501st: An Imperial Commando Novel (21 page)

It would make him a dangerously weak link.

His name was Rede. Niner wasn’t sure if that was a name he’d chosen, been given at birth, or had pinned on him instead of a number so that he’d fit in better with the Tipoca-raised clones. They’d find out soon enough.

“We’ve got plenty of experienced commandos,” Darman said. “If they wanted to backfill posts, then a regular Five-oh-first trooper could be cross-trained. But not a
Spaarti
clone.”

“It’s just an experiment to see how they cope.”

“When we’ve got our hands full with real missions. Great.”

“Can you think of a better time to test a guy?”

“Ennen’s pretty hacked off about it.”

Niner searched for clues to Darman’s state of mind today. “He just misses Bry.”

“Seriously—what do
you
expect from a Spaarti job?”

“Probably the same as mongrels expect from us. And just as wrong.”

Dar grunted, but didn’t seem convinced. “Okay. Point taken.”

Niner tried to treat Dar gently these days. Sometimes the old sergeant habits got the better of him and it turned into a rebuke he didn’t intend. He watched Dar cleaning his rifle, its parts spread out neatly on the table, and pondered on two things: exactly what information the datachip contained, and how he would get it to Jaing or Mereel. He understood where his loyalties lay. He wasn’t any more anti-Empire than he’d been anti-Republic, or even anti-Separatist, because the politics were meaningless to him. He had no stake in whatever any of those regimes wanted to do with the galaxy. All he had was his brothers, one of them here and badly in need of his care, the others light-years away in a place he hadn’t even seen and couldn’t locate on a chart.

But the stormtroopers around Niner, even former Republic commandos like Ennen, were almost
aruetiise
in the most benign sense:
not us
. While he watched Darman reassembling his Deece, he wondered why he hadn’t bonded with them as easily as he’d expected. They were all soldiers, just like him. They faced the same threats, and looked out for one another in the same way, but somehow Niner didn’t feel at home or safe here. It was the most corroding thought he’d ever had. He could almost understand the gulf between him and the regular stormtroopers, the clones raised in a brief year by Spaarti methods and who had never seen Kamino, but men like Ennen—and poor old Bry—were still his comrades. They’d all been hatched at the same time in Tipoca City. Even though they’d been trained by different sergeants—not Mandalorians, but
Cuy’val Dar
nonetheless—they still should have felt like
brothers
.

It wasn’t about them. It was about himself, and he knew it. It was the first time that he’d started to realize that Darman wasn’t the only one succumbing to stress.

And I was the one who thought desertion was a bad idea. I was, wasn’t I? The others had to talk me into it
.

Darman looked up at him as he calibrated the rifle’s optics. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You really want to know?”

“That’s why I’m asking,
ner vod
. You’re not yourself.”

“I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Darman just looked at him for a moment, staring past him as if there was something far more interesting on the wall of their quarters.

“I’m fine,” Darman said. “I can keep going like this.”

For a moment, Niner saw another glimpse of self-awareness there. Darman knew he was a mess. He was lying to himself, playing a mind game simply to put one foot in front of the other enough times each day to function. Medication would have been more effective, but how did he report sick in this army, and how the
shab
did he explain why he felt the way he did?

It’s like this, Doc, I was having an illicit relationship with a Jedi general, and she had a baby and never told me until a year or so later, and then we tried to desert and she got killed by another Jedi, and I can’t see my son anymore, so all in all, Doc—I’m not feeling so great
.

Yes, the Imperial Army would understand perfectly. Vader would give Darman a month’s leave, and the Emperor would send him a nice box of candies to show his concern.

Right
.

“You’re not fine,” Niner said. “But I’m here, and I’ll keep an eye on you. Okay?”

Darman blinked a few times. “I’m going to the gym. Maybe we ought to get Ennen along, too, and Rede. Why don’t we mix with the others?”

“Because we’re not very sociable,” Niner said.

Because we’re not planning on staying. That’s why I don’t feel part of this army. I switched off, and I can’t switch back on again
.

“Do you still … want to go?” Niner asked carefully.

“Go where?” Darman said.

Niner imagined bugging devices everywhere. Sometimes that seemed ludicrous—who would suspect clones
of disloyalty?—and sometimes it made perfect sense, because the rest of his squad, his training sergeant, and the ARC troopers he’d served with were all on the death list. If the Empire was looking for deserters, where better to start than by waiting for their closest friends to make a slip?

“The gym,” Niner said. “I meant the gym.”

Darman gave him a blank look. “I’m going. It’ll do you good to go, too. Come on.”

Niner had always been too busy fighting to worry about keeping fit. Running for his life and hauling a heavy pack was all the exercise he needed. But now that his duties were less active—physically, at least—he had to make an effort. He changed into his shorts, tucking the datachip carefully in a sealed pocket, and left his armor stacked neatly on his bunk as if ready for kit inspection. But Darman shut his armor in his locker and secured it. Niner wondered if he’d kept some incriminating keepsake of Etain, like a letter or something.

That could get both of them killed.

What had Darman done about the data stored in his old helmet? He’d proposed to Etain via the messaging system, and she’d accepted the same way. He never saw her alive again after that, except for the short minutes on the bridge before she was killed, just meters and seconds away from escaping with him. It still seemed massively cruel—newly wed, unable even to touch before they were separated forever.

He must have had the sense to erase anything stored in the helmet’s memory. Dar’s thorough. If he hadn’t, we’d be in big trouble now, wouldn’t we
?

Niner realized that he was behind enemy lines. Suddenly, life seemed simpler.

Fine. I’m trained for that. I can handle it
.

He played pairs-slingball with Darman, smashing the ball against the wall as hard as he could and not even thinking about the score. A game that intense took his mind off everything except the fast-moving, rock-hard ball that gave him no time to think. It purged all the
pent-up anger and frustration from anyone’s system. Nobody interrupted a game like that. That was the plan; Niner had seen Darman lose it with Skirata once, and if he could take a swing at a man who would have done anything for him, his adoptive father, then he would do a lot worse to some hapless stormtrooper who rubbed him up the wrong way in a game.

The less attention Dar drew, the better.

Niner couldn’t return half of Darman’s shots. The ball was coming back off the wall like a missile. Sweat stung his eyes, and Darman collided with him a couple of times without even seeming to notice. Eventually Niner slowed to a standstill and bent over with his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

“Good game,” Darman panted. Sweat dripped off his nose. “Want another?”

“I’m done. I’m going to clean up.”

This was where things started to get complicated. Niner had to keep the datachip on him at all times, and when it came to using the ’freshers, that wasn’t easy. He didn’t dare leave the thing in his locker. The chip was about three centimeters square, wafer-thin, so he racked his brains for all the places he could hide the chip while showering. The choices weren’t fun. He opted for wrapping the chip in a layer of waterproof plastoid and tucking it inside his cheek.

Just don’t swallow it. That would be … awkward
.

It still took a conjuror’s dexterity to slide the chip from his shorts and then find a private moment in the communal changing room to slip the thing in his mouth before taking his clothes off. He was lucky that the chip was too thin to create a telltale bulge in his cheek and make him look like a foraging profogg. All he needed now was to avoid getting into a conversation. Concentrating on the tiled wall was the best way to do that.

Darman switched on the spray head next to him.

“I don’t know when I’m going to be Dar again.” He seemed to be having another lucid moment, able to
stand back and see that he wasn’t quite right. “I’m sorry,
ner vod.
”

“It’s okay,” Niner mumbled. He felt like an idiot with the chip lodged in his mouth. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Niner dressed, hid the chip in his pants again, and went back to the room to do his laundry. He found the doors open and his helmet missing. For a moment he was ready to go find Ennen to tell him exactly what he’d do to him if they tried to pull some stupid stunt with his bucket, but as he checked the other lockers, he heard the rattle of a droid in the corridor.

A tech droid with a polished dome and a cylindrical body, like a taller version of an R2 astromech unit, rolled into the room carrying Niner’s helmet in both arms. He knew it was his. He recognized the scrapes and charring on the cheek piece.

“Servicing complete.” The droid placed the helmet back on Niner’s bunk in exactly the position where he’d left it. “But I’ve been unable to service your colleague IC-one-one-three-six’s helmet. It wasn’t left for collection. Have a pleasant day.”

The droid spun 180 degrees to leave, but Niner tapped it on its dome. It turned back to him with a slight pause. He could have sworn it was exasperated.

“Yes, IC-one-three-zero-nine?”

“I didn’t ask for helmet repair.”

“I know. This is routine maintenance under contract. A number of helmets have developed comm problems due to component failure. I suggest you test the audio systems at your earliest convenience and report back to Equipment Maintenance if problems persist. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Niner hadn’t had any problems with his bucket. He didn’t like it much, but that wasn’t going to be solved by servicing, and there was no point arguing with a droid.

“That’s all, thanks,” he said.

“How nice to receive courtesy from a
wet,”
the droid said, and left.

Skirata had brought up his young commandos to say please and thank you, even to Kaminoans and droids. Niner still found it funny to hear a tinnie call him a
wet
, though.

But now he was alone. He’d been waiting for relative privacy to examine the datachip again, and this was as good a time as any. He removed the transmitter unit from his datapad to make sure that anything he viewed wouldn’t end up being relayed to prying eyes. Then he sat on the bunk and hunched over the datapad so any hidden surveillance cam wouldn’t see what showed on the screen.

Well, until I know this place isn’t bugged—I’ll assume the worst. Enemy lines, remember
.

When he slid the chip into the port on his datapad, the device told him that it was empty. For a moment he wondered if Obrim had slipped him some other chip, but nothing was precisely what he should have expected to see. Only Jaing could coax information from the chip. But he had no idea yet how to contact him, and in the new army, he couldn’t just put in a comm call to Mandalore or cadge a ride with some unit heading for the Hydian Way.

Shab
. If he messed around with the chip too much, he might end up corrupting the data. After a few minutes staring pointlessly at an empty dialogue box, he gave up and hid the chip carefully again.

There has to be a way to do this. Whatever’s on here matters to
Kal’buir
and my brothers. Obrim wouldn’t have taken a risk like this if it wasn’t crucial
.

Niner checked his helmet, working out how he would locate Jaing if he could reach the Mandalore sector—just theory, mind, not a plan at all. He flipped the helmet over in his hands and looked at the tight-packed interior, every space lined and studded with suit environment sensors, displays, and interfaces. When he lifted it and inhaled, he could smell unfamiliar scents: the incense-like perfume of solder, a faint whiff of cleaning
fluid on the mike and earpiece adapter, and something else he couldn’t identify. Singed plastoid, perhaps.

There was only one way to fully test a helmet, and that was to suit up and close all the seals to make the armor soundproof. He dressed, distracted by the thought that Dar knew that he was behaving oddly, and imagined how scared that made him. It was bad enough to grieve. It had to be even worse to watch yourself coming apart at the seams as well.

As soon as Niner closed the neck seal, he was back in his own one-man world of silence and perfectly controlled temperature and humidity. He blinked to activate the HUD and sound systems, selecting the diagnostic icon to test that everything was working. The ambient sound of the room flooded in, then the calibration tone, and lines of readouts cascaded down the HUD like an overlay on the world around him.

Fine. Working just fine
.

He commed Control to check his mike, and got confirmation from a droid that it could hear him perfectly.

What do I do now
?

Imperial Command wasn’t as free and easy as the Grand Army’s special forces setup. There was no way of vanishing for a few days on a whim if a target looked promising. There was no
Kal’buir
to cover for them while they did as they pleased, or an indulgent General Jusik to task them as he saw fit.

Or Etain. Poor Etain
.

How the
shab
could he get a chance to go to Mandalore? How much more could he ask of Jaller Obrim? The man would be watched as closely as anyone. One thing was clear to Niner, even if he didn’t care about politics: in the new galactic order, Palpatine was checking who was with him and who was not.