“You have my word,” Camas said. “Consider yourself in the Grand Army. We’ll discuss how we’re going to deploy you and your men later. But first let’s get everyone back to normal, shall we, please?”
“I’ll hold you to every last word, General.”
He waited at the doors for a few moments. The two sheets of reinforced durasteel parted slowly. He walked in, relieved, and home again at last.
No, Camas really needed to understand what had happened to these men as young boys. He had to, if he was going to cope with the war that had now been unleashed.
It wouldn’t just be fought on someone else’s planet. It would be fought in every corner of the galaxy, in every city, in every home. It was a war not just of territories, but of ideologies.
And it was wholly outside Skirata’s Mandalorian philosophy: but it was his war regardless, because his men were its instrument whether they liked it or not.
One day, he would give them back something the Kaminoans and the Republic had stolen from them. He swore it.
“Ord’ika!” he called. “Ordo? You’ve been a naughty boy again, haven’t you? Come here…”
2
Yes, I know I should be directing the battle from the ship. Yes, I know we could reduce the surface of Dinlo to molten slag from orbit. But we can extract more than a thousand men, and that’s worth doing. I asked for volunteers and I got the whole ship’s crew and every man in Improcco Company, and not from blind obedience. Let me try.
-General Tur-Mukan, in a signal to General Iri Camas, Battle Group Command, Coruscant, copied to General Vaas Ga, Commanding Officer, Sarlacc Battalions,
Forty-first Elite Infantry, Dinlo
Republic assault ship Fearless, approaching Dinlo, Expansion-Bothan Border, 367 days after Geonosis
General Etain Tur-Mukan watched the HNE news feed with mixed feelings. On one hand the events at home saddened her: on the other, they reminded her what the war was about.
“Fifteen soldiers and twelve civilian support staff are reported dead after today’s second bomb blast, this time at a GAR logistics base No group has yet claimed responsibility for the attack, but a security forces spokesman said today that the proximity to tomorrow’s first anniversary of the Battle of Geonosis was significant. It brings the total number of deaths in apparent Separatist terror attacks this year to three thousand and forty. The Senate has pledged to smash their networks …”
Clone Commander Gett stood at her side, hands clasped behind his back as they waited on the repulsor platform that shunted ammo boxes from the magazine to the hangar deck.
“No way to die,” he said.
Etain turned to look at the troops around them. “Neither is this.”
They were set to go. Fearless was half an hour out from Dinlo and the gunship pilots were making their way down the passage from the flight briefing to carry out their pre-sortie checks, yellow-trimmed helmets tucked under one arm. They all held the helmets exactly the same way, no doubt the result of thorough drill. General Etain Tur-Mukan noted that.
She stood back from the hatch to let them through and got a salute from each as he passed. One glanced at the somewhat unconventional weapon slung across her shoulder and grinned. He indicated the huge LJ-50 concussion rifle that almost dwarfed her.
“Does that thing light up blue, General?”
“Only if you’re on the receiving end, trooper,” she said, and gave him her most reassuring smile.
She knew they were afraid, because a commando called Darman had taught her that only idiots didn’t fear combat. Fear was an asset, an incentive, a tool. She knew how to use it now, even if she didn’t embrace it.
Today she needed to tell Improcco Company that. They knew it already, but this was her first mission with them, and she had learned that a little openness with the troops went a long way. And she wanted them to know that she saw them for the human beings they were. Meeting Republic commandos on Qiilura for the first time had been a painful revelation for her.
“Are you okay with that, General?” Gett seemed to be able to guess what she was thinking almost all the time, and she wondered briefly if telepathy was in their genetic mix. Then she reminded herself that men who all looked the same learned to be very, very sensitive to tiny behavioral cues. “We’ve got a DC-15 if you prefer. Nice piece of kit.”
The LJ-50 was exhaustingly heavy. She’d developed her arm muscles in the last year, but it still took some handling. “Some very competent gentlemen taught me to use a conc rifle,” she said. “They persuaded me to keep my lightsaber for close-combat. Besides, the LJ’s got a four-meter spread at a thirty-meter range. I’m a great believer in efficiency over style.”