Chapter 1
Look, all I know is this. The Seps can’t have as many droids as Intel says-we’ve seen that when we’ve sabotaged their factories. And if they have gazillions of them somewhere, why not overrun the whole Republic now and get it over with? Come to that, why won’t the Chancellor listen to the generals and just smash the key Sep targets instead of dragging this war out, spreading us thin from Core to Rim? Add that garbage to the message Lama Su sent him griping about the clone contract expiring in a couple of years-it all stinks. And when it stinks that bad, we get ready to run, because it’s our shebse on the line here. Understand?
-Sergeant Kal Skirata to the Null ARCs, discussing the future in light of new intelligence gathered during their unauthorized infiltration of Tipoca City, 462 days after Geonosis
Republic fleet auxilliary Core Conveyor, en route for Mirial, 2nd Airborne (212th Battalion) and Omega Squad embarked, 470 days after Geonosis
“Nice of you to join us, Omega,” said Sergeant Barlex, one hand wrapped around the grab rail in the ship’s hangar. “And may I be the first to say that you look like a bunch of complete prats?”
Darman waited for Niner to tell Barlex where to shove his opinion, but he didn’t take the bait and carried on adjusting the unfamiliar winged jet pack. It was just the usual bravado that went with being scared and hyped up for a mission.
Okay, so the sky troopers’ standard pack didn’t fit comfortably on Republic commando Katarn armor, but for accuracy of insertion it still beat paragliding. Darman had vivid and painful memories of a low-opening emergency jump on Qiilura that hadn’t been on target, unless you counted trees. So he was fine with a pair of white wings-even if they were the worst bolt-on goody in the history of procurement in the Grand Army of the Republic.
Fi activated his wing mechanism, and the two blades swung into horizontal position with a hiss of hydraulics, nearly smacking Barlex in the face. Fi smiled and flapped his arms. “Want to see my impression of a Geonosian?”
“What, plummeting to the ground in a spray of bug-splatter after I put a round through you?” said Barlex.
“You’re so masterful.”
“I’m so a sergeant, Private…”
“Couldn’t you at least get us matte-black ones?” Fi asked. “1 don’t want to plunge to my doom with uncoordinated accessories. People will talk.”
“You’ll have white, and like it.” Barlex was the senior NCO of Parjai Squad, airborne troops with a reputation for high-risk missions that Captain Ordo called “assertive out-reach.” The novelty of supporting special forces had clearly worn off. Barlex pushed Fi’s flight blades back into the closed position and maintained a scowl. “Anyway, I thought you bunch were born-again Mandalorians. Jet packs should make you feel right at home.”
“Off for caf and cakes afterward?”
Barlex was still unsmiling granite. “Orders are to drop extra materiel and other useless ballast, meaning you, and then shorten our survival odds again by popping in for a chat with the Seps on Mirial.”
Fi did his wounded concern act, hands clasped under his chin. “Is it the Mando thing that’s coming between us, dear?”
“Just my appreciation of the irony that we’re fighting Mando mercenaries in some places.”
“I’d better keep you away from Sergeant Kal, then…”
“Yeah, you do that,” said Barlex. “I lost ten brothers thanks to them.”
Clone troopers might have been able to sing “Vode An,” but it was clear that the proud Mandalorian heritage hadn’t quite percolated through all the ranks. Darman decided not to tell Skirata. He’d be mortified. He wanted all Jango Fett’s clones to have their souls saved for the manda by some awareness of the only fragile roots they had. Barlex’s hostility would break his heart.
The compartment went quiet. Darman flexed his shoulders, wondering how Geonosians coped with wings: did they sleep on their backs, or hang like hawk-bats, or what? He’d only ever seen the bugs moving or dead, so it remained another unanswered question. He had a lot of those. Niner, ever alert to the mood of his squad, walked around each of them and checked the makeshift securing straps, yanking hard on the harness that looped between Fi’s legs. Fi yelped.
Niner gave Fi that three-beat silent stare, just like Skirata. “Don’t want anything falling off, do we, son?”
“No, Sarge. Not before I’ve had a chance to try it out, any-way.”
Niner continued the stare for a little longer. “Sitrep briefing in ten, then.” He indicated the hatch and inspected the interior of his helmet. “Let’s not keep General Zey waiting.”