“Well, just to keep your records tidy, here’s his armor tally.” Skirata collected the ID tallies from fallen clone troopers whenever he could, an echo of the Mandalorian habit of keeping a piece of armor as a memorial. Mando’ade often didn’t have the time, place, or opportunity for graves.
“Is there anywhere in particular you’d like me to shove it?”
Zey paused, almost grinding his teeth behind that graying beard, then held out his hand for Skirata to drop the small plastoid tab into his palm. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Ordo willed Zey to look away first. He did. Honor was satisfied. Kal’buir-shorter, outranked, no Force powers-was still the alpha male.
“Look, I’m sorry about Fi,” Zey said quietly. “I’m sorry about every single clone who loses his life or gets wounded. As Jedi, we endeavor to treat all sentient life with compassion. Don’t think we don’t agonize about it. I was discussing it with General Kenobi only the…”
“That’s the way you talk about animals, sir. Not men. If you meant that patronizing twaddle, you’d insist troopers were offered a choice of remaining as volunteers, or leaving.” Skirata paused but, judging by the way he swallowed, it wasn’t for effect. “And I don’t mean with the help of one of your covert ops death squads, either.”
Zey stared back at Skirata as if this was news to him. It might well have been: the Jedi generals seemed to be out of the loop as far as the conduct of the war was concerned, in terms of both what the Chancellor told them and how much notice he took of their advice.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Sergeant?”
“Either you know, or you need to know, that ARC troopers who get out of line end up executed, and I have proof that at least one was targeted by our own covert ops troops.”
Zey didn’t look too happy. It wasn’t the look of a guilty man caught out, though. It was an angry man whose face was illuminated by dawning realization.
“I know nothing of this.”
“Then it’s about time,” Skirata said, “that you Jedi took your heads out of your shebse, stopped contemplating your midichlorians, and did a reality check. You’re going to get a nasty shock one day, General. We told you about the vastly inflated claims of enemy droid numbers, and tactics didn’t change. We told you we should be concentrating forces on a few main theaters, cleaning up before moving on, and not scattering forces so we never quite have the strength to root out the enemy. Again, nothing changed. None of this is winning the war. It’s just keeping it going. So I wonder how much it’s worth risking our necks to find out for you, if that Intel isn’t used.”
Zey snapped. He slapped both hands on his desk, an ordinary man at the limit of his endurance now, not a Jedi. Ordo didn’t flinch, but he saw the discomfort on Maze’s face.
“Skirata, the Jedi command doesn’t run this war!” Zey roared. “The politicians do, and the Chancellor says this is how we fight. End of story.”
“Doesn’t that scare the osik out of you?”
“Of course it does. What do you think we are, idiots? But I’ve learned that’s how wars always work-politicians don’t listen to the military, everyone lies wildly about their assets, and there are never enough troops to go around. Maybe Mandalorians live in a different reality.”
“You’ve got plenty of assets, actually…”
Ordo had a second of adrenaline-flushed panic that Skirata would mention the Centax clones, but he didn’t expand, and Zey was now too angry to stop himself from interrupting him.
“I’ve fully committed the whole brigade, Skirata, although
I have to ask what your ARCs are actually tasked to do sometimes.”
“You wanted black ops folk like me to do the dirty work. This is the price of dirty, sir.”
Skirata didn’t wait to be dismissed, and stalked out almost without limping. Ordo followed. They strode down the corridor, boots echoing, until they reached the parade-ground exit. It was a pleasantly balmy day outside, and they sat on the low perimeter wall to have a hot wash-up. It was a lovely phrase for working out what the shab had gone wrong, one of those military euphemisms that poor Fi enjoyed so much. “Zey didn’t know about the death squads,” Ordo said. “He really didn’t.”
“He’s the head of special forces.” Skirata fumbled in the pockets of his leather jacket and pulled out ruik root and some candied fruit, the ruik for him and the candies for Ordo. He chewed savagely, gaze in slight defocus. “He ought to make it his business to know.”