[Republic Commando] - 03(47)

“Five hundred meters to the town, ma’am.” Levet skimmed above the frozen water. There were no gdan eyes reflecting back at her from burrows and crannies: it was too cold for them to venture out. “Are you sensing anything?”

Oops. Etain concentrated again. “Fear. Anger. But you don’t need a Jedi to tell you that.”

“Ma’am, they don’t call me Commander Tactful for nothing…”

“Okay.” Some of the farmers would be in the cantina in the center of the town. It had cellars; it was fortified. The farmhouses in the area were wooden construction, and a single artillery laser round was enough to reduce one to charcoal. Those farmers who weren’t in the cantina would have dispersed to the hills or headed for the next settlement, a village called Tilsat. “Let’s get it over with.”

Imbraani wasn’t much of a town. The center was an open common where merlies grazed and local kids played chase, although it was too cold today. The common was ringed by ramshackle buildings-a few farm supply stores, a cantina, two veterinarians, and a smithy. The speeders had already set down and a platoon of troopers had disembarked, some of them kneeling in a defensive line with Deeces ready.

Etain swung off the speeder, crunching through a thin layer of ice into packed snow, and for the first time she felt a hard kick from the baby.

It was too early. She had another crazy random thought: was her son already aging as fast as Darman? Had she made things worse by using her Force powers to accelerate the pregnancy? Did all first-time mothers worry about every twinge and twitch? She almost fell back on the speeder and got a curious tilt of the head from Levet.

“Steady, ma’am.”

“I slipped on the ice,” she said. There was no sign of activity, but a thin thread of smoke rose from the cantina’s chimney. This was a world of wood fires and low tech. The high tech the Qiilurans did have was weaponry provided by the Republic. “Oh well. We know their tactics and we know the capability of their kit, because we trained and supplied them.”

Normal procedure was to carry out house clearance, property by property, but Etain needed to give the farmers one final chance for her own peace of mind, even though she now knew it was pointless. It was, she realized, her deal with her conscience so that she could open fire and not be racked by guilt later.

She stood at the doors and took out her lightsaber; Master Fulier’s weapon still hung from her belt.

“This is it,” she called. “You come out, you get everyone together, and we load you on the transports.” She paused and listened. “You don’t come out-we come in and drag you out, cuff you, and load you on the transports. Your call.”

There was still silence, but she sensed danger, the preparation of dozens of weapons, and the breathless panic of people who thought this was their last day.

This would be a battle.

“I’m sorry,” she shouted, looking at the tiny windows just in case she caught a glimpse of a face. “I have to do this, and it has to be now.”

Etain turned to Levet and gave the signal to bring up the rapid entry teams. The troopers stacked either side of the doors, some with dispersal gas pistols, and Etain slipped a respirator mask over her face.

She could have left it all to her men.

I’m crazy. I’m pregnant and I’m leading an assault. Do I trust the Force that much? Yes, I think I do.

Etain thumbed the controls of her lightsaber, and the blue blade sprang into life. Visualizing a ball of energy building in her chest, she exhaled and aimed a massive Force push at the doors to rip them apart. Two troopers fired gas canisters inside and stood back; the rest of the platoon stormed in. Snapping and whining of blasterfire shattered the still, frosty air, and gas billowed from the entrance.

She ran in after Levet, thinking she should have gone in first, knowing that wasn’t how it was done, and looking for opportunities to use the Force to bring this to an end as fast as she could. White armor was everywhere, making that distinctive clack-clack sound as troopers dropped into firing position or smacked up against walls for cover. The cantina was a warren of rooms and passages.

It was when she deflected blasterfire with her lightsaber and heard someone yell that she was a traitor, a kriffing murderer, that reality sank in.

The noise was deafening; screams, shouts, shots. The smell of blaster-seared air, charred wood and stale yeast-ale, she thought-made her gag. Levet stuck by her, holding her down at one point with a firm hand on her head.

“You’re all the same! You’re all the same!”

Two troopers hauled a middle-aged man past her. He was alive and cursing, gas-induced tears pouring down his face, trying to aim kicks.