“It’s not home” said a man standing a little behind Birhan. “And we’re not going.”
“Everyone else left weeks ago.”
” ‘Cept two thousand of us that haven’t, girl.” Birhan folded his arms: the sound of the AT-TE had stopped, and every wild noise carried on the still, cold air. Qiilura was so very, very quiet compared with the places she’d been. “And you can’t move us if we don’t want to be going.”
It took Etain a moment to realize he meant violence rather than Force persuasion, and she felt a little ripple of anxiety in some of the troops. She and Levet had been authorized-ordered-to use force if necessary. Jinart slipped forward between the troops and sat on her haunches, and some of the farmers stared at her as if she were some exotic pet or hunting animal. Of course: they’d probably never seen a Gurlanin, or at least hadn’t realized they had. There were so few of them left. And they could take any form they pleased.
“The Republic will remove you, farmer, because they fear us,” Jinart said. “In this war, you now count for nothing. We use the power we have. So go while you can.”
Birhan blinked at the Gurlanin for a few moments. The only four-legged species the farmers saw were their animals, and none of them talked back. “This is a big planet. There’s plenty of room for all of us.”
“Not enough for you. You wiped out our prey. We’ve starved. You’re destroying us by wiping out our food chain, and now it’s our turn…”
“No more killing,” Etain snapped. Level eased through the line of troops and stood a little in front of her to her left: she could sense his readiness to intervene. Gurlanins didn’t have weapons, but nature had made them efficient killers. They’d all seen plenty of evidence. “These are difficult times, Birhan, and nobody gets a happy ending. You’ll be far safer where you’re going. Do you understand me?”
His gaze fixed on hers. He was frail and worn out, his eyes watery and red-rimmed from age and the biting, cold air. He might have been only the same age as Kal Skirata, but agriculture here was a brutal existence that took its toll. “You’d never shoot us. You’re a Jedi. You’re all full of peace and pity and stuff.”
“Try thinking of me as an army officer,” she said softly. “and you might get a different picture. Last chance.”
There were only so many ultimata she could give them, and that was the last. The compound gates opened with a metallic scrape, and Level moved the troops forward lo edge the crowd away. It was cold; they’d get fed up and wander home sooner or later. For a moment the sense of hatred and resentment in the Force was so strong that Etain thought the Qiilurans might start a riot, but it seemed to be just a staring contest, which was unwinnable against troops whose eyes they couldn’t see. There was also the small matter of penetrating a wall of plasloid-alloy armor.
Levet’s voice boomed from the voice projector in his helmet. Etain could have sworn that nearby branches shivered
“Go back to your farms and get ready to leave, all of you.
Report to the landing strip in seventy-two hours. Don’t make this any harder than it is.”
“For you, or for us?” someone yelled from the crowd. “Would you abandon everything you had and start again?”
“I’d willingly trade places with you,” Levet said. “But I don’t have the option.”
Etain couldn’t help but be more interested in the clone commander for a moment. It was an odd comment, but she felt that he meant it, and that unsettled her. She was used to seeing Darman and the other commandos as comrades with needs and aspirations that nobody else expected them lo have, but she’d never heard a regular trooper openly express a wish for something beyond the GAR. It was uniquely poignant.
They’d all rather be somewhere else even if they’re not sure what it is. All of them, like Dar, like me, like anyone.
She felt Levet’s brief embarrassment at his own frankness. But there was no gesture or head movement to indicate to anyone else that he was being literal.
I can’t think of the whole galaxy any longer. My thoughts are with these slave soldiers, and that’s as much caring as I can manage right now. I want them to live. Sorry, Birhan, I’m a bad Jedi, aren’t I?
Etain had made that mental deal a long while ago. It wasn’t the Jedi way, but then no Jedi had ever been faced with leading a conventional army and making brutally pragmatic combat decisions on a daily basis. No Jedi should have, as far as she was concerned, but she was in it now, and she’d make what difference she could lo the men around her.