guard slumped to the floor.

Fizz didn't hesitate. With a surprising display of speed and strength, he leaped over the guard and raced up the ramp. They counted off the seconds, and Fizz reappeared. He streaked down the ramp, leaped over the guard again, accessed the service door, and grinned at them.

"The fleet is headed for the Cyphar system," Fizz said. "But I don't know why." 

"I do," Obi-Wan said grimly.

"So why are the Jedi so interested in bulk freighters?" Fizz asked. Then he held up a hand. "Don't tell me." 

"Perhaps one day we will need your help again," Obi-Wan said.

"No offense, young Obi-Wan," Fizz said. "But I hope you do not ask. I intend to wait out the Clone Wars in the cantina." They left Fizz at the entrance to the cantina and headed back to their starfighters.

"What is Cyphar, Master?" Anakin asked.

"A small but strategically located planet in the Mid-Rim," Obi-Wan answered.

"A coalition of Separatists is there right now, negotiating to establish a base. At least the Separatists are calling it negotiation. Threats are more like it." 

"So the fleet will orbit Cyphar during the talks in order to intimidate them," Anakin said. "Cyphar will fear an invasion if they don't comply." 

"I'm afraid that looks like the plan," Obi-Wan said.

"We must follow the Storm Fleet," Anakin declared.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "And do what?" 

"We can't just let them go!" 

"We will notify the Temple of what we have learned," Obi-Wan said. "They'll alert the Republic and try to send ships." 

"You know we are stretched thin," Anakin said. "Most likely there won't be ships to send. And we are here, now." 

"This is one small battle in a very large war, Anakin," Obi-Wan said. "The Council needs us for other things." Anakin set his jaw stubbornly. "And that is all right with you?" 

"No," Obi-Wan said. "But I can't see another way at the moment."

A roar filled the air. "They're taking off!" Anakin cried, then raced to his starfighter's docking bay and leaped into the cockpit. He saw Obi-Wan dashing to his own starfighter. Anakin took off and was followed by Obi-Wan into the stratosphere.

Obi-Wan's voice came over the comm unit. "I hope you have a plan." 

"Just contact the Temple," Anakin said. "I'll do the rest." Within minutes, the Storm Fleet was in sight. Anakin zigzagged in and out of the formation. He was so close he could count the rivets on the front panels.

"Identify yourself," a voice came over the comm.

Anakin did a quick roll, then zoomed under the belly of a ship to come up next to another. He flew between the two massive ships, darting in and out.

Suddenly, the fleet changed direction slightly. That was a good sign. He was getting to them. Anakin dropped back and slowed his speed.

Three of the ships peeled off from the formation. They executed a surprisingly sharp turn, considering their size. Anakin took a moment to admire their maneuverability before he noticed that the armor plating was rolling back.

"Anything to say now?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Oops?" Anakin said.

The first fire from the laser cannons hit empty space as Anakin and Obi-Wan simultaneously went into a steep dive. The ships followed. The shock waves of the weapons fire caused his starfighter to dance.

Anakin turned sharply to the left. Obi-Wan turned to the right. The laser cannons blasted again, missing them by a few meters.

"Proton torpedoes coming up," Obi-Wan said tersely.

The torpedoes locked onto the starfighters. Anakin pushed the ship into a steep dive, then veered left. The torpedoes missed him by two meters. Close.

"More torpedoes on the left! Anakin, watch out!" Anakin kept the starfighter in the same arc but pushed the nose down. He could feel the controls shudder. He was really pushing the engines now.

The blast almost threw him to the floor. Anakin grabbed the controls. He checked his warning lights. All clear... then a red light began to blink.

"I've been hit. They got my stabilizer," he told Obi-Wan. They both knew what that meant. Without a horizontal stabilizer, he wouldn't be able to maneuver. A series of chirps came through comm as his astromech droid tried to fix the problem.

Anakin pulled up. Laser cannon fire thundered past his flank. Obi-Wan darted ahead of him, trying to draw the fire, giving the droid time to finish. Anakin called on the Force, reaching out for it to make his decisions fluid.

"Anakin, you're pushing it," Obi-Wan shouted. "I can see your stabilizers shaking." His droid beeped. The warning lights blinked off, and Anakin felt the ship's movement smooth underneath his hands.

"We've got to get out of here," Obi-Wan said. "We can't outrun them. And firing at them would be like pelting them with pebbles." Anakin studied his nav screen. "There's an asteroid storm up ahead, coming up fast. I say we fly right into it. With any luck it will be too late for them to avoid it." If Anakin had longed for a chance to put his starfighter through its paces, he'd found it. Asteroids careened crazily around him. Engines screaming, he shaved off centimeters from close encounters, pushing the ship to its limit. He could not use his instruments. He could only use the Force. Sweat beaded up on his forehead.

It was too late for the Storm Fleet to turn. They blundered into the storm.

Asteroids bounced off the surfaces of the ships harmlessly. But even a capital ship wouldn't be able to survive an impact with a large asteroid. Anakin saw the first ship begin to turn to retreat.

He changed direction and came directly at the disguised freighter, firing his laser cannons. The ship stopped its slow turn and reversed, firing at Anakin.

Anakin dived, heading straight for the massive asteroid ahead of him. The Force hummed around him as he swerved at the last possible second.

The enemy ship behind him hit the asteroid head-on.

Chunks of debris flew his way. More obstacles. He could see Obi-Wan spinning away, diving away from the wreckage. Anakin was too far to make the same maneuver. He pushed his nose up and climbed. He felt debris knock the ship, but with a quick glance at the instruments he saw that it hadn't been damaged.

Another explosion sent shock waves against the starfighter. The second freighter had been caught by the debris. Smoking and flaming, it spiraled down out of sight.

Anakin saw clear space ahead. With a last surge of speed, he avoided the last asteroid and sailed into the open atmosphere.

A moment later, he saw Obi-Wan over to his left.

"Wouldn't want to do that again," Obi-Wan said.

"At least we knocked out two of the freighters," Anakin said. "That will slow them down in time for the Republic Fleet to get to Cyphar." 

"We were lucky." This time Anakin didn't argue. "Yes." 

"Let's set our course for the Temple," Obi-Wan said. "And hope for a dull trip." Their starfighters moved gracefully toward their waiting hyperspace rings.

Had it been luck? he wondered. Or the Force?

Obi-Wan was so good at so many things. He could inspire loyalty. Shift strategies in a heartbeat. Fight harder than any Jedi Anakin had seen.

Yet did he trust the Force enough? If they were truly able to use the Force at its maximum potential, opposition would be nothing. They could destroy enemies.

They could claim the galaxy for peace.

"You can't do everything, Anakin," Obi-Wan said suddenly, as if he was reading his apprentice's mind. "You must choose the battles to fight." Anakin wanted to fight them all. He wanted to do everything. And he knew he could.

Headquarters Special Operations. Coruscant: Arca Company Barracks. 

"Go on," said Fi. "Shoot me. Do your worst." 

He held his arms away from his sides, presenting a clear snot to his comrade 

Atin raised the Verpine shatter gun and aimed two handed, his left hand steadying the grip 

"You're all mouth, FI," he said. 

Atin squeezed the trigger. Fi's armored breastplate puffed a cloud of coating with a loud crack, and he fell back against the wall of their quarters. Verps were silent except for the impact and the screaming that sometimes followed the blasts. Fi wasn't screaming. But behind his visor, his mouth was open in a silent oh of pain. 

Atin stood over Fi and checked both the breastplate and the Verp's chamber before hauling him back to his feet. They took off their hetmets and looked around for the spent projectile. Fi picked up a flattened disc of metal whose edges were split and curled back like a flower, and tossed it in the air for Atin to catch, 

"Okay, the upgrade worked," said Atin. "But you can't blame me for checking. I spent a month in the bacta tank thanks to one of these." 

Fi didn't trust Procurement any more than Atin did, not when there were more than 10.000 sets of cosily equipment to upgrade. They'd griped about the expense, but now everything - from their armor systems to their DC-17 rifles-was hardened against EMP and Verps. the two weaknesses that had almost got them killed on Qiilura. 

Fi slipped his helmet back on and rapped his knuckle plate on it 'Well, nothing short of a sustained laser cannon is going to give us a headache now.' 

The door whispered open. Niner, all grin responsibility, stood in the doorway in his black body suit. Darman was behind him, armored up, helmet tucked under one arm. 

"What was that noise?' Niner said. 

"Testing the new armor. Sarge." 

"Testing my patience more like." He made an irritated click with his teeth, just like Kal Skirata used to; Fi could see more of their old training sergeant's, habils in Niner with every passing day. He glanced around the room "You fired a weapon in here?" 

"It's okay, Sarge. we were wearing helmets," Atin stood his ground. Sensible precautions often placated Niner. "You can't trust Procurement?" 

'Well, game over. We've got trade. Armed siege at the GC spaceport." 

"Don't they have civil police for that son of stuff?" Fi asked. "We'll be directing traffic next," 

'Not when there are hostages and one is a Senator." Niner held out his hand to Atin for the Verpine, studied it, and then handed it back. 'They've never dealt with anything like this before, and they heard we were the boys for the job." 

Fi lifted his backpack from its locker. 'I didn't have anything special planned for this evening anyway." Atin was right: He was all mouth. He became two men again as he always aid when it was lime to roll - the commando who was eager to put his hard-won skills to the test and the scared kid who wasn't sure he'd be alive tomorrow. He found himself worrying whether he'd signed out the Verpine from the armory. How much trouble could an armed siege be, anyway? He had his Katarn armor and he - and his mates - could take on a small army. 

They all knew what the final score would be, more or less. 

Atin gave him a shove and tucked The Verpine in his belt. "After you." 

Maybe Atin was thinking exactly the same thing. 

Holonews Update, 1530: Senator Meena Tills is believed to be among six hostages seized by an armed gang at Galactic City spaceport. Police have sealed off the area and all city traffic and interplanetary flights are being diverted. Expect long delays. More later. 

Galactic City. Coruscant. was amazing. 

Fi leaned out of the police assault ship's bay with his DC-17 clunking against his breastplate at every swerve and lurch of the vessel. Wind whipped into the hold, flattening his hair and peppering grit against his armor and his face. He'd never seen so many brilliantly colored lights: The walkways and skylanes stretched as far above him as they did below. No wonder they called this place the Abyss. 

"Gel your head back in," yelled the pilot. 'What are you, a tourist or something?" 

Fi leaned a little further out, trusting the safety harness. 'But don't you think it's amaimg?" 

"Yeah, every rotten, stinking shift," said the pilot weanly. "Get him back inboard, will you?" 

Niner jerked on the line. "Fi, don't frighten the civvies." he said. 'It's not nice. And put your helmet on." 

Cloud cars filled the airspace. The Coruscant Security Force pilot was trying to edge the custom VAAT/e between crammed civilian traffic packed solid in three directions, cursing under his breath. The pulsing wall of the emergency klaxon and flashing fights were enough to make the dead clear a path. But nothing moved in the gridlock. Speeders almost scraping the bodywork tried to escape into gaps that weren't there: 25 meters of assault ship didn't fit well into the tight skylanes. 

All that Fi had ever seen of Coruscant was barracks and a compound bounded by security walls. None of the commandos had ever been on a run ashore, a social adventure that Skirata had said they should experience at least once in their lives. From the crew bay, he could see crowds of every species pressed up against barriers, brightly lit shops and bars and apartments, exotic and unimaginable places that beckoned. Yes, he'd have that run ashore some day. 

Omega Squad chatted on the pnvacy of their helmet comlmk, audible only to each other. Fi dragged his gaze from the outside world and settled into the bitter, sweet cocoon of his helmet, at once botn reassuring and confining. 

"Receive schematics, people." said Niner. "And real-time view." 

A display of lines and fly-through images filled Fi's HUD. The Image that Niner had transmitted from his data pad was the plan of the spaceport building; long walkways led off vaulted halls and service areas, cubes of offices lined corridors, and power conduits wove through the image in green light. Superimposed on top of the overview, a readme image of the main spaceport arrivals area showed knots of blue-armored Senale Guards and CSF squads in yellow vests crouched behind security barricades, some engaged in animated conversation. 

A blue hologram figure of a thick-set man in uniform shimmered into life in the hold, a little paunchy but still looking like he could give as good as he got. "Commander Obrim here, Senate Guard, Can you see this. Onega?" 

Niner spoke for them, "Got it." 

"They're holed up in a customs clearance corridor, and they've threatened to detonate explosives. Two sets of doors. and we've left them control of one to stop them panicking and doing something stupid." 

"How many confirmed?" 

"Six passengers, and we're trying to get pictures of them." Obrim might not have played this game before, but he had some common sense. "Witnesses report lour perpetrators armed with blasters and carrying something in backpacks, which we have to assume are explosives. No ID on them yet, but they were all on the same flight." 

"Any contact with the targets'" 

A pause. "If you mean the gang, they've issued demands and we have a secure comiink established with them." 

"And you have primacy?" Are you running the show?" Fi could hear the doubt In Nlner's voice. "I thought the city came under CSF junsdiction." 

"Not as long as I have a Senator and his aide in danger," said Obrirn. The hologram began to waver again. "Obrim out," 

The CSF pilot brought the assault ship to a sudden halt. The undersized black and white marble facade of the spaceport terminal shimmered with ruby under flashing police lights. The front of the building was a crush of speeders and other emergency craft, none of them making a good job or keeping an access corridor open. 

"Can't get in any closer," said the pilot. "You'll have to rope it down the rest of the way." 

"Don't wan for a tip." said Fi and wondered where he'd picked up the phrase. 

"We are citizens of Haruun Kal. The Republic has fuelled the civil war on our world and now brings a fresh war to us. Remove your presence from our planet now, or your Senator and the passengers die. Now you know we can reach into the heart of the Republic." (Message sent to RHN newsroom by Nuriin-Ar, leader of the group claiming responsibility for the hostage incntent.} 

Fi braced his legs, placing both hoots on the outside rail of the ship's troop hold. He gave the rappel line one last tug, to check that it was secure before dropping 15 meters to the wafkway, DC-17 ready in one hand, a sea of open-mouthed faces starrig up at him from behind the police cordon. 

A sudden movement in his peripheral vision made him raise the rifle. A hover-cam with a RHN logo was sitting motionless 5 meters to his right, too far inside the cordon, outlined against the clean, white facade of the port. There was no point being covert ops if you were on the news and your target might be watching. The rest of the squad could see Fi's field of vision via an icon in their helmet links. 

"I don't thlnk that carn's seen a Deece before," said Darman's voice. 

Fi's boots hit the watkway and he aimed. The hovercam darted left then right in his scope, fast but not fast enough, "It has now." 

A shout of 'hey!' followed the thwack of exploding hovercam The rest of Omega Squad hit the ground and jogged toward the terminal entrance. "You shot my cam!" yelled a woman from the watching crowd. She was wearing a bright yellow tabard emblazoned with the word MEDIA in large letters. "You shot It!" 

Fi touched his glove to his helmet in apology, just as he'd been taught, but he still thought it was a pretty good shot. "Oops. Beg your pardon, ma'am. " 

He jogged after the others, conscious of the staring crowd. Fi saw his armor as safe and welcoming. But the expressions on a couple of faces made him realize that ordinary people were scared by it. 

And it wasn't just the civilians who found Omega Squad a riveting spectacle. The CSF and Senate Guard officers at the forward control point stared, too. Obrim stopped a head-to-head discussion with a CSF lieutenant and stepped back from the defensive barricade of baggage repulsors and portable blast shields erected 10 meters around the customs halt. 

"I see you're tooled up." Obrim said, eyeing the DC-17s with a distinct air of alarm. He almost slid his modes; police issued blaster behind his back. "They're not driving Trade Federation tanks, you know." 

Fi decided that the police had a lot to learn about sieges. You could do anything with a Deece: A turn of the wrist, and it was a sniper rifle, grenade launcher, or a regular blaster. You could even club someone with it if you had to, although Fi hadn't tried that yet. He checked the vibroblade in his gauntlet out of habit. and the shunk-shunk sound as it extended and retracted made Obrim flinch. 

Niner made that annoyed click. Fi took the hint. 

"Let's get a cam in there first so we can see what's going on," said Niner. He beckoned: Darman and Atin forward. 'Pictures, Commander? We need to know who to shoot." 

"You're a bit keen." 

"If you're not a hostage, you're a hostage taker, and that means you're dead a few seconds after we go in. We hate to make mistakes." 

"What do you mean by go in, exactly?" The CSF lieutenant stepped between them. A name tab on his vest said DOVEL. "I'm incident commander. I say how and when anyone goes in. We've got a Jedi coming down to negotiate with the leader." 

Darman took his pack off his back and began pulling out coils of high-yield charges and detonators. He was staring at the security doors as if calculating. "We'll still get the charges In place, just in case." 

"No, that's not how we do It," said Dovel. "We don't want the hostages char-grilled. No storming, no heroics. Not yet." 

Obrim interrupted, "Senate Security Committee wants this ended fast to show Haruun Kal we're in control. They can't just walk in here, grab a Senator, and hold the Republic's finest at bay." 

"Maybe the Republic's finest, or you to be exact, should have concentrated on ensuring secure transportation for Senators," said Dovel, "What about those other hostages? You want to tell their families that they got fired because you called in the heavy mob to save a politician?" 

Niner waited, all mild, deceptive patience. Fi had decided on first meeting him that he was a misery-guts, but now he found him solid and reassuring, just the way a sergeant ought to tie. "Let's be clear what we're trained to do, gentlemen. We go in and extract hostages by any means necessary. We don't ask for ID. We don't take targets alive. We don't avoid damaging the furniture. When you send us in, there is no happy ending," He paused as if waiting to see if the reality of the request had sunk in. "So we'll just wander around and rig the interrupts to the power and light, and you call us when you're ready to roll." 

Atin look a couple of strip-cams from his backpack, each no bulkier than a sheet of flimsi. Fi switched to the internal nelmet comllnk. 'You think they're real terrorists or Haruun Kal government agents upping the ante?" 

Atin shrugged. 'I don't care as long as they fall over when we shoot them." A commando's life was all clarity. Fi was glad he wasn't Obrim - or Dovel. 

Holonews update, 1700: The familty of an elderly couple held hostage with Senator Tills have made an emotional pleal for their safe release. Joz and Cira Larutur from Garql were on their way to see their first grandchild when they were seized. Other hostages have been named as customs officer Berin B'naian and Sena-torial aide Vun Merett Jai, but the identity of the sixth hostage remains unknown. 

Obrim was talking on the comlink to Nuriin-Ar in carefully restrained tones while Omega listened in. Fi was concentrating on the sounds in the background with an intensity learned from growing up where everyone looked and sounded the same, distinguished only by minute variation; in tone and expression 

He could hear the old woman's voice saying, "Oh Joz... oh Joz..." over and over very quietly. From time to time, he heard an equally quiet reply from the old man: "Don't you worry." 

It made him uncomfortable. He wasn't sure why, 

Obrim let out a breath. "The Jedi's here." 

Fi's stomach churned when he saw the distinctive red-trimmed visor of an ARC trooper captain through the grimy, white helmets of the CSF line. The line melted away for the ARC: Behind him trailed a human male in a very well-cut business suit, a young Twi'lek Jedi. and... 

...a scruffy, wiry Iittle man who looked old enough to be everyone's father, a man with a face as wrinkled as his clothes, buzz-cut gray hair, and a limp that didn't stop him from covering the ground like a racing odupiendo. 

"Sarge!" said Fi. 

Niner's head jerked up. "It is!" 

Kal Skirata reached them a stride ahead of the ARC captain. He grinned up at Fi as if he recognized hlmr but that was impossible. He'd had a hundred identical young commandos in his batch. He couldn't possibly remember. He couldn't possibly see past Ihe visor, either. 

"Who let that vagrant in?" demanded Obrim. 

"That," said Fi, "Is the man who taught us all we know," 

Obrim sighed. "We're screwed, then." 

Fi touched his fingers to his helmet anyway, even if Skirata was out of uniform. "Sarge, what are you doing nere?" 

"Where there's trouble, Fi. there's always a job for me. Special security adviser now." Oh, he knew. How? How? "Nice new armor. Going on a date? And who's he?'" 

Fi followed Skirata's gaze. "That's Atin. Hang on, how do you...' 

"Lads, this is Master Kaim and the Senate Head of Public Affairs, Mar Rugeyan. Fi heard Obrim sigh again. "And ARC N-11. We all want the same outcome-hostages out, scum bags dead, traffic flowing again. Let's get to it." 

Kaim looked like a youngster aged early by responsibility. He stared at the door behind the barricades and closed his eyes for a moment, lekku moving ever so slightly, hands clasped in front of him. 

"I'm going to ask them to let me in to talk." Kaim said. "When I have their attention, I will help them decide to release the hostages and to talk to me, which will not be easy with Korunnai" He took his lightsaber from his cloak and handed it to the ARC. "I have to show goodwill and enter unarmed." 

"You're nuts, sir," said Obrim. 'You're giving them another hostage." 

"One with a choice. * said Kaim. "Captain, if I get inside, you have command here." 

The captain just nodded once. Atin took trie strip-cams and held one out to Kaim. "'If you get a chance, sir, try to leave this inside. Anywhere. Even If we can't get an image, we can pick up audio." 

Kaim examined the stnp and tucked it in his sleeve, then took out his comlink. "Nuriin-Ar, can you hear me? Will you let me in so we can speak?' 

The simultaneous chunk and uuiirrrr of 20 service-issue blasters powering up made Fl turn and aim in time to see the doors at the customs hall begin to part. For a moment, the commandos were a single wall of rifles with the two police forces. Slowly, the blade-thin gap opened wide enough for Fi to see a few huddled shapes inside. 

Kaim went in. 

GC spaceport terminal building. 1745. 

Fi could see what Atin could see and hear what he heard. The squad had switched to the cam output within their helmets, and they were all focused on an unsteady image of folds of fabric and the muffled but audible conversation. 

"Let these people leave," said Kaim. "You don't want to harm them." 

"And no doubt you don't want to harm ordinary Korunnai, yet your interference does just that." The view from the cam shifted and Fi could see figures distorted by the wide-angle lens: four men, one in gray, one in dark green, one In light tan, and one in a loose, dark-brown coat. All had their faces obscured by black scarves. There were figures behind them, two groups of three, also wiih their heads covered in the same scarves. But they were the hostages, judging by their huddled positions and their clothing: out-of-date fashions from Garqi, a business suit, a customs uniform, a Mon Calamari Senator's formal robe, and a cheaper imitation of it. 

Fine, thought Fi. His helmet was recording. I don't need to see your faces. I know what you wear, how you move, now you sound, and that's how /'ll know who you are when I blow your brains out. 

Kaim's voice was soothing and reasonable. "These people need food and water," 

"That's the least of their worries." The one in gray; Fi noted his voice. The one in light tan turned to look at the Senator and told him to shut up. Green Man was holding his blaster left-handed. Detail. "Take a look at their baggage." 

Tan Man - Fi now saw the targets as color coded-grabbed; the old Garqian man by his shoulder and dragged him across the polished tiles a little way from the wall on his backside. The old woman's voice whimpered. terrified. Fi could see now what Gray had meant by baggage: The hostages had small packs strapped to them. 

"Six lives are a price worth paying, Jedi," said Gray. "We wifl detonate the charges." 

"This wins you no sympathy. Mercy will." 

"We don't reqire sympathy. Just your compliance." 

"Let the old couple go, at least." 

There was a pause. Fl wasn't sure where Kaim had managed to place the stnp-cam, but Gray's shrouded face came closer and Fi saw two pale eyes as if he was looking into them personally. 

"Lying Jedi filth! Spy!" Gray hissed, and the sound and image crashed to static and black. 

"Fierfek...." said Atin. 

They heard the screams. They weren't only from an old woman. Then there was a thud and shouting..."Shut up! Shut up, or you die now!" - then silence. Fi looked to the ARC, rifle aimed at the doors: Darman raised the remote detonators in his glove, a mute request for permission to blow the doors, 

"Hold fire." said the ARC. 

The twin doors began to part and Fi, Atin, and Niner had their Deeces trained on the widening gap. Fi could see the different views through their scopes in his HUD. 

"I said hold!" 

Something tipped and rolled onto the polished marble and the doors sighed shut again. It was Kaim. Fi and Niner edged forward first, and the police closed up behind them. Fl wondered how much Ihe hovercams and broadcast droids could see. Could the gang see them? 

Kaim wasn't moving. Niner put out a cautious hand to pull back the Jedi's robe, and Fi saw a flicker of light and heard Niner catch his breath. 

"Booby trap - counting down!" 

Fi didn'l think. 

The police officers were right on top of hlrn, unprotected. 

He flung himself flat on Kaim's body, eyes tight shut so he wouldn't see the shattered face, wailing long fractions within fractions of seconds before a shock wave lifted him like a body blow and raw noise filled his helmet. He felt as if he'd, been shaken hard in a metal box. For an instant, red light flooded his eyes behind his closed lids. 

How long the next moment, took he didn't know. But he could hear the ARC shouting, "Droid those camsl Do It! Now!" 

He could hear yelling, so he wasn'l dead. That was something. 

Holoflash, 1758: A Huruun Kal group holding Senator Tills has killed a Jedi negotiator. All location cams have been disabled in a news blackout. but we've just witnessed horrific scenes as the Jedi's booby-trapped remains exploded in the terminal. It's thought a member vf the elite Republic Commando shielded the blast with his body. Viewers might find the following images distressing. 

"What do you use for brains, Fi?" Skirata hissed, supporting Fi's shoulders. "You're a di'kut' 

Fl could feel bruises forming everywhere he had places He sat upright with some difficulty, "Thanks for the sympathy. Sarge. I'm fine." 

"You trust that pretty armor a lot more than I would." Skirata suddenly shook him fiercely by the shoulder. "Don't you ever scare me like that again, son. You hear? Let the cops look after themselves." 

It hadn't been a big device. Just enough to kill or maim a couple of people, but not enough to breach Katarn armor He'd smothered ihe blast and the shrapnel that went with it. Fi hadn't been 100 percent sure at the time that the armor would absorb the energy from the blast, and now that the adrenaline had finished coursing through his veins he felt shaky. 

The ARC stared down at him, fists on hips. Skirata kept calling him Ordo: Skirata insisted men had names, not numbers, whatever the rules said. 

"Nice move." said Ordo. 

"Nice skirt." Fi indicated Ordo's battle-scarred belt-spat, shredded at the hem like a flag that had been left too long on its mast. He wiped his armor, trying to forget what was smeared on the plasioid-alloy but the smelt kept reminding him. "Really suits you. Hand washable?" 

Ordo's expression was hidden behind his visor but his tone wasn't. "It's a kama." he said, all Ice. 

"Some day, Fi, someone's going to belt you one," Atin muttered. "And it's probably going to be Ordo." 

He was right. But Fi didn't know any other way lo keep his gut from shaking at times like this, it was how he coped. He was relieved and he was shocked, and now he had to get on with the job. He leaned on his Deece to get to his feet and saw that the cams and droids had gone: the illuminated displays in the terminal were black screens, and the amber emergency fighting was on. 

So Ordo had deployed an EMP device to knock out the holocams. and it had taken out all the unshielded equipment around them too. Droiding. A crazy but necessary move. Fi thought, seeing as it might have triggered whatever explosives the gang had rigged. He linked into Niner's helmet and saw that he was running and rerunning the Images of the gang that Kaim had paid for with his life, memorizing the identifying details, 

Rugeyan was looking around the terminal hall, chatting on his comhnk. The embodiment of pure calculation. "Okay, so we'll have to take the news conferences at the Chamber... any more bodies, and they go out via the back... I know, it's not good seeing Jedi body parts... the grunt was great, right?" 

Ordo and Skirata looked at each other as if some common bond had sprung up from nowhere. Fi wondered if they nan some commlink of their own: Skirata occasionally slipped something into his ear and removed it again. Ordo cocked his head but Skirata smiled lightly and without humor. He turned to Rugeyan and put a scarred hand on the sleeve of his nice, sharp tunic. 

"Son," he said. 'I couldn't help noticing that you called my boys grunts. Don't do that again, will you?" 

Rugeyan looked down at Skirata as if he'd noticed him for the first time and lowered the comhnk. "We want the Senator out now. Nothing else matters." 

"I'm glag you pointed that out to me." Fi couldn't see what Skirata did next, but his arm dropped down and suddenly Rugeyan seemed to be taking a lot of notice of him. His eyes bulged visibly and a small uh noise forced its way past his lips. "Now that I have your attention, may I suggest that you remove yourself from the incident scene and let Captain Ordo and my boys do their jobs?' 

FI was mesmerized. Darman jogged up to the tableau of frozen pain. "Charges laid, Sarge. Ready to go." 

Skirata's arm fell back to his side again, and Rugeyan inhaled sharply before brushing down his tunic and striding away with somewhat splayed legs. 

"I'll remember that move." said Atin approvingly, "Vau never taught us anything like that.' 

But Vau had certainly taught Atin the exacting procedures for storming a building, Fi knew. He just wondered about Ordo. ARCs weren't team players. 

"Fancy, a bit of action for a change, Captain?" asked Fi "Give yogr Deece a day out?" 

"Don't worry, if your luck holds, I'll be right in front of you." said Ordo, toneless. "If it doesn't. I'll be behind you." 

Fl thought about that for a few moments. Then he started wondering again why Nuriin-Ar and his cronies hadn't seized hostages in the transport before it landed: it was a better location to withstand an assault. The fools were facing certain death. They wouldn't shift the Senate's position. And they had to be stupid it they didn't reafize that. 

In the end, though, their intelligence levels wouldn't matter. He checked his Deece, rehearsing rapid changes between modes and aware that Ordo kept looking his way. 

Holonews Update, 1830: The Haruun Kal goverment has denied knowledge of Nunin-Ar. leader of the group that's holding six hostages at Galactic City spaceport. But in an unusually robust statement, the Korunnai ambassador says she "fully understands the group's frustration and has urged the Republic to cease interfering in her planet's affairs. 

One of the CSF officers brought a tray of caf in flimsi cups and handed Fi one first. A camaraderie had sprung up: Fi rather liked it. The cops actually seemed in awe ol what he'd done, and he began to realize that it felt good to be held in that kind of regard. 

"No cookies?' said Skirata, and took a cup. 

The squad took their helmets off to dnnk. The officer seemed distracted for a. moment, stanng at their faces. "I'll see what I can do," he said. 

"Don't wait for a tip." said Skirata. Fi smiled to himself. 

Obrim and Dovel were observing a few paces away, and the group stared at the hologram of the temunal layout that Ordo projected into the space between them. 

"It's an oblong room," sad Skirata, and slurped his car "No scope for anything clever. It's just going to be a matter of speed, force, and knowing who you're going to drop as soon as you're in there." 

"But how are you going to stop them setting off the devlces?" asked Dovel. 

"By slotting them before they can move."' said Niner, "We've done this more than 100 times, and we know how each other thinks. This is probably their flrsl time." 

"And their last." Ordo dipped the finger of his glove through the shimmering virtual roof space of the customs hall. "I'll take the roof and keep the hostages still until we get bomb disposal in there to deal with the novices." 

"All The hostages?" said Obrim. 

"I realise the Senator is a priority." 

Dovel chewed his lip thoughtfully, clearly a man who no longer wanted primacy in this incident. Fi thought that was a smart change of heart. If anything went wrong, he knew who would gel the blame now. 

Ordo got up and tidied his rappel line before fastening it to his belt. "I'll get in position," he said. "And I'm switching to the general comlink channel. We go in at 1915. Darman counts us down, and Obrim's men kill all the lights, okay?" 

Dowel's communicator chirped. He answered it and adopted that middle-distance state that peolplr had when they were trying to concentrate on something that they weren't expecting to hear. 

"It's Nuriin-Ar." he said. 'He's asking for buckets, food, and wafer." 

"Ah. The power of the need for a "fresher" said Obrim. "Looks like our hard men are softening." 

"Even people who plan to kill engage in displacement activity," said Skirata. "I'll take the stuff in for you." 

"I think I should he doing that, Sergeant." said Ordo. 

"Yeah, like they'd succumb to your natural charm." Skirata began checking the pockets in his rumpled jacket. He extracted something that looked hke a hearing enhancer - no, it was a hearing enhancer. Fi had always doubted that Skiraia's hearing was perfect, and now he knew. "Atin, can you pick up my enhancer's signal? I hate this thing. But it does come in handy." 

"I'll do." said Atin stabbing his finger into a small receiver in his palm. "Are you really deaf?" 

"A bit deaf. Just like you'd be if you hung around live-fire ranges without a helmet for too long." 

"With respect, you'lI just add another complication." said Ordo..Skirata sipped his caf without looking up. "If you mean that my boys will have to worry about shooting me by accident, then it's simple. They won't worry about it. Acceptable losses." 

There was a complete silence in all their helmet comlinks for a telling and brief moment: no breath, no swallowing, no lick of the lips. Fi had a sudden mental image so awful that he didn't want to deal with it, not then, 

Now it was all down to a well-rehearsed procedure. The charges would detonate, and they would lob in a few flashbangs so close together that it would feel like the same split second and plunge into reactions so automatic that they wouldn't pause to think what to do next or even know how much time had elapsed. 

It was drilled deep, unthinking second nature. Fi longed for the moment instinct and training took him over again. 

"I'll give you as many clues as I can, so listen hard,' said Skirata, He fidgeted witn the enhancer, making the same irritated clicks that Niner had. "And if I'm in the way when you come in, it's too bad, okay? You drop 'em all, straight through me if need be." 

"Will do. Sarge," said Fi, and knew he would never do anything of the kind. 

Galactic City terminal. 1855. 

The doors parted. Fi, standing well back, stared down the scope of the Deece, not planning to take a shot but ready anyway. Skirata walked forward a few steps. 

"Grilled food board."' he said, arms held away from his sides, a picture of sub-servience. "And... umm... facilities." 

Fi could see past him into the enclosed corridor: The hostages were still split into two groups. One of the targets stepped up to Skirata and placed the muzzle of his blaster against his forehead, Green Man, Fi thought, and made a mental note of the target's gait. It was a clean shot he couldn't take but nor right then. The sound signal was fuzzy but audible enough. 

"Put the buckets down and back off." 

Skirata - short, wiry, forgettable, dragging his left leg - looked like janitor. Fi knew Green wouldn't see what was really there. 

"What about the old couple?" said Skirata. "Don't you think they've had enough? Why not let 'em go? Take me instead." 

Go on. Go on. Let him in... 

Green paused and then gestured Sklrata Inside with ihe blaster. "You can keep them company," he said. "You're too altruistic for a delivery boy. We better search you." 

The doors closed, "Stand by," said Niner. 

They look up positions on either side of the doors. Fi and Niner to the left. Atin and Darman to the right. They could hear Skirata's breathing-remarkably controlled under the circumstances - and the occasional rustle of fabric. They were searching him. The enhancer didn't seem to get their attention, the device was too obvious. 

"You okay, missus?" said Skirata's voice. There was a mumbled reply, probably from the elderly Garqi woman. "Lie down. You'll feel better." 

"Shut up." said a voice, a new one. Tan Man, thought Fi. He'd know that voice the next time he heard It. You'll get yours. Nothing personal, just business. 

They heard Skirata and the targets again. Fi paused. Every word counted: Skirata was probably risking death or at least a smach in the mouth with a blaster Dun to speak at all. 

"Here, son, let me have a look at that chrono... wow. that must have cost you something....what kind at business you in, then? Where you from? Mayro, eh? What's your name?" 

"Quiet." 

"Mayro, Never been there...you're N'zaet Nir, eh?" 

"Shut up." Tan Man again. 

"Okay, keep your hair on. I'll just sit here with Joz and Cira you... okay, sweet-heart? Don't worry..." 

"Shut up." Thwack. 

There were indistinct sounds of fabric rumpling and occasional breathy sobs in different voices. Fi tried not to think what the thwack was. But at least they had a name for the last hostage. It might matter. 

He closed his eyes for a second and visualized the layout. Skirata probably had three hostages right next to him then. That left Senator Till's position unaccounted for as well as his aide. But it was better than nothing. 

"Why was he repeating Mayro?" asked Darman "Where's Mayro'* 

Niner's voice filled his skull. "It's Corporate Sector. Ordo, you ready' 

Fi took a deep death. He activated his helmet spot lamp and checked the chrono on his forearm plate. When the doors blew and Niner lobbed in the flashbang - bright and loud enough lo stun most species for several vital seconds - he would swing 270 degrees to his left, step in, and aim, ready to take down the first recognizable target he saw. He'd done it time after time. 

"Roof team ready," said Ordo. "Darman?" 

"Ready." Darman raised his gloved fist. "In three. Two. Go." 

Boom. 

Light exploded out of the shattered doors and Fi ran into it, Deece raised. Time slowed into a sequence of freeze frames. A man in a green tunic, stunned. Squinting against the helmet spot lamp, shouting "No!" in a voice Fi had memorized as target, struggled to raise his blaster, and Fi put a single bolt through his chest. Spot-lamp beams crisscrossed the room. Debris rained down from the ceiling as Ordo crashed down a couple of meters from Fi, Atin dropped Gray with two shots. 

A second of utter silence. Then someone in dark brown got up from the floor and Darman and Niner both fired at once. 

"Everyone down! Down!" Ordo had his rifle trained on a group of hostages. "Stay still! Republic forces! And Darman was shouting, "Where's Tan?" Where's Tan?" 

Fi's lamp swept the wall to his left, and he saw a light tan shape with Scirata half-across it, transfixed by the beam, veiling, "No, Fi! No!" Fi fell his finger compress the trigger without any intervention from his conscious mind, and time slowed down a hundredfold. 

"Fl, no!" Skirata had fiung himself across the tan-coated figure. "Hostage. Fi! Hold fire!" 

Fi's finger eased hack. The silence was sudden and total again, punctuated only by the patter of ceiling panels still falling in chunks on the tiled floor. 

I nearly kilted him. I nearly killed Skirata. 

Ordo, standing over the hostages, suddenly fired his Deece into one of them and yelled at them to stay siil. The emergency lighting came on again. Six civilians were frozen in terror. 

"Fierfek" said Atin. "I thought he'd shot a hostage for a second." 

"Get ordnance disposal in here before these people start going hysterical." said Ordo. "And get the Senator clear first." 

There was a man in an expensive suit crumpled on the floor between the other hostages with a blaster beside him. 

"He had a weapon,' said Ordo "It's something of a giveaway. Must have swapped coats with our businessman," 

Now that all the targets were down. Fi could think only of Skirata's horrified expression in his spot-lamp beam. He taught down an impulse to tell him he was sorry. The old warrior was kneeling in from of the stunned hostages, now making reassuringly cheery comments that everything was going to be fine as long as they kept very still just a itttle longer. They were rigged to explosives and a dead terrorist was still smoking gently in their midst. And yet they kept still, and they kept qulet. People generally did what Skirata told them. 

He glanced up at FI. "Well, not exactly textbook. But dead's dead." 

Explosives disposal officers moved in to check the backpacks and the squad moved out. Fi looked ai his chrono: The assault had taken less than 30 seconds. 

He could feel the adrenaline ebbing while his body - which didn't care how trained he was - tackled the aftermath of the massive surge of hormone. His breath rasped hard in his ears as he sat down on a baggage repulsor. 

"All clear." The explosives officer came out of the wrecked hallway with an open backpack that rattled as he walked. "And I mean really clear. These packs are jusl full of used comtink parts. Nasty bluff." 

Skirata wandered over to Fi and sat down beside him. "We don't like practical jokes like that, do we, lads?" he said. He motioned him to take his helmet off. "Serves the stupid bunch of di'kute right." 

Obrim stood at the blast-shattered doors, looking bewildered, "Is that it?" he said. "We prate around for more than three hours, and you clear the room in 60 seconds?" 

"Twenty." said Fi automatically. 

It all looked easy from the outside. It probably would have rooked great to the holocams. Fi could see only that he had come within an ace of doing what he never believed he could. If Skirata hadn't identified the man as a hostage. FI would have killed both of them with a single round. 

Sergeant Kal's nearly a father to us. How could I? 

He took off his helmet and wiped his palm across his forehead, still unable to shake Skirata's image from his mind. 

"You really would have slotted me, wouldn't you?" sard the old sergeant hoarsely.

"No, you're a good lad." He still seemed able to read Fi's every thought, just as he had in training, "You only did what I taught you to do. What did I say?" 

Fi swallowed. "Priority is to drop the bad guys. Sarge." 

"Good. I'm proud of you. Sentimentality gets you killed." He tapped Fi's cheek a few times with the flat of his hand. "And matey over there is luckier than he'll ever know as are we all. They made him change clothes with them for a good reason, I reckon. He's CorSec." 

The businessman. N'zaet Nir, was still standing by the wall, exammfng the scruffy tan jacket and pants as if appalled to find himself in such tatty clothing. He should have been medevacked for a routine check-up by now, but whatever he had said had ensured he was still there and waiting. He walked up to Obrim. 

"I need to leave right now." 

"You really should have that cneck-up. sir." 

"But I have an important meeting. I'm a member of Co'Sec's Direx, and it's imperative that I attend,' 

"Just as well you're in one piece then," said Skirata. 'I don't think your government colleagues would have found it amusing if we'd crashed in and shot you by mistake. Especially when the explosives were dummies." 

Nir seemed to have forgotten his terror of a few minutes earlier. "No. they would not. We hope to stay cut of your disputes with the Separatists. Can I have my suit back now?,And who's paying for the damage?" 

Fi thought a thank you might have been a nice touch, but he realized he had missed something in the exchange that had made Obrim and Skirata just stare at each other. 

Niner walked over to them, followed by Ordo. Neither looked as if anything left them trembling. "What have I missed?" 

"It wasn't the Senator," said Obrim. "He wasn't the key hostage. He was a lure to get us to storm in and kill the real trump card they were holding." 

"You want to explain all that, Sarge?" 

Skirata raked stubby lingers through his hair. "The Corporate Sector Authority is neutral and the Direx Board is its governing body. They've got serious money and armaments, so you don't want to upset them. So if Fi had shot a Direx member, the political fall-out would have been enormous - CorSec might have decided to take sides and throw their money and guns behind the Separatists. Want me to go on?" 

"Fierfek," said Fi. But it still didn't feel as close a call as nearly killing Skirata. "That's a new one for the training manual." 

"You said it. Heavy-handed Republic overreacts, storms in and kills top CorSec man, Nice stunt, whoever they are." 

Obrim shrugged. 'Well, you can sleep soundly tonight in the knowledge that you've given Rugeyan a timely public relations coup. Just a shame it wasn't live on RHN... 

He trailed off. Ordo had taken off his helmet. For some reason, Fi wasn't expecting the ARC to look like them but of course he did. He looked Fi straight in the eye, but it wasn't like looking in a mirror at alt, although it was a striking enough resemblance to reduce Obrim to silence. 

"We're not supposed to be in the public eye." said Ordo. "But it doesn't do the Republic's citizens any harm to know what we do." He was staring intently at Fi. "And you, brother, are very mouthy, very annoying, and stupidfy brave. I forgive you for the crack about the kama. This time, anyway. " 

Fi didn't feel brave, not right then. He also wondered, if smothering the bomb had been any more courageous than Master Kaim's actions. It was pure training, a split-second's decision exactly like Darman's or Atin's - or Ordo's. 

And it was another thing that Kal Skirata had taught him to do. He remembered that now. 

Holonews Update, 1930: The siege at Galactic City spaceport has ended with the rescue of Senator Meena Tills and all the remaining hostages. Commando forces stormed a hall in tne tetminal building and shot dead four terrorists from a group opposed to Republic influence on Haruun Kal. We now have our droid cams back on line, and we're going Iive to the scene. 

Rugeyan was as smug as Qbrim had predicted. He came back into the terminal hall trailed by journalists and a cloud of fresh hovercams oozing satisfaction. Obrim stopped them and took him aside, walking him to the knot of commandos and police that was waiting beside the shattered doors. 

"Before you strike up the band, you ought to know the explosives were a hoax." said the commander. 

Fi watched absolutely nothing cross Rugeyan's face. 

"So?" 

"Looks like a stunt to get us to go in mob-handed and shoot a member of the CorSec Direx Board, and that has nothing to do with the Senator. We can't be sure who's behind it. so let's think about this before we start crowing." 

Rugeyan maintained his blank expression in silence for a few seconds. Then a practiced smile snapped instantly into place. "Commander, those thugs held innocent people and murdered a Jedi Master whose sole concern was the welfare of the hostages. The Senate does not tolerate terronsm. We deal with it robustfy, and we have shown billions viewers tonight just what awaits anyone who wants to test our resolve." His smile disappeared like a light going out. "The rest is detail, and that needn't trouble our vigilant media." 

He gathered up his smile again and walked back to where the media were waiting. 

"Will he remember all that for the earns?" asked Fi. 

"He probably talks like that in his sleep," said Obrim. "Anyway, I just want to get home. Unless you boys would like a drink." 

Skirata smiled uncomfortably. "We're always on duty, Commander, so we don't get to have a drink. But thanks. You go on home." 

Fi couldn't find a joke that would help him right then. He was grateful for the privacy of his helmet, 

I really would nave fired. 

Darman elbowed him in the back, more a playful gesture than one of annoyance. "We missed dinner." be sard. "Maybe you can talk the cooks into fixing us something when we get back " 

Ordo was listening to his private link, head down. It was a giveaway gesture with ARCs. Fi thought "CSF transport's here to take us back to barracks." he said, straightening up. 'You're shipping out on a new deployment at 0600 tomorrow. Omega." 

Skirata jerked his head round for a second, dismay unguarded, and then gave them a smile that didn't quite conceal his anxiety. 

"You make sure you get them a decent meal first, Captain." He jabbed a finger in their direction, then appeared to yield to some private thought and gave them all a slap on the back. "No damaging government property, okay? And we'll have chat drink one day soon, I promise you." 

He winked and pulled up his collar, limping into the crowds outside in the riot of neon and vehicle lights that was Galactic City, and changing before their eyes from time - served commando to anonymous old man as surely as any Gurlanin could shift shape. 

"I've never had a proper alcoholic drink." said Atin. "Or a free bowl of warra nuts." 

"Well, if they're free, that's worth staying alive for," said Fi, and they snapped their helmets back into place to become the Republic's ultimate, faceless deterrent once again.

Star Wars Insider 

N 73 

The League of Spies 

by Aaron Allston 



############################################################################### 

"I'm here to make your day a lucky one" Joram said. 

The head he addressed had sharp, intelligent features surrounded by a neatly trimmed black beard and mustache. The man who owned it had the door to his quarters open only a few centimeters so Joram couldn't seethe rest of his body. 

The man said nothing. He glanced over Joram's shoulder to the land-speeder lane beyond, a city thoroughfare that was crowded with fast-moving speeders and slower delivery flats. 

Joram repeated, "I'm here to make your day..." 

The door slid fully open, revealing the man to be of Joram's above-average height. He was as broad in the shoulder as Joram but more muscular. He wore close-fitting black garments that were completely out of style on this color-mad, comfort-conscious world. He seized the collar of Joram's tunic and yanked. 

Joram couldn't help but lean forward, but caught himself on the doorjamb with one hand. "...a lucky one,'" he concluded. 

"Get in here." 

"Countersign." 

"I'm your mission commander, and I say get in here instantly" 

Joram grinned. "My blaster in your gut says I stay here until I hear the correct countersign." 

The man looked down. A holdout blaster, small enough to be dwarfed by Joram's right hand, was indeed pressed into his stomach."I am very proficient in the combat arts and I knew that was there," the man said. "I could have taken it from you at any time." 

"Countersign." Joram held his smile. A red dot danced around on the chest and neck of the man he faced, but the fellow couldn't see it. If he tried to seise the blaster, he would die. 

The man sighed. "You don't need luck when you're as well-placed as I am" 

"Correct." Joram returned the blaster to the holster against the base of his spine. 

"Now get in here." 

"And my partner?" 

"Partner?" 

The one in the alley across the landspeeder lane. The one with the laser rifle pointed at you; eye." 

The man glared over Joram's shoulder. "Oh, him. I was wondering if you meant a second partner. Sure, have him over." 

Joram crooked two fingers over his shoulder and beckoned. 

Moments later, Mapper dodged traffic to cross the landspeeder lane and join them. He was a well-built man with dark hair, beard, and mustache that made his features seem brooding; he wore the lightweight, flowing garments common to this world of Tarhassan and carried an elongated case with the words "Pebdy Plumbing Supplies" stenciled on the side. The owner of the dwelling turned to lead Joram and Mapper inside. 

The main living chamber was decorated in an even more mismatched and garish fashion than the spaceport had been. The room's gold-brown tikkiwood paneling clashed with the overstuffed red-and-white-striped furniture that reminded Joram. of overweight tourists at a beach resort. Two people were already there, a man and a woman arrayed upon and, in the woman's case, almost swallowed by the billowy furniture. 

"All right, we're all here," their host said. "Let's get back to it. Our objective-" 

"Maybe introductions first?" Joram said. 

The man stood still for several moments, saying nothing, but his lips moved. It took Joram a moment to realize that he was counting to ten. 

"All right, all right," the man said. "I'm Cherek Tuhm." He cocked his head, looking at Joram as though waiting for a response. 

Joram offered his hand. 

"Joram Kithe. And this is my partner, Mapper Gann." 

Mapper gave the others a curt nod; he didn't speak. He seldom did, except to Joram. Mapper wasn't comfortable in most social situations. Only Joram and his superiors knew that Mapper was a clone trooper, one of the thousands of warriors bred to fight the Republic's wars. Mapper had belonged to a unit of enhanced clones, men with mote personal initiative than most of their cohorts. Injured in the mission where he'd met Joram, he'd been unable to rejoin his unit for several weeks, so his supervisors had assigned him to Joram as bodyguard and partner-in part so that Joram could continue evaluating the virtues of clone troopers. Now operating with a new name, Mapper was unused io living outside the regimented and homogenized society of his peers. At least he did a fair job of concealing his unease. 

Cherek ignored Joram's hand. He gestured to the woman. 

"Timan Hanther." 

She was of less-thatvaverage height and slender, middle-aged, with aristocratic features and intelligent hazel eyes. She wore expensive jade-green garments in the local style, plus a turban to match. She offered Joram and Mapper a brief smile and a nod. 

Obviously wearying of the social niceties that were keeping him from his briefing, Cherek gestured dismissively at the last person present. 

"And Livintius Sazet. Can I stop wasting time now? I'm only the mission commander." 

Livintius was humanoid but not human. Also middle-aged, the Falleen wore his graying black hair long in a ponytail. His skin had a greenish tinge to it, and his eyes, though human in configuration, had a reptilian aloofness to them. His features were broad, his forehead high. He wore local garments in blues that contrasted well with his skin tone. He gave Joram and Mapper a little smile. 

"You are correct, Cherek. You are only the mission commander. Now we'll vote to see whether or not you may proceed." 

"That's not funny." Cherek flopped into one of the overstuffed chairs. As he sank into it, it settled with a noise like an asthmatic bantha letting out a long breath. "You two, sit." 

Joram did. Mapper set his rifle case against a bare section of wall and stood there. 

Cherek shook his head a long moment, his manner that of a parent who has finally despaired of his children ever accomplishing anything in life, then leaned forward, making his chair wheeze again. 

"Here's the situation," he said. "As you know, this world of Tarhassan has recently declared itself for the Separatists, a surprise to the Republic." 

Joram frowned. "Why didn't the Republic Intelligence team here warn us about their defection?" Every world within the Republic had an Intelligence team, even if that team consisted of a pair of agents who spent most of their time watching broadcast entertainments. 

"Aha!" Cherek said. His expression suggested that his children might not be irredeemable after all. The Intelligence team here disappeared six days before the government announced for the Separatists. Our goal istofirid him." 

"Him?"Tinian looked offended. The entire team here was just a him1" 

Cherek nodded. "His name is Edbit Teeks. His partner retired a few months ago, and, things being so settled and tame here. Intelligence didn't get around to worrying about a replacement for several weeks. It was during those weeks that the Clone Wars began. At that point, allocation of resources became problematic." 

"So," Joram asked, "what do we know about this Teeks' disappearance?" 

Livintius shook his head. "No, no, no. That's not next." 

"Not next?" Joram repeated. 

"On the agenda." At Joram's blank stare, Livintius continued, "I've drawn up a formal agenda for this meeting. Here." He reached behind his seat, causing the furniture to whuff and sigh, then leaned forward to hand Joram a printout. 

Joram glanced over it. It began: 

Republic Intelligence Meeting 

Tarhassan, Quarters of Cherek Tuhm 

1.Gathering of Operatives 

a.CherekTuhm 

b.Tinian Hanther 

c. Livintius Sazet 

d. Joram Kithe 

2. Pre brief ing Synopsis 

a. Where We Are 

b. Why We're Here (Mission Objectives) 

3. Getting to Know You 

4. Formal Briefing 

a. Objective Summary 

b. Resources 

c. Break for Snacks (Optional) 

d. Presentation of Pre-Gathered Information 

Joram read on and on. The agenda, printed in small text, filled the page. 

"I apologize," Livintius said, "for not including the name of your partner on the agenda. I didn't know he'd be coming. You can be certain that the updated version will include it." 

Joram cleared his throat. "I don't mean to criticize..." 

"Don't feel at all bad about it, young man," Livintius said. "I'm always striving to Improve my work. Take your best shot. The worst that can happen is that my next agenda will be even better." 

"Yes. Well, I have no objection to the agenda as such. But let's say that you were nabbed by our counterparts in PlanSec, Tarhassan Planetary Security, shortly after you printed this. They'd know the rest of our names and where we were meeting. They'd be able to grab us up, too." 

Livintius sat back, his brow furrowed, thinking hard. "I'll be... You're entirely cor reel. That would have been disastrous. Let's bring this up again when we get to 'New Business.'" 

"You're, um, new to Intelligence, aren't you?" 

Livintius brightened. "Which brings us right into Item Three, Getting to Know You. Yes, I am. As are we all." 

Joram looked at the others. "How's that again?" 

Tinian smiled. "Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but our Intelligence careers, and the creation of this temporary unit, are all results of your success on Pengalan. Yes, we know who you are and what you've done, Joram." 

What Joram had done - was accompany a military expedition to the world of Pengalan.That campaign to win the world back from the Separatists had failed, and Jorarn had been stranded there with a squadron of clone troopers. Joram, theri an accountant from the Ministry of Finance, had worked with the troopers, and their combined skills had allowed a number of them to get off that world alive. "So, in running away successfully, I..." 

"No, not that." She shook her head, and her voice took on a condescending tone. "Your success demonstrated the degree to which an operative from Finance could contribute to Intelligence operations. Immediately after your report was evaluated, a subcommittee of the Republic Senate recommended that Intelligence begin a pilot program to evaluate the suitability of experts from other government divisions." 

Joram felt his heart sink. "So not one of you was in Intelligence prior to my mission on Pengalan." 

"That's right," Cherek said. "Though the intensive training we've received, our personal competence, and pure intellect more than makes up for any deficits of experience." 

"More than make up," Livintius said. "Subject-verb agreement, Cherek." 

"Yes, yes." 

Joram decided that it might undermine the group's confidence if he were to cradle his head in his hands. Sobbing would probably make the situation even worse. 

"So," he managed to choke out, "where are you all from, originally?" 

"Ministry of Licenses and Permits," Cherek said. "But I've been training in hand-to-hand combat all my life. I've been the Ministry of Licenses and Permits hand-to-hand com bat champion for eight consecutive years." 

"I'm from the Department of Health," Tinian said, pride in her voice. "Flora. I specialize in grains." 

"I've held positions in both the Ministry of Public Information and the Ministry of Education," Livintius said. "In truth, I've spent my entire adult life in the hallowed halls of education, and let me tell you, transferring to Intelligence was just the opportunity I needed to couple practical experience with the cool perspective of academia." 

"Your background we know," Tinian said. "And your partner?" 

"Mapper's an ex-trooper," Joram said. "He's been on the front lines," 

Cherek turned a cold look on Mapper. Joram supposed the man felt threatened by the presence of someone with actual, rather than tournament, combat experience. Mapper ignored him. 

"Well," Cherek said, "I think we've accomplished Getting to Know You. Next?" 

Livintius beamed. "Item Four, Formal Briefing. Sub-Item A, Objective Summary." 

Cherek took over. "We know that Edbit Teeks was reported missing by his lover, Zazana Renkel, a local woman; her statement indicated that she saw him being grabbed off the lane in front of her quarters. A little research into her background reveals that she's a member of PlanSec. And since the Book says that an Intelligence operative should not get emotionally involved with locals, we can presume that Teeks believed he was working her without her knowledge when she was, in fact, aware of his true role and working him. Obviously, she arranged for his arrest." 

Joram frowned. "If she had him grabbed, why file a report about his disappearance and leave a trail back to herself?" 

"Aha!" Cherek said. "To establish her innocence in the face of further inquiry, of course. And she obviously fooled you. But not me. Now - where was I?" 

"Arranged for bis arrest," Tinian said. "Do keep up, Cherek." 

"Right, right. So our task is to grab her and force her to tell us where he is. Once she's done that, we'll find it easier to reacquire him." 

Livintius nodded sagely. "Rescue missions are much more efficacious when one knows where the object is being held." 

Joram listened with half his attention. The other half struggled with the sense of doom that had descended on him, and with questions: Was it simple incompetence or some sort of secret effort to undermine the Republic's Intelligence community that had led to the establishment of this team? And what crime had he, Joram, committed to be attached to it? 

"No more new business?" Cherek asked. 

The others all shook their heads, even Mapper. The trooper was finally in one of the chairs. He looked as though he were contemplating the heat-entropy death of the galaxy. 

Joram was numb. His butt was numb from hours of sitting. His mind was numb from hours of adherence to parliamentary procedure. 

Cherek heaved a happy sigh. "Final item, then. Setting up a time and place for our next meeting. I recommend reconvening here, immediately after we've grabbed Zazana Renkel." 

"When will that be?" asked Livintius. 

"We can't be sure," Cherek said. 'The operation to grab her is pretty simple, but there are time-related variables." 

Livintius' mouth turned down. "These minutes, which constitute a portion of our official report, would be better if we could indicate a precise time." 

Cherek considered. "You're right. How about midnight, local time, or immediately after we return from grabbing the Renkel woman, whichever is later?" 

Livintius brightened again. "That'll work." 

"Before we vote on that," Tinian said, "how about we set it for after we've interrogated the Renkel woman? That way, we'll have set up the inclusion of her responses into the next set of minutes." 

"Ooh," Livintius said. "Good idea." 

"Let's make this march," Cherek said. "Incorporating Tinian's revision, all in favor?" 

"Wait," Tinian said, "no one seconded." 

Livintius raised his hand. "I second." 

"All in favor?" Cherek repeated. 

There were five ayes. 

"Move to adjourn," Cherek said. 

"Second," Tinian said. 

"All in favor?" 

There were five ayes. 

"Before we go," Cherek said, "everyone get into whatever you use for stealth-dress, hit the fresher, and visit the snack table again." He heaved himself upright, his chair sighing in relief, and headed toward one of the other rooms in the apartment Tinian moved off toward another room, and Livintius materialized beside the snack table. 

Joram looked at Mapper. "Kill me." 

"You kill me first." 

"I'm senior, and I want you to kill me." 

"Cherek's the mission commander. Let's both kill him." 

"I second. All in favor?" 

There were two ayes. 

Joram decided that Tarhassan was a pretty world by night as well as by day. As he and his team cruised the skyways of the city of Nehass, he could see a horizon-to-horizon vista of lights and buildings. The Tarhassans were obviously fond of colorful illuminations: One neighborhood would have pole-suspended streetlights in green, another in orange-yellow; the business district had many buildings that rose to altitudes of sixty or eighty stories, their curved architectural elements and beveled coiners subtly lit in blue. 

In the dark, however, he couldn't see all the civic activities he'd glimpsed on his initial trip to Cherek's quarters-the construction of hardened gunnery bunkers, the drilling of infantry, the setup of watch-stations on tall buildings, all part of the planets preparations for war. 

In fact, he could enjoy only a portion of the night view, stuck as he was in the rear seat of the closed-top airspeeder. Cherek insisted on controlling the vehicle, and Livintius had shrieked "Gunnery seat!" as soon as they approached the vehicle. Consequently, Livintius had some sort of right to sit in the front passenger seat, so Joram and Mapper were stuck in the back with Tinian. 

Crammed in the back was more like it. The airspeeder was a compact model with powerful engines, but it had a passenger compartment ideally suited for two adults in front and shopping bags in back. 

Joram said, "Where does this Renkel woman go?" 

"Eh?" Cherek said. 

"There's really not much room for a hostage back here. How big is the cargo compartment?" 

"No cargo compartment," Cherek said. "We rented this one for speed." 

"And style," Livintius added. "Intelligence agents should have style." 

"Besides," Cherek said, "she's not a hostage. She's a prisoner of war." 

"So where does the prisoner go?" 

Cherek and Livintius looked atone another. "Across your laps?'1 Cherek said. 

"I don't think so," Joram said. 

"I'm the mission leader, and I say..." 

"We'll vote on it, as usual. But there're three of us in the back, and we're the ones who'll have her across our laps, so I predict we'll all vote against." Joram got an immediate nod from Mapper, and, after a moment of consideration, a matching nod from Tinian. "See?" 

Cherek sighed, vexed. "All right. We'll put Tinian up here between me and Livintius. Then you can have the hostage..." 

"Prisoner of war," Livintius corrected. 

"...prisoner of war between you. That way everyone's equally uncomfortable. Ah, here we are." 

Cherek pushed the controls forward and sent the airspeeder into a power dive. Joram grabbed at the restraining straps. They held him in place but somehow let his stomach drift alarmingly within his body. The ground got bigger fast, its landspeeders starting as distant toys but growing in seconds to fast-moving traffic. 

Joram looked over at Mapper; the trooper was holding on to his own straps with one hand and the seat back in front of him with!he other. and Tinian was desperately holding on to him. 

Then the world tilted again, and the landspeeders they were diving toward became landspeeders rushing straight at them. Joram felt the airspeeder shudder as its hull scraped the ground. They were skidding, turning the world beyond the windscreen into a whirl of lights that wobbled and shook. Finally they were still. 

"Good job," Livintius said. "Not far from a parking slot." The aging academic seemed calm, although his skin had become reddish. It now began to fade back to its normal hue. 

They were on a landspeeder lane, parked at an incorrect angle a meter from the raised walkway on one side. On the other side was a residential building. Although a midget by Coruscant standards, it rose high enough to loom over surrounding residences, twenty stories at least, and had a marquee sign on the front that read "Liezder Towers." A moment later the words faded and were replaced by "Coruscant Living at Tarhassan Rates." 

"I'm going to throw up," Tinian said. 

"Wait until we get back to my quarters," Cherek suggested. "Now, we have to-what's the sub-agenda, Livintius?" 

"Item One, enter the building without being seen. Two, eliminate anyone who sees us. Does that mean we get to kill them?" 

"If absolutely necessary." 

Livintius offered a sigh of satisfaction. "Three, determine which quarters belong to Zazana Renkel. Four, proceed to that set of quarters. Five, enter those quarters. Six, determine whether Renkel is there. And now we branch. If she's there..." 

"That's enough for now," Cherek said. "Let's start on the operational details. Entering without being detected." 

"There she is," said Mapper. 

"We could pretend to be comlink repairers," Tinian said. "We'll need to acquire service uniforms. We'd enter the lobby and tefl the security personnel that Renkel has reported a comlink outage." 

"So he calls heron his comlink, and she denies it," Livintius said. 

Cherek shook his head. "Back it up a step. Before that, we kill the power to the building so the comlink outage is plausible." 

Tinian considered. "Then we'd need to be power-grid repairers, wouldn't we?" 

"There she is," Mapper said again. He was pointing through the air-speeder's transparisteel windscreen. A woman, tall, lean, and dark-haired, dressed in a dark blue uniform with orange trim, was thirty meters from the front of the building and approaching it at a rapid walk. 

"Yes, yes," Cherek said, "Livintius, when she goes in, you can strike Item Six and the 'she's not home yet' branch. Now, how do we get to the building's power controls?" 

"But we can grab her now," Joram said. 

"What, and spoil the plan?" 

Joram growled to himself, a credible imitation of a holodrama rancor. "Mapper, go get her, standard talk and pop." 

"Thank you," Mapper said. The relief in his voice suggested he'd been given a reprieve from a death sentence. He hit the button beside him, and the airspeeder door slid up and out of the way. 

"Wait, wait," Cherek sard. 

Mapper didn't wait. He unstrapped himself in an instant, untangled himself from Tinian's grip in another, and moved toward the woman. 

Joram took a look around. There were pedestrians on this walkway and others on the one opposite, but rone within forty or fifty meters. He drew his Intelligence-issued blaster-his primary weapon, not the holdout weapon-and switched it over to its stun setting. 

"You can't do this," Cherek said. "You can't just jettison the plan we spent so much time creating. That way lies anarchy and confusion." 

"He's right, you know," Tinian said. 

"You're demonstrating a marked tendency toward rebellion arid aggression, " Livintius said. 

Tinian looked thoughtful. "A dietary imbalance could be contributing to your bad attitude, Joram." 

Joram ignored them. Over on the walkway, Mapper and the woman now stood together. Mapper gestured up and down the landspeeder lane like a lost tourist, 3 role he'd played before. Joram steadied his blaster in the viewport frame of the aircar and squeezed the trigger. 

A blast of light sizzled across to strike the woman in the torso. She jerked in a full-body spasm and began to fall backward. 

Mapper caught her, swinging her arm up over his shoulders, tucking her in close to him as though she were a close friend who'd had too much to drink. Still talking, Mapper hauled her back toward the airspeeder. 

Joram lowered his blaster out of sight and took stock of the potential witnesses. Several of them had obviously heard the noise of the blaster and were looking around. Two, not far away, were staring at Mappei and the unconscious woman in some confusion. But there was no visual evidence to convince them that a crime was being committed. Tinian, you need to be in the front seat." 

"Right." She snapped out of what looked like a momentary trance. She slid out Mapper's door and moved around to stand beside the front passenger door. "Livintius, let me in." 

The aged Falleen opened it and stood as Mapper reached the air-speeder. This is very irregular..." 

"Gunnery seat!" Tinian said. Her face was suddenly alight with a victorious smile. 

"Oh, blast you." Livintius got back into the airspeeder and slid over to take the middle seat. Tinian hopped in beside him, looking smug. 

Mapper levered the unconscious woman in through the opc-n door. Joram dragged her in beside him; Mapper crowded in and sealed the door. "Ready to go," Joram said. 

With a snarl, Cherek returned his attention to the controls. In a moment they were airborne. "Joram, I'm going to report your insubordination and insolence to our superior as soon as we get back to the safe house. And you'll be shipped out of here with a black mark on your record. Or you can promise not to countermand my explicit orders, or the explicit plans worked up by this committee, ever again. What's it going to be?" 

"So my experience and initiative, which have saved you hours and limited danger to this unit, don't mean anything to you." 

"No, they don't You're nor our intellectual equal. Your experience is obviously irrelevant and your initiative is nothing but rebellion. Now, you can obey or go home in disgrace. What's it going to be?" 

Joram set his jaw. He wanted Cherek to send him home. It might keep him from getting killed. 

But then Cherek, Tinian, and Livintius would foul up their mission, and they would be caught or killed. Maybe Mapper, too. Cherek hadn't said anything about sending Mapper back. And if he ordered Mapper to stay, the loyal and determined clone trooper might just feel obligated to obey. 

"Well?" Cherek repeated. 

Finally Joram was able to work his jaw again. "All right," he said. "I promise." 

"Not good enough. I want your word of honor. Repeat my instructions back to me so we're all on the same item on the agenda." 

Cherek's neck looked very vulnerable. Joram could reach up, give the man's head a twist, and snap it. He had been taught how. 

Every word was like a stone he had to cough up from his guts. "All right. I give my word of honor that I will not countermand your direct orders or the agreed-upon plans of this... committee." 

"Good enough," Cherek said. "For now." 

"I don't know where he is," the woman protested. 

She was in one of the chairs in Cherek's rented quarters, and just binding her there had been quite a feat. The billowy furniture had no loops, holes, distinct legs or other components that would permit ropes to be firmly attached, so instead of ropes they'd had to use broad silver binder-tape. Layer upon layer of the stuff adhered her limbs to the furniture. More layers crossed her forehead, holding her head back against the puffy headrest. 

Zazana Renkel was a good-looking woman, Joram decided, not holo-drama beautiful, but every-man-working-with-her-would-gravitate-to-her attractive, with dark brown eyes and a manner of expressing herself that suggested intelligence. She was doing what she could to hide the fact that she was very afraid. 

Of course she was afraid. Joram would be afraid, too, if he were being interrogated by five masked lunatics. 

The masks were cheap rubber things Livintius had bought. They all bore the same face, a broad set of male features marked with horizontal bands of war paint in red, yellow, and black. Livintius had said that they commemorated a hero from Tarhassan melodramas. So in addition to everything else, the spies were interrogating the woman with the face of one of the local cultural icons. 

"Don't pretend you didn't know Edbit was with Republic Intelligence," Cherek said. 

Renkel's eyes opened wide. "What?" 

Joram sighed silently. In his peripheral vision, he saw Mapper begin to bang his head on the wall. 

"We don't much care for liars, you know." Cherek drew a deep breath and expelled it as if banishing the demons of petty irritation. "But we might forgive you if you tell us where you're interrogating him." 

"I don't... I didn't... I really don't..." 

"Oh, come on," Cherek said. "Don't tell me you didn't get lots of praise and a big bonus for bringing in the sole Republic Intelligence agent on your planet." 

"But..." 

Joram grabbed Cherek by his shirt and yanked, hauling the man down the short hall and into the ground-floor bedroom. Cherek uttered a protracted "Hey..." as he was drawn along. 

Joram slid the door shut behind the two of them and pulled his mask off. He tried very hard to keep his voice reasonable. "Cherek, do you know what you just did wrong?" 

Cherek pulled his own mask off. His face was flushed, but it looked as though he was merely overheated from the mask. "You're walking dangerously close to insubordination again." 

"No, I'm within the parameters of my promise. Listen. In the course of this interrogation, you've given her more information than you've received. If she didn't know before that Teeks was Intelligence, she does now. And even if she did, she might not have known that he was the only Intelligence officer on-world... and she does now. You see?" 

Cherek considered. "Uh,..damn." 

"So when we go out there again, either I can take over the questioning-" 

"Or I can continue, implementing your suggestions. Which is what we'll do. Thank you." The last two words sounded slightly less grudging than usual. 

Joram turned away, put his mask back on, and slid the door open again. 

In the main room, Renkel was saying, "So Tarhassan rates only one Intelligence officer? Total? I mean, not even support personnel?" 

Livintius, his voice soothing, said, "Don't take it so hard, young lady. I'm sure you're really a wry dangerous world at heart. There are five more now; is that better?" 

Behind Joram, Cherek said, "Livintius, you idiot." 

Everyone in the room turned to look at him. Joram, seeing Mapper's eyes widen behind his eye-slits, also turned. 

Cherek's face was now flushed with anger as well as heat. Joram could see this because the man's mask was still in his hand. 

Cherek charged forward, grabbed Livintius by the arm, and hauled him back into the bedroom. Tmian followed. 

Mapper put his head into his hands. His shoulders shook as he trisd to repress sobs. 

Joram returned to the bedroom and listened to Cherek repeat Joram's own words of a moment ago. 

As Cherek reached the end of the spiel and took a breath, Joram said, "And there's another problem. Now she's seen your face and heard Livintius' name." 

"Eh?" Cherek looked at him, then glanced at the mask still in his hand. "Oh. Yes, that is a problem." 

"She can identify us," Livintius said. He sounded breathless. He pulled off his own mask. His eyes were shining. "We have to kill her." 

"Wait, no," Tinian said. 

Cherek looked uncomfortable. "I don't know." 

"We'ie not going to get anything more out of her," Livintius said. "She's tough. Let's kill her now." 

"That's not right," Tmian said. 

"Not a good idea," Joram said. "You and she both belong to the same intelligence community, even though you're on opposite sides right now. But in six months, five years, you may be working together... or you may be on opposite sides but have a common enemy. You'll need to have relationships with people in the trade you can trust-within limits. People you know won't kill unnecessarily." 

Livintius shook his head, vigorous in his new desire. "This is absolutely necessary," he said. "She can endanger our mission and our departure from this world. We have to kill her. Kill kill kill." 

Cherek's troubled expression cleared. "I hate to say it, but Livintius is right." 

"Have you ever killed a prisoner of war?" Joram asked. 

"Well," Cherek said, "of course I've killed. I am very..." 

"Proficient in the combat arts," Livintius and Tinian said. 

Cherek glared at them. 

"But have you ever killed a prisoner?" Joram continued. "Someone who is helpless?" 

"No." 

Livintius and Tinian also shook their heads. 

"Do you want to?" 

"Well, it's not... sporting," Cherek said. 

"Though it would be interesting to watch," Livintius said. 

"Then leave it to Mapper." Joram looked toward the living room as if he could see through the intervening walls. "He's a merciless killer. He'll not only eliminate her, he'll dispose of her in such a way that they'll never find the body. He's very fond of construction sites and duracrete foundations." 

"Ah," both men said, new wisdom and respect in theii voices, Tinian said nothing. She glared at all of them. 

Joram put his mask back on. 

"No need for that now," said Cherek. 

"Yes, there is. If we all three go out there with our masks off, she'll know that we intend to kill her. She's a cunning PlanSec operative, remember?" 

"Oh, right." Cherek nodded in confused agreement. 

When they returned to the main chamber, Mapper was kneeling beside Renkel's chair. She was talking, 

"...snatched him off the street. I was walking home as usual and couldn't catch up to their speeder. I don't know why he was taken. And I don't know why you've taken me. I'm only a civilian employee. I don't have access to any important infor mation. I do statistical analyses of criminal activity databases." 

"Ooh," Livintius whispered. "Now I'm sorry we have to kill her. The conversations we could have..." 

"Shhhh," Cherek cautioned. 

"So," Renkel continued, "he couldn't just have been using me. There would be no point to it, would there?! think he loved me. I know I love him." There was desperation in her voice, and she stared into Mapper's half-concealed eyes as if seeking affirmation in them. 

"I suspect you're right," Mapper said. "I mean, the most he could get from you would be-what? Identification documents that would get him into your building?" Renkel nodded, and Mapper continued, "And if that was all he wanted, then he'd have taken it and left you. Correct'" 

"Yes!" There was relief in her voice. 

"So I'm sure his feelings for you were genuine," Mapper said. 

"Do you think he's hurt?" she asked. 

Livintius said, "Probably being tortured. Do you think he'd stand up well to torture?" 

"We don't torture people!" 

"Of course you do," Livintius ihot back. "Everyone but the Republic tortures captives." 

"He's kidding," Joram said. "You'd know better than we would, right?" 

Renkel nodded again. 

Mapper, his voice soothing, continued, "So he's been locked up, and he's fine, and he's waiting for this war to be over so he can rejoin you. It's as simple as that," 

Renkel let out a long sigh of relief. "How much longer are you going to hold me?" 

Joram moved around behind her and silently drew his blaster. He checked to make sure that it was still on its stun setting. 

"Not long," Mapper said. "You've been very cooperative..." 

Joram aimed. Mapper stepped back and away from the woman. Joram shot her again and watched the bailoonlike chair convulse as the shock hit her system. 

"It might be better to kill her now," Livintius said, his voice breathy. He pulled his mask free. 

The others followed suit. Joram shook his head. "Forensics might detect minute traces of carbonized flesh in this chamber if we did. Belter to kill her well away from here." 

Mapper stared at him, wide-eyed. Joram allowed a sinister smile to play across his lips. "Like those guys we took out to get into the spacecraft bay on Pengalan. We'll do the same to her... only worse." 

Mapper thought about it and his expression cleared. They'd done nothing more than hammer those two men unconscious and leave them tied up. "So I'll need..." 

"Just a blaster pistol...and the medical bag." Joram tried to make the two words sound as though they'd originated in some mythological hell. In his peripheral vision, he saw Tinian shudder. Livintius smiled. 

"Til come with you as backup," Joram continued, "if the boss permits I expect the three of them will all be needed to work out the operational details for the next step of the plan." 

"Right," Mapper said, 

"What is our next step?" Livintius asked. 

"Teeks was snatched by PlanSec," Cherek said. "Without question. So we need to plan a rescue raid on the main PlanSec building here in the capital. They wouldn't imprison him in any place less important." 

"We're working for idiots," Mapper said. "And you promised to do everything they said." He was in control of the airspeeder, maneuvering it at legal rates along well-posted sky-routes above Nehass. 

Joram shook his head. "I promised to obeyCherek's orders and the dictates of their horrible committee. I didn't promise to do anything else they said. I didri't promise not to figure out how to get them to do what I want... which I have. And I didn't promise not to do things on my own. Speaking of which..." He opened up hisdatapad. "I'm bringing up a map. I want you to drop me off there." 

"Beam it to the nav computer. What is it?" 

"Edbit Teeks' home. I'm going to give it a close look while you make Renkel comfortable. That trio of irredeemables thinks that Teeks had no local resources, which is an impossibility I need to disprove. When you're done, come back for me," 

Mapper smiled. "Now I feel better." 

Mapper dropped Joram off a short distance from the housing tower that had been Edbit Teeks'public address. Mapper returned to the air as soon as Joram sealed the door. It wouldn't do to remain on the ground long enough for a pedestrian to see the woman-shaped disposal bag stretched across the back seat. Renkel, under the influence of the seda-tives from the medical bag, would remain asleep for hours, perhaps the better part of a day. Mapper would find a place to conceal her where she was likely to remain undiscovered until hours past the Intelligence team's departure from Tarhassan. Joram would ensure that the team would leave before tomorrow was very old. 

Teeks' building was shorter and broader than Renkel's. Its duracrete face, stippled and dyed to resemble natural stone, was dark from age. The north face, thick with balconies, overlooked a park. No one walked in the park, and guardsmen, dressed in the fluttery orange-and-gold livery of Tarhassan's armed forces, stood watchfully in the northeast and southwest corners. The west face, which was where the primary building entrance was located, had no balconies, but many broad viewports gave its residents a fine look down at the landspeeder lane below. 

The building lobby was unguarded, wall sensors permitting access to its turbolifts. Renkel's pockets had yielded up a transpansteel cylinder containing many of the planet's coin-shaped magnetic access disks, and when Joram held the cylinder up to a sensor, the turbolift doors opened. 

Teeks' quarters were on the sixth floor. His door, a powered slider, was sealed by a magnetic coupler marked "Planetary Security." Joram took a moment to assure himself that no one was moving down the floor's hallway, then went to work disengaging the coupler. This was one of many skills he'd acquired since joining Republic Intelligence, and the coupler, designed to keep the mildly curious out or alert security forces if the very curious forced their way through, soon disengaged. Then Renkel's cylinder of disks gave him access to the darkened interior. 

The quarters were lightly furnished. The fact that there wasn't much furniture meant that theie was not much wreckage to clean up; someone had put the place through an amateurish and destructive search. The two sofa-chairs in the main room, one a single and the other a double-wide, had been slashed open, their stuffing pulled free; no longer restrained by the chair coverings, the stuffing had swelled to three times or more its normal volume, making portions of the room look like an artificial fungus forest. The thick green foam-carpet on the floor contributed to the impression. 

The table between the exterior viewport and the narrower sofa-chair had been knocked down. A table lamp with a distinctive swing-out glowrodarm was on the floor, toppled but intact. In the bedchamber, the plush, freestanding mattress had been shredded, and its swollen contents made the chamber appear to be full of the primordial ancestors of the main chamber's fungal growths. 

The wreckage held little interest for Joram. It would have been thoroughly sifted through by PlanSec. It was not likely there would beany-thing for him to find. In fact, he was looking for one crucial thing the security forces were less likely to detect, and he'd already seen it. 

From the bedchamber, he recovered an intact low table. He positioned this beside the front viewport, put the lamp atop it, swung the arm out so that the glowrod was directly in front of thetransparisteel, and switched the lamp on. The glowrod was still intact, and suddenly the main chamber was illuminated. 

The light was risky. There might still be security personnel on duty watching this place. 

The lamp was a signalling device, used in a standard procedure to signal an agent's local resources. It was plausibly a reading lamp; Teeks could sit in the sofa-chair beside the viewport, keep the lamp arm near him, and read. But when circumstances called for it, he'd swing the arm out so that it shone in the viewport, as Joram had just done. 

Joram sat in the ruined chair. He drew his blaster and waited. 

A knock, light and tentative, awoke Joram. He reached over to turn the glowrod off, then called, "It's not sealed." 

The hallway door opened. A diminutive male stood there, his silhouetted features indistinct. He moved in quickly, letting the door slide shut behind him. "Greetings," the man said, his voice deep, out of proportion to his small stature. "I'm not sure I have the correct building. I've come about the rental quarters?" 

"No need for a cover story," Joram said. "The lamp signal was deliberate. You're a local working with Teeks. What do I call you?" 

The silhouette sagged just a little, perhaps in relief. "Tharb." 

"I don't think I've run into that name before." 

"It's not a name. It's a code name. It's a bug. A Tarhassan bug." 

"Ah. How long has it been since you've been compensated?" 

"Since Teeks was taken." 

With his free hand, Joram fished around in a pocket and brought up some credchips, generic ones he'd exchanged for gold at the spaceport, not traceable to him. He calculated their value against what he knew were standard rates for local informer services and put two of them on the table with the lamp. "You can have these when I'm gone." 

"Thank you." 

"Why was Teeks taken?" 

Tharb shrugged. "PlanSec investigators showed up at the restaurant, Corgan's Gustatorium, where I usually make exchanges with him. I happened to be there." 

You work there, Joram decided. Now Icon find you again. 

"They asked very specific questions about his visits to the restaurant, about anyone he might have met there regularly." 

But no one could remember any patron he met regularly. And since you're free, no one remembered that you were his regular server. 

"I raced over here as soon as I could get free, but I was delayed by circumstances." 

You hod to wait until you' shift was over. 

"And I saw them take him." 

Joram considered. "By any chance, did you follow them when they took him away?" 

"Yes, I did." 

Joram added another two credchips to the little pile on the table. Either you sold him out and risked nothing by following them, or you're a daring resource and we badly want to keep you. "Where did they take him?" 

"The main office of Planetary Security, downtown." 

Jorarn managed to keep an expression of dismay off his face-an irrelevant effort, since his visitor couldn't see his features in the dark. Cherek, for all the wrong reasons, had been right about where Teeks was. It was going to hurt like hell to admit that. "Is there anything you can tell me about that building?" 

"I can give you partial plans. Main entrance, interrogation areas, holding areas. Nothing about the vehicle bays, computer areas, anything like that.'' 

You're an ex-convict who's been there as a prisoner, and are now working as a food server, Joram thought. "Good. On your data pad?" 

"On my data pad." 

Joram brought out his own datapad. "Beam it over." 

Joram and Mapper reentered Cherek's quarters some three hours after they'd left. Mapper, coached in the role he was now to play, kept his features cold and still. Cherek, Tinian, and Livintius regarded the two of them with expressions mixing admiration with dread. Tmian's manner was weighted more toward horror as she watched Mapper. Joram smiled. Their expressions would really become alarmed if they knew that the supposed victim lay wrapped in blankets m the utilities shed of an abandoned construction site, sleeping off her drug-induced stupor 

"It's done," Joram said. 

"About time. I hope Joram didn't slow you down too much. Mapper." Cherek gestured at the chamber's table, which now was only half-covered with snack food. The other half was littered with sheets of flimsi covered in hand-scrawled notes. "We do have a plan for the next stage of the investigation. Voted on, sealed, and approved." 

"Sorry we didn't wait for you," Livintius said. "But we were all in agreement..." 

"And with three voting in unison, our votes weren't needed," Joram said. "But I have some news. I hope it doesn't interfere with your operational plans." 

Cherek looked offended by the possibility. "What news?" 

"The Renkel woman confessed all before the poison took hold." Joram offered up a shudder at the pretended memory. "She admitted that she'd turned in her lover to PlanSec. He's being interrogated at the mam facility. You were right all along, Cherek." 

"I knew that." 

"So what's our plan?" Mapper asked. 

"Well, there are holes in it," Cherek said There was weary admission in his voice. "And until we plug them, we can't launch our rescue. For instance, we need to know the layout of the building." 

"Oh, I have that," Mapper said. "It was on Renkel's datapad. Just the section of the building she was familiar with. The cells and interrogation areas, mostly." 

Cherek came half up out of his chair. "You still have that?" 

"Of course. I took all her personal effects to dispose of separately. They're still in the speeder." 

Cherek's smile suggested that he was ready to adopt Mapper and make him his heir. "Good work. Livintius, fill him in." 

The academic Falleen preened, happy to be the center of attention. "Item One, Sub-Item A, Summary: Rescue Edbit Teeks from Planetary Security Building. Sub-Item B, Resources, The five of us, one rental air-speeder, this set of rented quarters, personal weapons and gear. Mapper, do you have explosives?" 

"I do. We have only half a dozen shaped charges, though, all I could smuggle in." 

"That might do.... Sub-Item C, Procedures. Dress one of us in simulated PlanSec uniform. That one accomplishes entry into PfanSec building, makes his way to an unobserved exterior portal, and admits the others. Seize PlanSec personnel and force them to lead the way to Teeks'cell. Force open Teeks' cell, Exit building; necessary improvisation here. Exit vicinity. Make immediate trip to spaceport for extraction." 

"And now that we have a real, not simulated, PlanSec uniform," Cherek said, "we know who's going to perform the initial intrusion. If you're up to it, Tinian. You're the only one even close to Renkel's size." 

Tinian considered, then nodded. "I'll do it. That woman gave her life so that Teeks could be rescued. I'm not going 10 let that be a waste." 

Her tone surprised Joram. Renkel's supposed death had obviously shattered her naivete. There may be some hope for you after all, he decided. 

But he had to find some way to accompany her into the PlanSec buildings. Otherwise, she was not likely to get out alive. 

In what elsewhere was the quietest hour before the golden-orange Tarhassan dawn, the landspeeder lane in front of the Planetary Security building was busy with a shift change. 

Tinian gulped, exited the airspeeder, and mingled with the crowd. She marched up the green duracrete stair? to the building's arched entrance. Closely following Mapper's instructions, she walked fast but not conspicuously so, her attention apparently on the datapad in her hand, 

As she neared the main entryway, she held up Renkel's identity disk, waving it with simulated unconcern in front of the sensor, and passed into the lobby. 

There was no alarm, no outcry, no sudden surge of officers toward the lobby. Joram, in the back seat, realized that he was holding his breath. Finally he let it out. 

"No matter how many times you do this, it's never easy, huh?" asked Cherek. His tone suggested that he was one weary veteran talking to another. 

Joram gestured toward the entrance. "Let's stay here to see if any-thing bad happens." 

"No, let's get to our waiting point." Cherek put the airspeeder in motion, moving a block down the landspeeder lane, pulling it to the streetside around the first corner. 

Cherek's comlink beeped, indicating an incoming signal. He pulled it from its clip on his lapel. This is Grimtaash-One, go." 

Tin ian's voice, hushed, came across the comlink's tiny speaker: "I'm in the basement." 

"That was fast. Basement? You're supposed to be headed toward the cell block." 

"I found out my identity disk doesn't get me into the secure hall to the building's interior. But I saw a worker coming out of a door to the basement near the hall access. I kept the door from closing and he didn't notice. There's no one clown here. I can move around without being seen." 

"Tinian," Cherek's voice was a pained whine. "That... wasn't... the plan. " 

"I know, I'm sorry. That was all I could do." 

Cherek's lips moved silently, and Joram recognized that the man was counting to ten again. This time Cherek got to fifteen before he said, "What about accesses?" 

"I've found one door frame already, but it's blocked with a duracrete slab. It's hard to rnove dround down here. It's all caged areas filled with boxes of what 1 think is old evidence and files." They heard a quiet, high-pitched sneeze over the cotnlmk. "Sorry. Dusty, too." 

"Let me know when you've got something we can use. Grimtaash-One, out." Cherek replaced the comlink on his lapel, then looked confused. "Did I call her Grimtaash-Two, or by her name, the first time?" 

Mapper said, "Her name." 

Cherek began counting again. 

"I have a door," Cherek's lapel whispered. "It's heavy metal and it has all sorts of monitoring devices on it." 

Cherek undipped the comlink again. "Good, good. I'm going to give you to Mapper. Maybe Mapper can talk you through disabling them. Mapper's a good agent." 

Mapper asked Tinian questions about the security array on the door, then began providing detailed instructions on how to deal with the devices. Joram half-listened but kept most of his attention on the surrounding speeders and pedestrians. Traffic was increasing, and four people sitting for a protracted period in a parked airspeeder would eventually become conspicuous. 

"I think I've got it," Tinian said.'The last display is green now. It reads 'Clear.'" 

"Good job," Mapper said. "I'm giving you back to the boss." He handed the comlink over. 'The door's about halfway along the north wall. She hears speeder traffic, so it's exterior," 

"We're coming for you, Grimtaash-Two," Cherek said. He exited the airspeeder. Mapper and Joram followed. Livintius scooted over to be behind the controls. He had been thrilled to be made the speeder-man, the unit's getaway specialist, for this operation, 

On the short walkover, Cherek said, "Now, how do we get from the basement to the cell block?" 

They walked in silence for a minute while Joram formulated his response. Finally he said, "I have an idea-a partial idea, anyway. But there's a problem with it that I just can't work out. So it probably won't succeed." 

"Probably not," Cherek agreed. "Let's hear it." 

"We have Livintius watch the front entrance for a few minutes. At the point a unit of PlanSec agents brings in one or more prisoners, we have Tinian and another one of us stand by at the basement door, peeking out. She and the other fall in behind the agents and their prisoner, and see if they can get into the secure hall on their shirttails. Livintius can run back to the speeder then." 

"Ah," Cherek said. "But Tinian's the only one of us in uniform. Even if they let her in, why would they let the other one in'" 

"He's her prisoner, see. Hands bound behind his back, he puts on a perpetrator face... you know." 

Cherek nodded, considering. "So what's the insoluble problem with this plan?" 

"Well, of the three of us, none of us is dumb enough looking, or disreputable enough looking, to pass as a criminal." 

"Ah." Cherek thought about that as they turned the corner, crossed the narrow traffic lane between the security building and the building adjacent to it, and reached what had to be the access to Tinian's door - a flight of duracrete steps descending into shadow.The three of them looked around, making sure that no one was watching, and trotted down the stairs. 

Chetek said, "Joram, it's time for you to redeem yourself. I'm sure you can pull off that role. It's almost no acting required." 

Joram made his voice light, his tone naive. "You really think so?" 

"I do." Cherek clapped him on the shoulder, then capped on the door. 

Her hand on the small of his back, occasionally shoving to propel him forward, Tinian kept Joram close behind the trio of uniformed PlanSec agents and their prisoner, a spindly woman who persisted in complaining that she'd divorced the man, that he was now remarried on Corellia, that she had no Republic leanings. 

The secure portions of the building seemed packed with PlanSec agents, all energetic, all discussing the war to come. Snatches of defense plans, evacuation plans, and retaliation plans drifted past. Joram knew that he had to be pallid and sweating but decided that it would merely lend authenticity to bis role. 

Then they were past the first set of offices and cross-corridors, leaving most of the crowd behind. 

A uniformed officer up ahead-tall, balding, with a build like an athlete twenty years younger than his apparent age-noticed them. "What'ya got there, guardswoman?" 

"Prisoner delivery," Tinian said. "From Dandahass, that's my station. Thisguy was named by one of your prisoners and wants to work a deal. He's a Republic Intelligence contact," 

"One of our prisoners?" The officer eyed Joram speculatively. Joram held his gaze for a moment but then broke eye contact as if unable to withstand the man's stare. 

They were close enough now to the man that Tinian could drop her tone. "Yes, your guy is..." She consulted her datapad, unnecessarily. "EdbitTeeks. This one, VarpoPrabb, admits to being his main connection among native Tarhassians." 

"Good, good."The officer gestured for them to follow, then led them down the corridor. 'Teeks. Fine work. Come into my office." 

Joram and Tinian followed, Joram taking a; fast an impression as he could of the office. He saw a semi-opaque viewport for privacy, chairs that seemed skeletal compared to all rhe others he'd encountered here, a desk heaped with stacks of reports, datachips, odd-shaped knickknacks. 

For the moment, they were out of sight of anyone in the hallway, Tinian drew her blaster-Renkel's blaster. "Don't move." 

The officer froze. Joram could see him calculating-was it worth it to shout and warn his fellows when it might mean death? Was there any chance this woman would hesitate, not fire at all' 

Joram kneed the officer in the groin, putting all his mass into it. The officer folded forward. His groan was loud enough to carry, but the noise from the hallway was also loud. Joram twisted his wrists out of the bonds loosely wrapped around them and tapped the wall button; the door slid shut with a whoosh. Then he took a metal model of a PlanSec corvette from the desktop and brought it down on the back of the man's head. It took three blows, but the officer finally fell unconscious. 

"Joram, I'm not sure I'm fit to do this," Tinian said. Her voice was shaky. She looked at the blaster in her hand as if puzzling out what to do with it next. "I'm not a killer like you and Mapper." 

"We're not killers like us, either." Joram weighed matters. Compartmentalizing information was usually a good idea, but not when it caused distrust among a Hies one depended on for survival. 'The Renkel woman is still alive." 

"What?" 

"She is.Cherek and Livintius don't know. Listen, you're doing fine. Get this man's restraints from his beit clip and bind him. Then gag him." Joram reached down to pull the man's datapad from his belt pouch. "Let's find Teeks. " 

At this hour, the second-floor cell and interrogation area were lightly guarded and trafficked. Tinian, again working her prisoner-delivery story, put Joram in front of an outer-perimeter guard, then an inner-perimetei guard. Each time, while pretending to hand the guard her datapad with the documents on her prisoner, she lured the guard into reaching through the bars for it. Joram grabbed each man in turn, dragged him into the bars, and held him there while Tinian stunned him with Renkel's blaster. Then the identity disk of the officer they'd captured downstairs gave them access into the detention area beyond. 

Finally, they stood outside the cell marked with the number that corresponded to Teeks. Joram could see through the transparisteel panel in the door; a middle-aged man of medium build, a light and unkempt beard on his face, dressed in prisoner pastel violet, was asleep on the cell's bunk. On the far wall, a high viewport admitted exterior light. Joram waved the officer's identity disk in front of the door sensor, but its readout remained resolutely red. 

Joram keyed hiscomlink. "Grimtaash-Five to One, come in." 

"This is Grimtaash-Four." It was Mapper's voice, 

"Four, where's One?" 

"Asleep." 

Joram grinned. "How'd that happen?" 

"I didn't make him any promises, Five. He bumped his head," 

"Right. We're just outside the pickup point. We're going to need a distraction as soon as possible. A big, loud one. Do that, then exit. We'll becoming out on the north face, too. Three, are you ready to stand by?" 

"Moving into position." Livintius's voice was unnaturally high. "What do you mean, he's sleeping?" 

"Well, he's waking up. Still a bit groggy. And he's going to be rnad. I'll be ready with your distraction in thirty seconds." 

"Set it off, don't wait for further instructions." Joram pocketed his comlink, then began setting up his explosive charge on the cell door. 

Moments later, there was a muffled boom from below. It seemed tc have little effect. There was a faint vibration in the floor, but there were no shrieks, no rattling of ceilings and walls, no cascades of duracrete dust from above. 

Then the sirens started. They were shrill whooping noises, a constant cycle of auditory pain. The comlink Joram had stolen from the unconscious officer blared with its own message: "Intruders, basement level. We've had an explosion event. Repeat, an explosion event." 

Suddenly there was a face on the other side of the viewport: Teeks, awake but sleepy, confused. Joram keyed the comlink on the door. "Teeks, get against the far wall, cover yourself with your mattress." 

Teeks nodded and disappeared. 

Joram set the timer on his charge, then he and Tinian withdrew along the corridor and around the first corner. Faces now filled most of the cell viewports. Some of these men and women were hammering, others talking, some pleading with nothing but their expressions. Joram ignored them. 

He and Tinian were barely in place when the charge blew, hurling metal fragments all along the corridor. They rushed back into the cell. 

Teeks rose from behind his improvised barrier. 'Tell me this is a rescue. " 

"This is a rescue," Joram said. "I'm Joram. This is Tinian." He slapped his other explosive charge on the exterior wall just beside Teeks' knees, He set the timer for thirty seconds. "Tinian, cover the hallway." 

Teeks moved away from the new explosive. He took his mattress with him. "Do you know anything about my girlfriend? Is she under suspicion? Underarrest?" 

"No, she's not. She's safe." Joram moved away from the explosive, watched its timer count down, and something clicked into place for him. Renkel should be under suspicion. The fact that she's not suggests that PlanSec's certain that she's innocent. Which they shouldn't. Unless they have inside information about Teeks'personal life and knew she wasn't part of his team. But how would they know that and yet not know to pickup contacts like Thoib? 

An agent would include personal details in his reports, but keep information about his resources, his contacts, secret. 

So PlanSec has access to information from Teeks'reports to his Intelligence superior. Maybe to the reports themselves. 

Tinian said, 

"Five." 

"What?" 

"Four," she said. 

"Oh." Joram joined her and Teeks behind the mattress. 

"Three. Two. One," 

The wall blew out, this explosion sending duracrete dust into the air-mostly outward. Before the echoes had faded, Joram ran forward and peered out through the hole. 

Below, the walkway and landspeeder lane were littered with-chunks of duracrete, Cherek's rented airspeeder was parked twenty meters off to the right, directly in front of the basement doorway access. Mapper and Cherek, the latter staggering slightly, were already emerging from the stairwell. 

"Are you ft for a one-story drop?" Joram asked. He had to shout; his hearing wasn't what it should be, and be assumed that the hearing of his companions was similarly affected. 

"Rather too late to ask," Teeks shouted. "But yes." 

"After you," Tinian shouted. 

Joram slid feet-first through the hole, its broken edges scraping across his back, and dropped. He landed on the unyielding walkway and continued his motion into a forward roll, a little clumsy-his back would be bruised tomorrow. But it was better than having a broken ankle or twisted knee. He stood. 

Teeks hit the walkway behind him. rolled nimbly to his feet, and gestured up for Tinian to follow. 

Ahead, Mapper, on the street side of the airspeeder, and Cherek, on the walkway side, had its doors open. 

Then a uniformed PlanSec officer, a young man with dark hair, leaped as if catapulted up from the basement stairway and planted his blaster in Cherek's side. Even with his diminished hearing, Joram could hear the man's shout of: 

"Do not move!" 

Joram grimaced. It was amateur against amateur. No well-trained guardsman with a blaster would get that close to a perpetrator. And Cherek didn't have the sense to-Cherek raised his hands as if to surrender, then made a move to knock the blaster aside. 

The guardsman fired. Cherek, his chest smoking, a surprised look on his face, fell. The guardsman adjusted his aim toward Mapper and Livintius. 

Tinian's blaster shot struck him across the neck and shoulders. The man jerked and fell. 

Mapper bad Cherek in the back seat before Joram and the others reached the airspeeder. Livintius had the airspoeder in motion before they'd dogged the doors closed. 

And they had a kilometer between them and the PlanSec building before the first security speeder left the building. 

Mapper straightened from beside Cherek: bed. They were back in the dubious and temporary security of Cherek's chambers. "I think he'll live," Mapper said. 

But Cherek did not respond to the hopeful pronouncement; his chest bandaged, his eyes closed, he remained in the sleep of the badly injured. 

Teeks rose from the room's puffy chair. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but you'd better get off-world before they bave enough information to catch you." 

"We can't leave him," Livintius said. He continued to eye Jofam with suspicion, as if Joram had shot Cherek by remote control. 

"Yes, you can," Teeks said. "Get him into the speeder and I'll take him to a safe house. I have safe houses, cover identities, money accounts all over." 

Livintius shook his head. "They're found to be compromised. By your dead lover." 

"Zazana doesn't know anything about my work." Teeks shrugged, "I expect to tell her about it when I propose to her." 

Livintius pointed an accusing finger at Joram. "You didn't tell him..." 

Joram put a finger to his lips to sbush the academic. 

Joram didn't begin to relax until he could see Tarhassan shrinking in the holocam view on the screen in the transport's main cabin. In minutes, they'd be jumping to hyper space, headed for a planet that remained neutral as war flared up all around it. From there, they could make their way back to Coruscant. Meanwhile, he'd privately warned Teeks against communicating with Republic Intelligence or accessing accounts he'd mentioned in his reports-at least, not until Joram could form an impression of how Teeks had been exposed. 

The sound of tapping distracted him from the screen. He looked over to seeTinian working on berdatapad. "What's this?" 

She gave him a smile. 

"My report," 

"What?" He looked down at its diminutive screen. "It's not in proper outline format. Nor do I see any contributions from Livintius." 

"He can file his own report. In the meantime, mine will become the official truth of the mission to Tarhassan." 

"What is the official truth? So my truth matches your truth, that is." 

"Cherek planned, Livintius and I researched, you and Mapper executed, all until the big show at the end. Then we all executed and Cherek got shot playing hero. I also mention that Livintius, Cherek, and I could use more training, some mentoring by senior agents. In any case, everybody did good." 

"Did well," Joram corrected, absently. "You learn fast." 

"I suspect I'm going to need to," 

He reached over to shake her band. 

"Welcome to Intelligence."

Star Wars 

Star Wars Insider 

N 65 

The Clone Wars 

The Pengalan Tradeoff 

By: Aaron Allston 



############################################################################### 

The bang beneath his feet was strong enough to bounce Joram Kithe up onto his tiptoes. He came down off-balance and was afraid that he'd pitch out the open starboard side of the gunship, onto the rocky terrain rolling by at five hundred kilometers an hour. But the vehicle's inertial compensator kept its grip on him, restoring his balance. 

Joram glanced at the other men in the troop hold. Most were staring out the starboard access, There weren't as many as there had been four hours ago, when the gunship, part of the complement of the assault ship Sea Legacy, had set down on Pengalan IV. Then, they'd been a full platoon-plus Joram. Now, there were perhaps fifteen left, men with heat-scarred clone trooper armor, expended ammunition clips, injuries ranging from minor to life threatening. 

Not that they complained. Clone troopers didn't complain. At least, they didn't in the presence of observers. 

The platoon's lieutenant, his armor distinguished by the blue stripes of his rank, leaned back through the hatch that led into the forward compartments. His voice crackled through Joram's headset. Joram pressed the headset tighter to his ears; he was in civilian dress, so he didn't have a helmet to cut down on the sound made by the wind. 

"Our comlink is damaged," the lieutenant said. "Sea Legacy is still not receiving us. But we're receiving them. We'll reach them in time for extraction." 

"What was that last bang?" Joram asked. 

"Missile impact from a ground station." The lieutenant's tone suggested that he was unconcerned. 'The warhead didn't detonate. The pilot says the impact changed our performance characteristics. Either an engine is failing or the missile is still protruding from our underside, increasing drag." 

"Wonderful." 

Scuttlebutt aboard Sea Legacy had it that the last transmission of a Republic Intelligence agent on Pengalan IV reported that Count Dooku's Confederacy was set up here, manufacturing experimental diamond boron missiles designed to shoot down Republic starfighters. These missiles could tip the balance of power toward the Confederacy in this new war. Sea Legacy's sensors had shown a longdecommissioned manufacturing plant, the world's most significant industrial site, to be operational, its furnaces fired up and internal machinery working ... and its exterior protected by shield projectors that were distinctly inappropriate for a civilian industry. So, four hours ago, the assault ship had set down on the planet's surface and its scores of gunships had deployed toward the facility. 

The platoon Joram was assigned to was one of the advance forces. Its gunship had set down within walking distance of the facility an hour before dawn. The platoon, separated into squadrons, had gone on foot to the plant, silently scouted the site, found the points where the overlapping shields gapped to allow plant workers easy access, and communicated its findings to the rest of the troops. Demolitions experts from an engineering unit had arrived and crept into the site, planting their explosives, getting clear, setting them off - 

Certainly, the shields had gone down. Certainly, the Republic gunships had roared in to finish the job. But everything had gone wrong. 

The shields had sprung to life again. Joram, from his position of relative safety near the gunship, had watched in disbelief as missiles and turret lasers had stopped mid-flight, blunted by shimmering air. The foremost gunships, too close to maneuver, had crashed into those energy barriers, crumpling or exploding. 

Joram, although no soldier, hadn't needed a military advisor to grasp what was happening. The shield projectors destroyed by the engineers had been secondary projector terminals slaved to complete units elsewhere on the facility. It was a trap, and the trap was fully sprung when the pair of Geonosian-built corvettes-bronze-skinned, with a pointed prow split like a set of tweezers, characteristic of the Geonosian engineers-rose from one of the world's numerous canyons and opened fire. Trade Federation droid starfighters had roared in, strafing. 

It had been a slaughter. Gunship after gunship had gone down. 

In the Republic forces' retreat, Joram had seen acts of bravery and skill he considered extraordinary. Some of the combat engineers who had destroyed the false shield projectors had penetrated deeper into the facility; before being killed, they reported that there were no missile fabrication systems here, just machinery activated to provide distant sensors with a suspicious signal to detect. Gunship pilots had swooped down to make daring rescues of clone troopers. Whole units remained behind to provide covering fire for escaping craft. The retreat was not as orderly as the approach had been, but it was nearly as efficient. 

Ironically, Joram's personal mission had been a success. He'd seen the troops operating at the height of chaos and had found them to be courageous and effective, everything the Republic could hope for in its new army. He thought he had enough data for his report. 

Another impact hurled Joram upward, snapping him back to the here-and-now. This time he crashed into the ceiling of the troop bay and was held there, sharp pain cracking through his head. In his peripheral vision, he saw the aftmost portion of the bay filled with blinding brightness that consumed the trio of troopers who had been standing there. 

The landscape outside the starboard access was rotating, a dizzying vision like something from an amusement facility's thrill ride. Distantly, dimly, he heard someone shout, "Eject! Eject!"  

"Negative, we can bring it in-"  

"Initiating uncontrolled touchdown procedures." Finally, most ominous of all: "Brace for impact." 

<<<>>> 

Joram awoke with the sun in his eyes. 

It seemed that all his eighty kilos of mass had just spent hours being tenderized by a chef. Where he didn't ache, he cramped, and his first, foolish attempt to sit up caused his back to arch in a spasm that nearly made him black out again. 

"Civilian's awake." 

"Good." 

Joram didn't know which clone was speaking; he couldn't recognize their voices. Actually, that wasn't true-but they all had the same voice. They pitched their voices differently for different situationslouder and deeper when exerting authority or dominance, quieter when acknowledging orders, a sort of bland neutrality when seeking to conceal their thoughts-but every one of them sounded the same. 

Joram merely grunted, and as the spasm ebbed, he tried again to sit up, this time using his arms for support. it worked and he came upright. 

Forty meters or so ahead of him lay the ruins of the gunship. Once a long boxy thing with stabilizing wings, it now looked like something a giant had drunk from and then crumpled into a loose ball. It lay at the bottom of a cliff, and Joram could see a corresponding cliff about a hundred meters to his left. They'd crashed into one of Pengalan's numberless canyons. 

He could see living clone troopers nearby, at the wreckage and beyond. Joram counted six of them. Good. He could still count. Counting was what he was good at. The troopers had laid out the bodies of their fellows in a straight line only a few steps from where Joram sat. Some of the survivors were picking among the gunship ruins; others were ranging farther down the canyon or using field shovels to dig graves nearby. 

The gravediggers had their helmets off, revealing identical features --dark, brooding, dangerous-looking. Joram had been put off by their looks until he'd realized just how passive most of them were when not engaged in battle. "What's our situation, Trooper?" Joram asked the nearest. 

The trooper straightened from his task. He was a moment in replying. The clone troopers always seemed to take a moment when answering Joram, or any civilian. 

"Seven of us still alive," the trooper answered. "Plus you. One has damage that will limit his mobility. The gunship's a loss. All weapons systems out. Repulsorlifts inoperable. Speeder bikes wrecked. Medical droid destroyed." 

"Or so we think," the other gravedigger corrected. "We can't get to the compartment where it was stowed, but it was pretty thoroughly crushed." 

Joram managed to get to his feet and stood on wobbly legs. "Is anything still working?" 

Both men nodded in unison. "The inertial compensator," said the first one. "It can still run off battery power. It's what kept us alive during the crash. And during the roll down the cliff." With his shovel, he gestured up the cliff side. Fifty meters up there was a clear burn mark to indicate where the gunship had hit. 

"Did the lieutenant make it?" 

The first gravedigger shook his head. 

"Who's in charge, then?" 

Both troopers shook their heads. "We're still working that out, sir," the first said. "There are only troopers left. The procedures say that the oldest has seniority, but we're all the same age. We then default to the trooper with the highest educational level, but no one has a clear advantage there." 

The second gravedigger summed up: "So we drew strands." 

The first gravedigger turned to Joram. "Feeling better?" 

"Yes, thank you." 

The trooper held his shovel out to Joram, handle first. "Then dig." 

Joram frowned. "I don't think so." 

The trooper smiled. "All of us are banged up, so you can't opt out on account of physical condition. We're military, and you're a civilian, But we won't do it if we don't have to. If we don't, though, it doubles so under these circumstances you're attached to us in an inferior our travel time." capacity. Dig." 

Joram reached under his tunic and pulled out the object held on the chain around his neck. It was an oversized locket bearing the Republic insignia -- a symbol like a cross-section of a gear with eight sprockets, surrounded by a dotted line. Joram popped it open and presented the datacard held within it. On the card's surface was a holo of Joram's face; below that were lines of information. "Sorry, guys. I'm temporarily a lieutenant with Republic Intelligence. Meaning I can opt out on account of rank." 

Both troopers snapped to a salute. The one who'd been holding out his shovel dropped it and winced as it hit the ground. 

"Uh, as you were, I guess." Jorarn waited until the second gravedigger retrieved his shovel. "So which one is the guy in charge?" 

The first digger gave him a curious look. "That would be you, sir." 

"Uh, no. This identicard just means I'm outside your command structure."

"Great." Joram heaved a sigh. "Back to my original question. Which one of you was in charge until just a moment ago?" 

<<<>>> 

They summoned another trooper, indistinguishable from the rest, and at Joram's request, he explained their situation. "The Sea Legacy has to have lifted, sir, so we're stranded on Pengalan IV. Procedure gives us two branching paths to choose between. The goal of the first is surrender; the second is escape. I was going to set us down the escape path." 

"I like the sound of that," Joram said. "I'm a career coward. So what do procedures dictate that we do?" 

"Step One: Destroy any materiel we don't want to fall into enemy hands. I've got one of the men rigging a warhead in the wreckage now. Step Two: Time allowing, bury our dead." The trooper nodded toward the line of graves. "Step Three: Get clear of pursuit. Step Four: Signal our command structure. Since we can't, we go down a new branch. Step Four-Sub-One: Get to a transportation center and acquire a means to rejoin our unit." 

Joram nodded. "Pretty straightforward. How soon is pursuit likely to get to us, and how far is it to the nearest transportation center?" 

"Pursuit, unknown. There's a trooper at the cliff top with a pair of macrobinoculars watching for incoming vehicles. Distance, about a hundred kilometers back to the assault site, which is likely to be loaded with unfriendlies, and a little more, about a hundred and twenty clicks, to the nearest inhabited community, Tur Lorkin." 

Joram thought about that. "Let's say we chose Tur Lorkin. That's still three or four days marching through hot, difficult terrain." 

"More than that, sir, unless we sacrifice our injured man. Let him be captured or put him down ourselves. He can't walk." 

"'Put him down."' Joram winced at the cold-blooded terminology. "How do you feel about the prospect of putting him down, trooper?" 

The trooper looked uneasy. "lf we have to, it's his duty, and ours, sir. But we won't do it if we don't have to. If we don't, though, it doubles our travel time." 

"I have an idea," Joram said. He described it. 

The trooper frowned. "Sir, that's not approved procedure." 

<<<>>> 

Joram lay in the shade under an overhang of rock, peering down at the wreckage of the gunship. He held a clone trooper blaster rifle. 

He wished he could have appropriated a set of trooper armor, too, but he was centimeters taller than the troopers, narrower in the shoulders, leaner overall. Even his face was leaner and more angular, with features that were friendlier, less intimidating. The form-fitted trooper armor would chafe in some directions, be loose in others, and make him awkward while walking. 

Below, all signs that there had been survivors had been erasedall but the presence of a clone trooper, backing away from the wreckage, using a handful of vegetation to erase footprints from the sand-like canyon soil. That trooper had reactivated the wreckage's inertial compensator, a power surge that nearby Confederacy sensors should be able to detect. 

The shallow graves had been smoothed over by the gravediggers. The armor belonging to the dead, now empty, was strewn about the wreckage site, indistinguishable at more than a few dozen meters from bodies thrown clear of a crashing gunship. 

The trooper who had briefly led the survivors of this unit lay beside Joram. Joram cleared his throat to ask a question, then thought better of it. He'd meant to ask, "What's your name?" But clone troopers didn't have names, just alphanumeric designations. Come to think of it, how was Joram supposed to keep straight which trooper was which? 

"Trooper," Joram said, "it's time for you and the others to have nicknames." 

The trooper looked at him suspiciously. "Sir, nicknames aren't procedure-" 

"Oh, yes, they are. They're unofficial procedure. Besides, following orders is procedure, and I'm ordering you to corne up with a nickname for yourself. Then you and I are going to come up with nicknames for the others, and maybe figure out ways to make you visually distinct... without bending procedures too far." 

The trooper opened his mouth. Joram, knowing what he was about to say, shot him a look -- he didn't want to hear "But that's not procedure" again. The trooper shut his mouth again. 

After several minutes, during which slow, strong winds rustled along the canyon top and spilled sand down the cliff slopes, the trooper asked, "What is a nickname supposed to be like?" 

"Well, usually it points to one of your features that is distinctive, or some event from your past that is more about you than anyone else. What is unique about you?" 

"I lost a tooth once." He opened his mouth wide and pointed at an upper molar. It looked no different from the corresponding molar on the other side. "They fixed it, but it was out for awhile. One of my platoon mates struck me harder than he meant to in hand-to-hand combat training, and out it came." 

"Well, that's something. Now you can be Tooth. See?" 

"I see. Tooth." The trooper probed at the restored molar with his tongue. "if I may ask, sir... 

"Go ahead." 

"What's your nickname?" 

"Well, I've had several. Most often, Dodge." 

"Because that was your greatest proficiency in martial training?" 

"No, because my greatest proficiency has always been in getting out of work assignments.' 

"Oh." Tooth frowned, thinking that over. 

Mentally, Joram kicked himself. That sort of admission, which entertained most people, probably wouldn't go over too well with this unit of hard-working soldiers. 

A stone fell past his place of concealment and hit the soil below. It was followed by another, then a third, at quick regular intervals. 

Tooth pulled his helmet on. Joram moved handfuls of vegetation -- dry, root-like tangles recently harvested from another part of the canyon wall -- to conceal the two of them. 

The rocks were a signal from the clone trooper atop the cliff, who should now be concealing himself. Joram had expressly forbidden use of comlinks while they were at this site; their use might be detected. 

For another few minutes Joram and Tooth lay silent. The wind above kicked more sand down on the canyon floor, sometimes sending little streams of it past their place of concealment. 

Finally Joram heard a faint roar, and a figure mounted on a flying apparatus rode into view from the left-the west. The figure was spindly and distorted in comparison with human proportions, and the device it rode was similarly spare. It consisted of a vertical housing, obviously kept aloft by a combination of repulsorlifts and thrusters, with brackets for the feet, handlebars for the hands, forward-mounted blasters, and not much else, not even a seat or windscreen. This was the Single Trooper Aerial Platform, or STAP, designed for use by Trade Federation battle droids. Joram doubted a human being could even fly the thing. 

Its operator was a battle droid, the sort Joram had seen in the holos, with a head like a drooping game fowl bill, a short-barreled blaster weapon held by a sling to its back. It stopped the STAP twenty meters from the gunship's wreckage and dismounted, leaving the thing hovering there. It advanced toward the nearest set of empty clone trooper armor, its billhead turning from side to side. 

The battle droid deliberately aimed and fired a single blast into the faceplate of the clone trooper helmet. The blast burned through. A plume of black smoke rose from the helmet. Methodically, the droid aimed at the other figures lying near the wreckage and fired at each; its blasts battered and blackened the empty suits of armor. 

Satisfied, the droid advanced on the gunship. A moment later, Joram heard the drone of more oncoming craft. More droid-operated STAPs roared in from the west-ten, by Joram's quick count, two units of five flanking a lumbering, disk-shaped airspeeder at least four meters in diameter. 

Joram smiled. Here was transport they could actually use. 

The STAPs stopped near the one left by the advance scout and their riders dismounted. The droid operating the airspeeder set it down nearby. It did not leave its vehicle but did stand to obtain better visibility and held its blaster at the ready. 

Joram could feel Tooth's gaze on him. Joram had made it absolutely clear that no trooper was to fire before he did, and now was the time. 

He checked his blaster rifle to make sure that its safety mechanism was disengaged. Carefully, he moved the vegetation aside so he could move forward a few more centimeters. He aimed at the droid nearest, but not on, the speeder, and pulled the trigger. 

His blaster bolt hit the sand next to the droid, missing by a handful of centimeters. 

But a fraction of a second later, seven more bolts leaped out from the clone troopers' positions of concealment -- vegetation-shrouded stands of rocks, the top of the cliff, mounds of sand as artfully draped as any child's sand citadel, and precisely placed chunks of gunship wreckage. Seven battle droids exploded into irredeemable trash in that instant, including the one on the airspeeder, hit expertly from the side by one of the troopers half-buried in sand. 

The other five battle droids spun, brought up their weapons, sought out targets-and clone trooper blasts converged on them. The five droids were torn to metallic shreds, parts of them bouncing across the canyon floor. 

Joram let out a thoroughly unmilitary whoop. 

<<<>>> 

The airspeeder, with Tooth at the controls, with Joram, the other troopers, and two STAPs piled into the back, rose into the air and headed eastward. Behind them, the wreckage of the gunship detonated as the warhead the troopers had activated finally counted down to zero. Chunks of metal flew up nearly the height of the cliffs, reached the apex of their flights, and descended as burning fireballs. "What now, sir?" Tooth asked. "Head to Tur Lorkin?" 

"Close." Joram leaned back against the airspeeder's rail next to the controls. The speeder had no seats, but he could stretch out his legs and let the wind rush across him. "We need to keep to the canyons to make it harder for flyovers to spot us. Who's your navigator?" 

The troopers, all with helmets off, exchanged looks. 

"No navigator." Joram sighed. "Who has a working datapad with a planetary map?" 

The most seriously injured trooper, whose broken leg had been braced and splinted, raised a hand. 

"All right," Joram said. "You, plot us a route that will keep us in the canyons until we get as close as possible to Tur Lorkin. When we get there, we'll bounce out of the canyon, hide this speeder, and wait until dark. By the way, your nickname is now Mapper. Don't forget it." He closed his eyes. 

"Excuse me, sir," Tooth said. "Procedure says we need to find the most efficient route to our destination and travel that way." 

Joram nodded. "Listen, I'm not going to kid you. I'm not a military expert, and you are. But some of the stuff I've heard from real Intelligence people says the enemy knows a lot about the clone troopers, which to me suggests that they probably know your procedures, too. So what does that mean?" 

Tooth was silent for a few moments, during which Joram just enjoyed the breeze blowing across his face. "That they might lie in wait for us on the most efficient route." 

"Correct!" 

"I see." 

<<<>>> 

The Pengalan sun was higher now, reaching its zenith, and the troopers' stolen speeder was safely tucked away in a glade surrounded by tall tendril-plants. One of the troopers-the first one Joram had spoken to upon awakening, now nicknamed Digger-had gathered tendrils from several of the plants and stretched them over the top of the speeder, tying them together to conceal the vehicle's presence from the air. Two troopers, Spots and Spade, were out at a distance of thirty meters or so, acting as guards. It was, according to Mapper, less than fifty clicks from Tur Lorkin. 

Tooth paused over the rations he was eating. As soon as they'd set up temporary camp here, the troopers had broken out the meals, trays with heating elements at the bottom of each compartment. "If I might ask, sir -- " 

"Go ahead." 

"You don't seem to have had any military training. Why were you attached to us as an observer?" 

"You mean, what qualifies me to pass judgment on you, when I'm so obviously out of my depth?" 

The other troopers grinned. Tooth merely said, "Something like that, sir." 

"The Republic paid a lot of credits for you-to create this clone army. That money is gone, but there are a lot of people in government who want to know if it was well-spent ... and whether they ought to throw any more credits into the same program, to expand the clone ranks." 

"I see. So you are -- " 

"An accountant. But I've been all over. I managed to persuade my doting, rich aunt Tagdel to support me in educational programs all over the Republic until she wised up and insisted that I start work, which is when she got me the appointment at the Department of Cost Accounting-she's with the Ministry of Finance. I've been through the Airspeeders for Bodyguards and Security Specialists training course on Coruscant, the Success Through Charismatic Influence regimen on Commenor, Xenoecoengineering Financial Principles on Muun, Subacluatic Manufacturing Economies on Mon Cal -- " 

"Why so many places?" asked Digger. "Isn't one good enough?" 

Joram thought about that. "I guess not. If a place isn't somehow yours, it's just not going to be good enough. My parents died in an airspeeder accident when I was three, and after that I was bounced around among all my other kin, so no place ever became home." He glanced among the troopers and found little comprehension on their faces, He knew the notion of parents, and what they meant to a child, was something the troopers had no perspective to appreciate. Even the notion of childhood was alien to them. "Guys, imagine that the war is really bad and every one of the troopers but you perishes. The only time you ever get to see that face is in the mirror. Wouldn't that be strange?" 

They all nodded. "Yeah," said Digger. His tone was solemn. 

"Well, that's kind of what it's like." 

"Ever been to Kamino?" asked Mapper. 

"No, I haven't," 

"That's where we're from, Kamino. It's somehow ours." 

"Yes, I know." 

"Very rainy there." 

"Yes, I know." 

Tooth cleared his throat, silencing Mapper. "We're all curious about what sort of conclusions you came to." 

"About-? Oh, about you. As in, were you worth the credits?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"I would say, very much so. Your calmness and courage under fire, your fighting skills, your physical resilience, and especially the way you coordinate things, each of you just knowing what the next is about to do ... these are all very valuable traits. I'd say my review is very favorable. If you lack anything, it's . . . " A realization that he was about to say something counterproductive hit Joram, and he shut up. 

If the troopers lacked anything, it was individuality, and an associated ability to think in nontraditional, nonlinear ways-traits Joram valued very highly. But would individuality make them more valuable, or less? Wouldn't it foul up these troopers' extraordinary unit coordination if they all thought a bit differently from one another? 

And wouldn't that, in turn, make them less effective, less valuable to the Republic? It hit Joram that in pushing them to become more distinct, to think outside their beloved military procedures, he might just be sabotaging them. And in this war, that might actually constitute treason. 

The troopers all stared at him, waiting for his next words. Mapper's spoon, dripping blue gravy, was poised halfway between his plate and his open mouth. 

Joram forced a smile for them. "Come to think of it, you don't lack anything I can think of." The men relaxed, and Mapper's spoon continued its interrupted journey. "And since you men are exactly like all the other thousands of clone troopers, the Republic obviously has one magnificent army." 

He'd thought the comment would be taken as a compliment, but the troopers froze and exchanged looks, communicating something that no one not sharing their DNA and training could interpret. 

"What is it?" Joram asked. 

Tooth returned his attention to Joram. "Nothing, sir." 

"You're certain?" 

The trooper was expressionless. "Yes, Sir." 

Joram sighed inwardly. He didn't like secrets. Other peoples' secrets, anyway. He couldn't imagine that these men, conditioned to obedience, would withhold something from him under these circumstances -- unless they were obeying previous orders. So he let it drop. 

<<<>>> 

The macrobinoculars gave Joram a clear view of Tur Lorkin from the hilltop he and the troopers were now using as their base of operation. 

The community was a small town, unwalled, most of its buildings being constructed from prefabricated or mold-blown permacrete painted in white or light blue. The buildings all looked to be of recent years, construction, well maintained. The largest buildings were a dome that appeared to house city government and a set of truncated domes with sliding doors on top-the town's tiny spaceport. Joram placed the town population at a few hundred. Numbers automatically began to run through the back of his mind-annual cost of the town's power requirements, estimated cost of consumable imports, value of the buildings that made up the community. He swept the macrobinoculars around, but again he saw no more distant lights, no sign of nearby communities or even outlying farms or ranches. 

He passed the viewing device back to Tooth. "What do you think?" 

The trooper stared down at the town. "I think it will be simple to get down in among the buildings. There's not much foot traffic. I wonder why?" 

"Pretty typical for a small f -- , uh, a small town." Joram had almost said "small farm community" before remembering that wasn't what this place was. "People in such places tend to start work before dawn and then go to bed early." 

"Oh." 

Back at the airspeeder, concealed under vegetation at the bottom of the other side of the hill, Joram described the situation for the other troopers. "Who has the best infiltration skills?" he asked. 

Mapper, of the splinted leg, raised his hand. 

"Right. Well, I guess it will be Tooth and me. Wrench, how are the modifications coming?" 

The trooper with the highest level of mechanical expertise looked up from the partially disassembled STAP he was working on. "I'm rigging a cable net to act a a sling so the pilot won't fall off. The modifications to the controls, so a human can pilot it, are done." 

"Great." 

"But are we going to need it, if we're just going to steal a transport and run?" 

Joram shrugged. "I don't know. But both sides of my personality, the coward and the accountant, say that it's a good idea to maximize your resources whenever possible." 

"Yes, sir. Maximize. Question, sir. What do we do if someone, one of the townsfolk, stumbles across this camp while you're gone?" 

"You catch him, kill him, cook him, and eat him." 

Wrench frowned. All the other troopers frowned. It was the same frown. 

"Pardon me, sir," Tooth said. "Cannibalism is very definitely against procedures." 

Joram snorted. "That was a joke." 

Tooth shook his head. "That wasn't a joke. Nobody fell down." 

Mapper shook his head, "Nobody said, 'What's the difference between ... "I 

Digger shook his head. "Nobody said, Three Separatists walk into a bar."' 

"Guys, guys, there are more types of jokes than the ones you're familiar with." 

Tooth looked dubious. "If you say so, Sir." 

<<<>>> 

Joram and Tooth lay at the very edge of the tendril vegetation, a mere twenty meters from the nearest of Tur Lorkin's buildings. Tooth wore only his undersuit, a dark one-piece garment that would pass as a jumpsuit at a distance. 

"Sir, I have a question." 

Joram, macrobinoculars to his eyes, slowly swept his attention from light-post to light-post. He didn't see any sign that there were holocams or other surveillance devices on the posts. "Go ahead." 

"Are you really a coward?" 

"I think so, yes. Lazy, too. I try to avoid work, pain, and danger whenever possible. I'm willing to risk some loss of face by walking away from a fight instead of getting my guts stomped out to impress people. I prefer to be operated on while under anesthesia." 

"But, logically, you're risking death with this mission. Whereas you could have avoided all danger by ordering us to surrender back at the crash site. Then you'd spend the rest of the war in prison, away from the fighting." 

"Even cowards have goals, Tooth. How big or small a coward you are sort of depends on what you're willing to risk to accomplish your goals. One of my goals is to be free. To go where I want to go, to do what I want to do." 

A twinge of discomfort tugged at Joram. He was talking about personal freedom with someone who probably had no notion of the concept. 

"What about duty, sir? Do you recognize duty?" 

"I suppose I do. I could have tried to wriggle out of this assignment, and I didn't." He shrugged. "Part of freedom -- a civilian's freedom, anyway -- means being able to evaluate and choose the duties you acknowledge rather than just believing what someone tells you your duty is." 

"You're talking about judgment." 

'That's right." 

"What happens when judgment and orders clash?" 

"I don't know. I guess you have to decide what's right, and take that as your goal, even if you know it's going to cause you trouble." 

"Did you ever think that maybe you were chosen for this assignment because you were lazy?" 

Joram frowned. He set aside the macrobinoculars to look at Tooth. "Meaning that, since someone was aware of my reputation, whoever chose me for the mission was counting on my laziness." 

"Yes, sir." 

"My conclusion was that the clone troopers were worth the credits spent. Even if I am lazy, I think that's the correct conclusion. I don't think someone who works harder than I do would arrive at a different answer." 

"I hope not, sir." 

Tooth's idea bothered Joram, but he was pleased that Tooth had asked the question. It showed the man did have intellectual processes. 

"I don't think there are any security cams. Let's move out." 

<<<>>> 

Tooth took the lead, moving as surely and silently as a jungle predator. They reached the outmost town buildings without incident, and, by ducking down dirt alleys, staying in shadowy patches, and keeping alert for the rare pedestrian, they remained unseen across the hundred meters or so between them and the spacecraft bays. 

They stood in an alley mouth directly opposite the entry door into the smallest of the bays. The area was poorly lit. Joram could barely see the oval of the door itself, beside it, a security keypad glowed. "Can you decode or bypass that?" 

"I think so, sir. I'll have to look at it, but it appears to be a simple design." 

"Why three bays?" 

"What?" Tooth looked at him, puzzled. 

"Why does a one-nerf town like this have three spacecraft bays? That means at least three spacecraft are here routinely. The town probably just needs one big bay for cargo vessels, for export of whatever it produces ... " The numbers running through the back of his mind moved to the front, and he fell silent again. 

"I don't understand, sir." 

"This town has no evident industry. Its biggest buildings are the government center and the largest ship bay. There are no farms. No ranches. What purpose does the town serve?" 

Tooth shrugged. "It's where the factory workers lived before the factory was shut down?" 

"No. That factory was shut down a long time ago. Reactivated just to serve as bait for our assault. Its workers probably lived at the factory. All these buildings were built since it was deactivated. So, what is this town for? What's its economy?" 

"It's been here too long just to have been built as a trap." Tooth looked around, eyes narrowed. "If it has too many spacecraft facilities, the purpose probably has an offworld significance." 

"Very good." 

"The answer's going to be with the spacecraft. The biggest spacecraft. Let's go there instead." 

<<<>>> 

The largest spacecraft bay was also the best-lit. With his new suspicions about this site, Joram wasn't anxious to have Tooth, who admitted to being technically competent but not a security expert, spend minutes in the light making an attempt at the security keypad at the bay's main access. 

So they waited a long, tedious hour in nearby shadows and watched that access. Finally, two men in stained jumpsuits arrived on foot. One keyed in a lengthy access code. 

As the doors slid open, Tooth and Joram leaped for them. Tooth, faster, hit the farther man in the jaw with the butt of his blaster rifle before the nearer man was even aware of his presence. The nearer man jumped away from Tooth, backing toward Joram, and Joram drove the butt of his own rifle into the back of the man's head, the second worker hit the ground only a moment after the first. 

Tooth and Joram dragged their respective victims inside, into darkness. They waited until the outer doors had slid shut again before switching on their personal glowrods. 

This was a basic spacecraft bay. The antechamber they'd entered was empty except for a few old foam seats and a caf dispenser, which was powered down. One secure door led into what had to be the bay's control chamber; a larger one led into what had to be the main hangar. There was a window into the hangar as well, but a blast plate behind it was in place, preventing anyone from looking in. 

Joram looked over the door security while Tooth searched the prisoners. "Identicard slot and fingerprint scanner," Joram said. "On both doors." 

"We have their identicards, and we have their fingers. We also have small blaster pistols, modern comlinks, a flask with some sort of alcohol." 

Joram indicated the door into the control chamber. He noticed that his hand was still shaking from the violent encounter outside. He quickly made a fist of it and tried to will it to remain still. 

Tooth obligingly dragged one unconscious man over to it by the wrist. Joram, hand now more under control, inserted the identicard into the security slot while Tooth held the man's hand in place over the reader. The reader glowed and the door slid open. 

Both Joram and Tooth aimed their trooper rifles into the space beyond -- but it was dark, unoccupied. They dragged their prisoners within. 

It was a standard control chamber -- three seats allowing access to sensor and comm boards. A large window would provide a view into the bay, but it, too, was sealed behind a blast plate. Rather than open it, Joram switched on a holocam viewer labeled MAIN. 

It snapped into instant focus, showing a nearly empty bay. The angle showed the closed observation window, and the floor was well below that, indicating that much of the bay was underground. The wide-open area was brightly lit, and vacuformed cargo containers were piled at the far end. As Joram watched, a man and a woman maneuvered a repulsorlift dolly into place and wrestled another pair of containers off it atop one stack. Then they retreated behind the stacks with their dolly. 

Tooth finished binding and gagging the two prisoners. He moved to an unoccupied console seat. 

"We've got holocams on the other two bays," Joram said, "which means that this is probably the main spacecraft control." He snapped the other holocam monitors on, then, as they snapped into focus, whistled at what he saw. 

One bay was occupied by a hammer-shaped Corellian transport, smaller than, but of the same general design as the well-known Republic cruiser. Its hull was a neutral gray, puckered in places by mynock scars. The other bay was occupied by a sleek, silver-reflective space yacht whose lines suggested speed. "We are in luck. Some proud owner is going to miss one of these ships." 

"Both,' Tooth said. He was now frowning over a comm board, reviewing screens of data. One of the prisoners' datacards occupied a security slot on the board. "We destroy the one we don't take. Procedure. Correct?" 

"Correct ... I suppose." Joram winced at the thought of the yacht being destroyed. "We could steal both. I can pilot one. Can any of you serve as pilots?" 

"Wrench and I have gone through a set of simulator classes." 

"Well, that may be enough." 

"Sir, those containers on the monitor. They contain anti-starfighter missiles." 

Joram moved to look over Tooth's shoulder. The screen of data there referred to a cargo of 128 test missiles -- type AS-X-DB. AntiStarfighter, Experimental, he guessed. Diamond Boron. 

He whistled again. "The spy's report wasn't a mistake, or a leak. There really is a facility here for making those things." 

"Yes, sir." 

"But there's no place on this rock that could produce them-no place visible from orbit, anyway. Intelligence's orbital scans would have detected it. All they detected was the site we assaulted this morning. Which means the facility is probably here, underground. The town exists to house its workers and to provide a cover for heat signatures and the like. So ... 

"So," Tooth said, "they caught the spy in the act of transmitting. They realized they'd been found out. They fired up that old plant to draw in the forces they knew would be coming and prepared it as a trap. They let us discover that it wasn't a missile plant so, once they'd kicked us in the teeth, we'd have no reason to come back here. They made us think the whole thing was just a trap, when it was really a cover-up." 

Joram nodded. "All right. Here's the plan. We seize one of those transports, pick up the others, outrace whatever pursuit they send, and report to the Republic that they need to come back here and finish this place off." 

"I don't think so, sir." 

"What?" The edge in Tooth's voice had sounded suspiciously like defiance. Joram took a step to the side to give the man another look. 

Tooth spun his chair around to face Joram. "Sir, if we leave and report, the Republic will have to evaluate our story. They'll question us, determine that we're telling the truth, plan a return, come back, and blow up this site. But in the meantime, the Separatists will know that their secret is out -- someone knocked out their workers and stole their transports, less than a day after the Republic assault. So while the planning and interrogating are going on, they're dismantling their plant, moving their stockpiles. Whatever gets blown up will be just what they left behind. The least important part of this facility." 

"True." Joram offered Tooth an expression of sympathy. "So what are you saying?" 

"Were not going." 

Joram blinked. 'Tooth, I'm getting kind of tired of saying 'What?' all the time." 

"Yes, sir. I'll explain, I'm bringing in the men. We're going to blow this place up. Otherwise we've failed in our mission, which was to destroy the missile plant. Otherwise every one of us who died today died for no good reason." 

Joram tapped his chest, where his locket lay under his tunic. "Have you forgotten something? Like, who's in charge here?" 

"I haven't forgotten. If you don't agree with me, I'm going to have to... to defy your orders." Tooth looked as though the words he was saying had made him ill, but did not relent. "I can't give you orders. You can steal whichever of those ships you like and take off. But I'd like you to wait until I bring the men in." He tapped the monitor where it showed the stacks of missile containers. "Somewhere behind those, there has to be an access to the plant. We'll go in there, taking some of those missiles, and blow everything up. Once we're inside, you can take off. Please don't order me not to do this. I'd hate for my last action as a clone trooper to be in direct violation of orders." 

<<<>>> 

Half an hour later, the rest of the troopers except for the injured Mapper were in the antechamber. 

Joram, out of the loop on the mission planning, stayed in the control chamber, methodically performing a remote warm-up on the yacht. He could hear Tooth struggling back into his armor and briefing the troopers. A few snatches of the briefing were audible to Joram. 

The briefing turned into discussion, and then discussion turned into argument-something he hadn't heard among the clone troopers in the days he'd been assigned to them. Surreptitiously, he moved to the door into the antechamber and listened. 

"It's his right," one of them said. His voice was in dominant mode. It was probably Tooth. "I can't issue him orders." 

"You can't issue me orders," said another. His voice, too, was in dominant mode. "And I say we ask him." 

"Don't -- " 

Armored feet thudded toward the antechamber. Joram stepped out into view and confronted the trooper. The man's helmet was off and there was a rag tied around his forehead, red with white dots, so this was Spots. He reared back at seeing Joram so close, then recovered. "Lieutenant, I have to say something to you." 

"Go ahead." 

"I think you should come on this raid." 

"Why?" 

"To show you approve of it. We don't think you do. We're not sure what that means. And for another reason, a tactical one. You're the only one of us who doesn't look like us. We'd work better if we had someone moving in front of the main body as a scout. If the Separatists know as much about us as you say they do, they'd recognize any of us instantly." 

"You'd give us a much better chance of success," said another. The burns on his cheek, from the crash, marked him as Hash. 

"Let it go," Tooth said. 

'Why aren't you with us, Lieutenant?" asked Digger, 

Joram stared at the man. How did he know it was Digger? He just did. 

He looked between the troopers. First, all he could see was their uncertain, even mournful expressions. Then he could see beyond their current unease. These men weren't the same as they had been in the hour after the crash. Now, they were distinct, individual ... but not united. How could they hope to pull off a raid against an unknown facility, against unknown opposition, if they weren't a cohesive unit? 

To restore them to some sense of unity, all he had to do was join them. But just as soon as the raid began, Confederacy aerial support was likely to converge on Tur Lorkin. If he didn't take off before then, he'd be trapped here. Captured or killed. 

"I'm with you," Joram said. He tried to keep sudden fear out of his voice. "But I'm not in charge. I seem to be back to being a civilian. This is Tooth's mission to lead." He turned away, hoping they hadn't seen his own expression change ... for he was sure he now looked as uncertain and mournful as they had a moment ago. 

<<<>>> 

The door at the back of the main hangar -- not an obvious door, just an anonymous section of wall -- slid aside, revealing two men and their repulsorlift dolly, once more loaded with missile containers. Beyond them, a dimly lit corridor, made of slabs of duracrete, stretched onward and downward. 

Joram didn't wait. Now wearing the jumpsuit of one of the captured men, with a billed cap pulled low over his features and headset, 

Joram pushed his way past the cargo wranglers, ignoring them, 

"Hey!" The men turned after him. "Are you coming on duty?" 

Then there were thuds, painful-sounding impacts of rifle butts on flesh. Joram heard the men fall. He looked back and waited. 

The troopers didn't take long. On top of the stack of missile containers already on the dolly, they added the container they'd already opened. Wires ran from one of the missiles into Wrench's helmet, which he held in his hands and peered into. The hasty bypass Wrench had accomplished seemed to have done the job; he had already reported that these prototype missiles had very simple control interfaces, a choice of targeting criteria, multiple detonation options ... and no security, not too strange for weapons that were intended to be test-fired rather than used in the field. 

Tooth's voice sounded in Joram's headset. "Let's move out." 

Joram nodded and continued down the corridor. He shoved his hands into his pockets, slightly reassured by the grips of the blaster pistols taken from the first two men they'd captured. He couldn't hear them, but he knew that Hash and Spade would be moving along several meters behind him, and then the rest, with Spots shoving the dolly as Wrench rode atop it, at the rear. 

The corridor-tunnel sloped down gently. Joram put one hand against its wall. It was rough to the touch, and it vibrated. a sign that somewhere, not too close, heavy machinery was in use. 

"Ahead, he saw a familiar-looking device attached, to the corridor ceiling, 'Holocam,' he whispered. The surveillance device aimed his direction and would be showing him now; soon enough, the first of the clone troopers would be in its range of vision. 

"Get past it and disable it," came the whispered reply. "Everyone else, hold here. Joram, report when it's done." 

Now he was Joram instead of Lieutenant. He didn't know whether to be pleased or miffed. He decided to be pleased. The troopers had developed enough initiative to rebel against an authority figure when their goals -- still military goals, goals in the interest of the Republic -- demanded. Now they were men, rather than pre-programmed drones ... slaves. 

A happy ending. Unless it got them killed. Got him killed. 

He halted directly beneath the holocam, out of its range of vision. Disable it? How? He was not technically proficient like Wrench. 

He pulled out one of his blaster pistols and smashed the holocam with three blows of its butt. "Disabled," he said. "Continuing onward." 

In some security room somewhere, a holocam monitor would have gone dark. That was bad, something that would cause an alert security team to raise some sort of alarm, but it was still more innocuous than a half-squad of clone troopers materializing within the holocam's view. 

A few steps more, and he could see that the corridor ahead became level and better lit. As Joram descended, he saw where the corridor ended. There were blast doors at the end, and something standing beside them -- 

He felt his insides freeze. It was a droid, taller than a man, glossy brown, with curved, massive limbs and components. Its two pairs of arm-blasters were aimed forward, toward Joram. 

He'd seen holes of these things, one of the most dangerous varieties of battle droids manufactured. None of the troopers' blasters would be of any use against the thing. He managed to whisper, "Destroyer." 

"How many?" 

"One. N-n-n-no living security." The destroyer was not moving, not adjusting its aim as Joram approached ... not yet. 

"Slow your approach," the trooper said. Joram had a sudden present-ment that it wasn't Tooth talking to him, but one of the others. "As slow as you can, but don't look suspicious. Tell us when you're thirty meters from it. Wrench, prep one, infrared targeting, heat signature of a combat droid instead of a human." 

Gulping against sudden fear-nausea, Joram slowed his walk. He pulled his stolen identicard from a pocket, fiddled with it, turning it over and over, as if trying to remember which edge to present to the security slot he assumed would be in the door. 

Still the destroyer didn't react. 

"Ready," said one trooper. He wasn't sure who it was. 

"Destroyer sighted," said another -- or perhaps the same one. 

The destroyer became active, crouching, probably to give its sensory platform a better angle on what was happening farther down the corridor, behind Joram. 

"Joram. fall down." a trooper said. 

Joram fell, as fast as he could compel his knees to give way, and it almost wasn't fast enough. There was a roar behind him, directly over him as he hit the duracrete floor. He saw the air around the destroyer shimmer as it activated its own defensive shields -- 

Then there was a brilliant flash, a howl of noise as though a moon-sized beast had just been gut-shot. Joram felt heat wash over him. A wall his dazzled eyes couldn't see hammered him, sent him skidding backward. 

He lay there unmoving, his brain somehow not translating the orders of "Get up! Get away!" to his limbs, and then someone was swatting his back and legs. 

"Hold on there, sir." The voice was a trooper's, dim and distant. "You're kind of on fire. It's almost out." 

"Very kind of you," Joram managed. He pushed himself upright and look down the corridor. As his dazzled sight recovered, he could see the corridor's end-walls, ceiling, and floor scorched and blown away in chunks, filled with fiery remains of what had been a destroyer, the blast doors knocked off their rails. 

There was a ringing in his ears that diminished when he pressed his headset tighter over his ears. 

He was surrounded by clone troopers now, Hash and Spade ahead with blasters at the ready, Digger helping Joram to his feet, Wrench back on the dolly preparing another missile, Spots ready to shove the dolly forward. Wrench's armor was blackened all across the front surfaces, but the darkening seemed to be from smoke and soot rather than burn. 

"That's an alarm," Digger said. "I think the stealth phase of our mission is at an end." 

"Where's Tooth?" 

Digger shook his head. "You don't want to know." 

"What?" 

"Move out. On the double." Digger gestured, and Hash and Spade headed forward at a trot. Joram stumbled along behind. Points on his arms and legs felt raw. He decided not to look at the burns. 

Past the twisted wreckage of the blast doors was more corridor, but this had sliding doors at intervals. It was long enough to be indistinct at the far end. Joram could see figures rushing toward them from the far end. Closer, doors slid open. People stepped out, saw the clone troopers, and jumped back out of sight again. "Where to?" Digger asked. 

"Final assembly area," Joram said. "Plants have different areas where the different components are made or stored, and then an area where the subassemblies are all put together. That's the most crucial part of the facility." 

Digger stepped up. "But where's that going to be?" 

"Somewhere that dolly can get to." 

Someone in the distance opened fire with what sounded like a blaster pistol. Joram maneuvered to stand directly behind Hash and crouched there. He continued, "That means down this corridor or through that doorway there -- " He pointed to a doublewide access about twenty meters down the corridor. "Those are the only two places the dolly can fit through." 

"Forward," Digger said. 

Hash and Spade, returning fire against the distant defenders, moved up to the wide doorway, Joram close behind Hash. Digger marched resolutely in front of the missile dolly, protecting its explosive cargo from incoming fire. Joram saw the trooper's chest armor blacken where it took a glancing hit, saw Digger stagger from the impact. 

The door had turbolift controls to the side. Joram slapped the summon button. The doors didn't open immediately. "We may have to run a bypass -- " 

The doors opened. The cylindrical turbolift beyond had just one occupant, a man of slight build and graying hair-and, as soon as he glimpsed the clone troopers, a frightened expression. 

Joram grabbed him by the collar of his blue jumpsuit and drove him to the back of the turbolift, slamming him into the wall there. He jammed a blaster pistol into the man's gut. "Do you want to take us to the final assembly area, or do you want to die here?" 

The man choked a moment, then said, "Two levels down. Card access only -- " 

"Does your identicard give you access?"

"Not bad, Joram," Digger said, obviously stifling a laugh. "Where'd you learn that, trooper training?" 

"Oh, shut up." 

A moment later, the turbolift doors opened. Blaster fire poured into the lift like sideways rain, tearing into Hash. Joram shoved himself and his prisoner aside as Digger, Spade, and Spots returned fire. Hash crashed to the lift floor and steam rose from the holes in his torso armor. 

The clone troopers continued to fire. The incoming blasts trailed off and ceased. Digger spared a look at Hash, who was unmoving. "Spade, give him a look. Everyone else, move out." 

They emerged into a large fabrication area -- Joram saw conveyor belts, mechanical hoists on ceiling tracks, huddled groups of jumpsuited workers, the remains of security agents and combat droids. 

Wrench pointed toward a set of gleaming blue shelves on which were mechanical assemblies that looked like truncated cones. "Those are the same warheads as in the missiles." 

Joram said, "The door beside it will be the access to the warhead storage or assembly area." 

Digger nodded. "That's where we drop our second missile." He turned to the prisoner. "Are there stairwells or ramps out of here? Anything other than this turbolift?" 

The man nodded. 

"Use them to get out of here. Take these people. Everything's about to blow up." Digger gave the man a shove. "You have sixty seconds." 

The man ran, 

"Hash's dead, Digger." 

"Thanks, Spade. Wrench -- " 

"I know what to do." 

<<<>>> 

They brought the turbolift up to the level by which they'd entered, but didn't let the doors open. 

Ten seconds later, the explosions began. The floor hammered at Joram's heels and a shudder ran through the lift. 

Joram hit the open button. Smoke and heat poured in. Joram, lacking a trooper's helmet, found himself blind and choking. 

Someone grabbed his wrist and hauled. He was coughing, tripping over people, sometimes stumbling, sometimes being dragged. He heard blaster fire, the ringing noise it made when it hit metal doors, the thudding impacts it made against trooper armor, the hissing wail it made when it superheated organic tissues to the boiling point. 

Then he was running and being dragged up a slope -- they had to be on the inclined corridor out of the complex. More explosions sounded behind them. As his vision cleared, he could see more people around him, jumpsuited workers who stayed clear of the clone troopers. 

Back in the big hangar bay, factory workers streamed around them, hands half-raised as if to say "Don't shoot," their expressions fearful. Joram was able to suppress his coughing and take stock. Digger, Wrench, and Spots were still with him. "Hash and Spade?" he asked, his voice rough. 

Digger shook his head. He handed Joram one of the fallen troopers' blaster rifles. "Ready to finish it?" 

Joram checked the rifle's charge and held it at the ready. 'I guess so." 

<<<>>> 

Digger led the charge to the exit from the bay building. "Stand back!" he shouted. "Troopers coming through!" 

Workers leaped away from them. There was fear on some of their faces, loathing on others. Oddly, Joram felt proud of that. 

The exterior door, Joram saw, was open. He and the troopers positioned themselves beside it. "They're going to be waiting," Joram said. The floor trembled as another set of distant explosions began, and a thick black layer of smoke poured out of the bay along the ceiling of the antechamber. 

"You bet they are," Digger said. "Emerging in three, two, one, zero -- " Digger turned into the open doorway. Joram expected him to be riddled with blaster fire as Hash had been, and there was the sudden roar of blaster weaponry-but no laser blasts flashed in through the door. 

Joram followed the clone troopers out at a dead run. The buildings around the bay were pocked with smoking blaster impact and a unit of battle droids, to the left, was mostly in pieces. Those who remained functional were turning and firing in the wake of a clone trooper roaring away on a STAID. The trooper's rear end rested against an improvised webbing of cable, which kept him from falling off, and his leg was splinted, immobile. 

Digger, Wrench, Spots, and Joram poured fire into the battle droids, finishing those that Mapper had not already destroyed. "This way," Digger said, and charged off around the curved wall of the hangar. 

Incoming fire, from men or droids shooting from concealed position, grazed Spots and knocked Wrench down. Joram and Spots got Wrench on his feet and they continued forward at a stumbling pace while Digger returned fire. Ahead, the doorway into a smaller bay came into view-and then exploded as someone approaching from the opposite direction fired on it with heavier ordnance. 

Digger kept them moving forward. Seconds later, Mapper, on his STAID, flew through the ruined doorway. Joram and the other troopers were moments behind him. 

The interior doorway from antechamber into hangar bay was already open, and beyond were the sleek, silvery lines of the yacht Joram had already prepped. "You know how to fly this, right?" Digger asked. 

"It's a little late to be asking." Joram helped Mapper unhook the STAP's cable sling and slid into position under the trooper's arm. He helped the trooper to the yacht's open access hatch. 'And, yes, I do." 

<<<>>> 

Joram's hands didn't stop shaking until they cleared orbit. Starfield filled the yacht's forward viewports, a scene that Joram usually found lovely, beckoning. Now he was too tired to appreciate it. He began calculating and keying in their first hyperspace jump. 

There had been no pursuit. "Why weren't we followed?" he asked Digger, who sat in the co-pilot's seat. 

Digger, his helmet off, rubbed at tired-looking eyes. "The pursuit was drawn off." 

"By what?" 

"By Tooth. His job was to take the other transport out and lead the starfighter support away from Tur Lorkin." 

"Will he -- will he be joining us?" 

Digger gave him a sympathetic look, but shook his head. "He was transmitting during his part of the mission. I heard him go down." 

Joram sighed. He turned his attention back to the navigation computer. "He knew, didn't he? That his part of it would be a suicide mission." 

"He knew." 

"I'm sorry." A question occurred to Joram. He wrestled with it for a moment before daring to ask it. "What's it like for you? To lose someone you've known all your life, someone who, in so many ways, is you?" 

"It's like being shot. Feeling the burn, not being able to breathe easily." Digger fixed him with his gaze. "What's it like for you? Losing someone you've worked with so closely, someone you've come to rely on?" 

"I've never been shot. But I think it's the same." 

They were silent for long moments, while Joram finished his astronavigational task. The yacht's hyperdrive warmed up for its first jump. Then Digger said, "There's something you ought to know.' 

"What's that?" 

"We're not regulars. My platoon. We were made to be, how'd they put it, a little more self-reliant than the others. To be capable of more initiative. There are some more out there like us. In case they need troopers for more specialized missions." 

Joram thought about that. "So I was supposed to evaluate you, and assume you were the norm, and offer up a glowing report of the clone troopers' military value. To help persuade the powers that be that all troopers perform like elites." 

"I guess so." 

"I might as well do just that. It's never a good idea to foul up a cover-up until you know what it's there for. But why did you tell me?" 

"Because you deserved to know. Because you're one of us." 

The words hung there, as though they'd been fixed in the air by a holoprojector instead of spoken, until Joram activated the hyperdrive. 

<<<>>>