[Republic Commando] - 03(121)

“Cover!” He counted down while everyone turned away from the direction of the blast. “Fire!”

The doors ripped apart in a burst of smoke and debris. Niner went in a breath before Tel, saving a scrap of squad pride, and the process of clearing the building began the hard way via the emergency stairs because the turbolift was stuck between floors. Darman covered Niner as he smashed open doors to offices, finding nobody inside.

“They can transmit days of programming from a datachip array, Sarge,” Darman said. “They might have done that.”

Fi’s voice came on the HUD link. “I think I’ve found the studio.”

“Why?”

“It says STUDIO TWO on the door.”

“Well, we know there’s a Studio One as well, then.”

Darman consulted the meticulously mapped construction database the Marits had given Omega when they arrived, but it wasn’t clear from the floor plans which were recording areas and which were transmission. Maybe it didn’t matter if the satellite relay was compromised and Atin could disable the uplink.

“If this place is still staffed at all,” he said, “there’ll be the obligatory lone hero keeping the patriotic resistance messages going while we kick down the door.”

“Try not to damage the kit, that’s all,” Tel said. “Otherwise we’ll have to ship in replacements before the propaganda and psy ops spooks can move in.”

Darman had another moment of wondering how this all fitted in with his overall mission, then ran up the stairs to find Fi. He was crouched outside the studio doors, holding a sensor against the metal.

“There’s a transmission signal coming out of here,” he said. “Might as well knock.”

Darman looked up. “Red light. Means live to air, don’t go in, and so on, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Fi agreed, and put a few Deece bolts through the control panel at the side. “It does.”

Darman never found out if there was the last brave broadcaster in Eyat still sitting at the console, spreading defiant messages to repel the invaders. The next thing he knew was that he was being thrown upward on his back, hurtling toward the ceiling, and that his audio circuits cut out with a snap as a ball of light lifted him. Somehow he was expecting an explosion to be much louder. The ceiling rushed to meet him and he smashed into it, feeling motionless in midair for a moment before crashing back down and feeling his chest plate hit something very hard as he fell. He was aware of bumping helplessly down a flight of stairs on his back, flailing to grab anything to stop his fall. When he finally stopped moving, he couldn’t hear a thing except the rain of falling debris hitting his helmet.

The HUD was still working. He just didn’t have audio. He tried the comlink channels and got nothing, but he had Niner’s POV icon, and Atin’s, and they were moving: they were shaking like the view of someone working frantically to move something. It looked like smashed masonry and durasteel beams. There was a filter of dust around him as thick as smoke.

But Fi’s icon wasn’t moving at all. The horizontal was canted at a steep angle, as if Fi was lying on the floor on one side. Debris was visible, blurred as if it was too far inside the focus range, pressed to the input cam of the visor.

“Fi?” No good: he wouldn’t hear him. Darman pulled off his helmet, knowing he was battered but not feeling anything. “Fi? Fi!” he yelled. His mouth filled with dust and he spat it out, dribbling some down his chest plate. “Fi, vod’ika, are you okay?”

But there was no answer. Darman hooked his helmet onto his belt and began tearing through the rubble, looking for Fi.





Chapter 12


They grow up loyal to the Republic, or they don’t grow up at all.

-ARC Trooper A-17, preparing to destroy Tipoca City’s clone children during the Battle of Kamino, three months after the Battle of Geonosis



Ko Sai’s research facility near Tropix island, Dorumaa, 478 days after Geonosis

Skirata had taken an instant dislike to Kaminoans the day he’d found himself stranded on an indefinite contract to train a secret clone army in Tipoca City. After that, the relationship with them got worse by the day.

But compared with Mereel… no, he hadn’t fully understood the depth of the Nulls’ loathing until now. And it was the first time he’d heard a Kaminoan scream. It was a long high shriek that went off the audible scale and made his sinuses ache.

“Easy, son.” Skirata kept his voice low and caught Mereel’s arm, applying just enough pressure to show he meant it. “Not yet.”

Mereel looked like a stranger; face drained of blood, knuckles white, pupils wide. He’d always seemed the most carefree lad of the six Nulls, the one who could be most charming, sociable, and entertaining. Skirata’s grip seemed to pull him back from across the border of an uncharted dark wasteland. He flicked off the electroprod with his thumb.