No Prisoners, Page 2

  “I remember,” Hallena lied. It sounded as if the woman didn’t think she was local. “I used to visit Athar as a kid.” Don’t push it, don’t get a conversation going. “I’m going to get a job tomorrow. I’ll be out all day.”

  “You’re a bit secretive, you are.”

  Stang, is she Force-sensitive or something? That risk had never troubled Hallena before, but the war had suddenly made her aware of how many beings there were who could sense her feelings or even try to shape her thoughts. Spies liked to be the ones who did the shaping and sensing. It was the natural order of espionage.

  “I’ve just been released from prison,” Hallena said at last, suitably awkward. “It’s not something I want to brag about. Don’t worry—it’s nothing violent or dishonest.”

  “It never is,” the woman said, suddenly serious. “It’s always political these days.”

  Hallena didn’t take it any farther. She retreated to her room, and spent the rest of the day tinkering with her comm kit—minimal, concealed within the old comlink, nothing that would make her look too well equipped in this austere world—and observing the activity in the street below through a small clear patch in the grimy transparisteel pane. Yes, the wind seemed to be dropping; a few more people were out on the walkways, some wearing goggles, others with their mouths still covered by scarves, but they seemed to know that respite was coming.

  How long am I going to be here?

  Hallena was glad she’d never been a sleeper, living undercover for a lifetime until a controller she’d never seen finally called one day and gave her a mission within a society she might have grown to think of as her own. Short bursts of being someone and something else were much more manageable.

  I can only live so much of a lie.

  Gil Pellaeon knew exactly what she was and accepted her for it. That was a rare source of honest stability in her line of work. She didn’t even keep a holoimage of him with her: too risky, like any genuine personal possession that might identify her if she was captured. But Gil understood the nature of their relationship—snatched moments, denials, no real prospect of routine, daily, comfortable domestic bliss like other couples—because his job wasn’t so different.

  Will either of us survive long enough to get out, to retire? Gil … no, he loves his ship. I’ll have to join him one day.

  That night, Hallena slept fitfully with her blaster on the nightstand. In the early hours, noise from the street woke her; her dozing brain told her it was drunks outside, typical Coruscant nightlife, but she snapped fully alert into Athar, JanFathal, where wild revelry wasn’t routine.

  The voice was a scream, a protest, not drunken shrieking. Lights played on the buildings opposite. The crunch and thud of doors being forced open gave way to speeders revving their drives. When Hallena got a glimpse of what was happening from the window, she saw a man and a woman being bundled into a vehicle marked with the livery of Athar’s not-so-secret police. One masked officer brought a bludgeon down on the head of the man in one practiced movement as he shoved him into the police speeder. The arrest was suddenly over. The lights swung around; all the vehicles sped off. All that remained was the gaping doors of the house opposite, yellow light streaming onto the pavement, and the complete absence of any neighbors coming out to see what was happening.

  They must have heard it all.

  This had to have been pretty common in Athar for lights not to be switched on and drapes pulled aside to see what was happening.

  Common enough for everyone to know to mind their own business.

  Hallena pondered on the irony of friendly governments, reminded herself she was here to win the war and not the battle, then—somehow—went back to sleep.

  REPUBLIC SHUTTLE, INBOUND FOR ASSAULT SHIP LEVELER

  GENERAL SKYWALKER COULD HAVE MADE IT AN ORDER, OF course. But he hadn’t; it was just a request. A mere suggestion.

  Clone Captain Rex added reading between the lines to the list of things they’d never actually taught him on Kamino.

  Okay, sir, I get it. Understood. You want your Padawan out of your hair for a few days. Done.

  Orders were orders, and orders given subtly seemed to have even more weight. They did if they came from Anakin Skywalker, anyway.

  “Am I getting on his nerves?” Ahsoka asked.

  “As if.” Rex could see a little frown wrinkling her nose. “Now, why would he ever think that?”

  She gave him a narrow-eyed stare for a moment, almost theatrical, searching the T-shaped visor as if she was trying to look him in the eye, and then grinned.

  “You’re hard to read, sometimes.”

  “Everyone needs a break from combat, littl’un. Even Jedi. And even if it’s spent training. That’s all.”

  It was true. Rex believed that—well, generally, anyway—so if Ahsoka wanted to test how he felt about it in the Force, she wouldn’t sense it as a lie. But he’d decided he didn’t need to know why Skywalker wanted her out of the way for a while, and if she wanted to know—well, it was time for her to learn about need-to-know. She was going to have a little trouble mastering that skill.

  He was more concerned with the six new clone troopers assigned to Torrent Company.

  They were very new indeed.

  While Ahsoka gazed out of the viewport, they sat on the two bench seats, three men on each side, facing one another in still, studied silence. Sergeant Coric, one of only five of his men from the original Torrent Company who’d survived the assault on Teth, sat to one side, seeming engrossed in his datapad.

  In theory, the new boys had learned all they needed to about every class of warship; in practice, they’d had only Kaminoan flash training, which was thorough but no substitute for hands-on experience. And anyone fresh out of Tipoca City could never be fully prepared for the real world beyond that cloistered training existence, the untidy galaxy of thousands of new species that had nothing in common with humans or Kaminoans.

  I wonder how much they’ll see of it before they get killed.

  It was a thought that had become quietly insistent at the back of his mind, not enough to eat at him, but an uncomfortable feeling he tried to brush away.

  Rex considered them carefully, listening for the telltale clicks and faint breaths that would tell him what was going on inside their helmets. He could see what they appeared to see; their point-of-view icons in his head-up display all showed the man sitting opposite.

  Well, that was where their helmets were facing, anyway.

  Takes a long time to rebuild a company from five survivors. Takes a lot more than training, too. What do Kaminoans know about bonding? Less than they thought, I reckon. A lot less.

  Ahsoka interrupted his thoughts. “What’s so special about Leveler?” She gazed out the viewscreen as the shuttle came alongside the warship. “Looks like all the others of her class.”

  “All ships have their own peculiarities.” Rex called up the schematic of Leveler on his HUD with a couple of rapid blinks. “Even ones that look the same. But Leveler’s just had a refit, so she’s got some experimental toys for us to try out.”

  “Destructive toys?”

  “Advanced concussion missiles. Prototypes designed for orbital bombardment and ship-killing. So if they’re not destructive, Pellaeon better ask for a refund.”

  The six new clones—Ross, Boro, Joc, Hil, Vere, and Ince—didn’t move a muscle. Rex switched to his internal helmet comlink so Ahsoka couldn’t hear him.

  “Gentlemen, show me some life signs before I resort to CPR …”

  “Receiving, sir,” Ince said. “Just … awaiting orders.”

  “You can move, you know. And talk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rex decided he’d have to factor some social time into the training. His new boys needed to loosen up. Maybe they were nervous about being 501st Legion now because a certain cachet—a certain responsibility—came with that cap-badge.

  And if they didn’t start talking and giving him all the little clues of ind
ividuality that helped one clone trooper recognize another in a sea of near-identical faces and armor, then he’d have to resort to checking who was who with his tally sensor. That was somehow discourteous—like having to read an officer’s name tag every time—and an admission that, as a commander, Rex didn’t know his men.

  “Permission to engage in witty banter—in your own time, go on.”

  “Witty banter commencing, sir … stand by.”

  So Ince had a sense of humor after all. Rex smiled to himself and let them mull over the fact that they weren’t on Kamino any longer.

  The shuttle aligned with the aft bay and settled on its dampers with a slight shudder. As the ramp went down, Ahsoka bounced out first, ahead of Rex. As he put his boot on the deck, Gil Pellaeon walked across the durasteel plating in his gray working rig and came to a halt a few meters away. His stance said that this was his world, his ship; and the captain was the law.

  He looked down his nose at the tiny Togruta Jedi, not unkindly, but out of necessity. Ahsoka was short. She might have acted as if she were Wookiee-sized, but nothing could change the fact that she was small—and a kid. A few crew paused to watch, some clones, some nonclones. Rex hovered on the brink of intervention.

  “Ma’am.” Pellaeon nodded formally, clicking the heels of his polished boots. “Welcome aboard. First thing we do is get you kitted out in proper rig.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Chief? Chief, get Padawan Tano some fireproof fatigues and safety boots. Smallest size the stores can find. Cut off the length if you need to.”

  Rex hadn’t actually thought to warn Ahsoka about suitable attire for the acquaint. It was sensitive stuff, telling a female what to wear, especially a Jedi, even if she was a fourteen-year-old. Besides, Pellaeon was so much more gracious with the ladies. The captain kept his eyes fixed on hers.

  “I didn’t have to wear fatigues on any other ship,” Ahsoka said stiffly.

  “You’re not suitably attired, my dear.” His tone was very paternal for a moment. “We do not expose flesh in this ship, not only because it’s unbecoming, undisciplined, and distracting, but because a ship is a dangerous place. Sharp edges, noxious chemicals, hot exhausts, weapons flash. Safety first, Padawan. Cover up.”

  “But I fight like this.” Suddenly Ahsoka was any youngster defending her choice of fashion to a stuffy parent, not a Jedi at all. She looked down at her bare legs and midriff as if she’d suddenly realized she had them. “And I never get hurt. Admiral Yularen let—”

  “Admiral Yularen may do as he wishes in his own ship. This vessel is my domain. You’ll cover up, please, Padawan Tano.”

  “But I always—”

  “Not in my navy.”

  Rex had no choice but to stand at attention and wait for the battle of wills to end. The new troopers were commendably un-moving in a neat line to his left; Coric rocked back and forth on his heels very discreetly, movement almost unseen, boots creaking a little. Pellaeon waited, and then extended one arm out to his side as the Fleet Chief came striding toward him with a pair of solid boots and folded dark blue coveralls.

  Pellaeon took the items without even looking around and handed them to Ahsoka.

  “Thank you,” she said, chin down. Then she trotted back up the ramp.

  Pellaeon’s shoulders relaxed visibly. “Good grief, Rex, doesn’t Skywalker tell his underlings to put clothes on? What does he think this is, a cruise liner?”

  It was at times like this that Rex savored the true value of his bucket. He silenced his helmet audio for a moment with a quick eye movement, roared with laughter, and then switched the speaker back on.

  “Would you like me to ask him, sir?”

  “Rex, you’re enjoying this …”

  “Me, sir? Never, sir.”

  “We’re both captains, Rex … it’s Gil. Drop the sir.”

  “Navy captain outranks army captain, sir. Strictly speaking.”

  “Shut up, for goodness’ sake, man, and come have a drink.”

  Good old Pellaeon. He didn’t give a bantha’s backside about protocol. They worked in silence. Eventually, Ahsoka strode back down the ramp of the shuttle, blue fatigues belted tightly at the waist, over-long sleeves rolled up to her wrists, and presented herself to Pellaeon.

  “Will this do?” Poor kid; she looked embarrassed. The brightly colored stripes on her three head-tails looked more vivid than ever—a blush, Rex had learned, sometimes one of discomfort, sometimes anger. He guessed it was a little of both this time. “I just want you to know that it’s so baggy that I’m going to trip over it and break my neck, that’s all. Not very safe.”

  “You’ll grow into it, my dear,” Pellaeon said, looking satisfied. “And Jedi are too spatially aware to trip, yes? Chief Massin will show you to your cabin.”

  Pellaeon waited for Ahsoka to vanish through the bay doors behind the Chief, then turned to Rex. “How long a respite do you need?”

  “I’m told two to three days.”

  “Ah, not your request for downtime for your men, then.”

  “No.” Rex trod carefully. “General Skywalker has his reasons for wanting to operate alone, whatever they might be, and his Padawan is still at the over-curious stage. I really appreciate your help, Captain.”

  “My pleasure.” Pellaeon beckoned to the troopers; Coric followed them up like a herd dog. “Besides, you might be able to help me knock some of my crew into shape. Ah, for the days when a commanding officer could dump a useless minion out the air lock without having to worry about filling in forms …”

  “Very unsporting, sir,” Coric said. “Unless you give them a fifty-meter start.”

  Pellaeon laughed. But like all humor in this war, it was a thinly worn veneer over permanent anxiety, and the crew did end up dying in hard vacuum, and the only way most personnel seemed able to cope was to joke in ways that seemed inappropriate to beings cocooned in peace and safety.

  Rex took his laughs where he could. This was as near to downtime as he might ever get: among others who understood him, far from civilians on Coruscant who never would, a safe limbo between the two extremes.

  “It’s going to be boring, sir,” Coric said to him as they walked down the passage to the mess deck. “And in a good way.”

  “Make the most of it,” Rex said. “Catch up on some sleep. All of you.”

  Two or three days of relative idling was just what they needed. All he had to do was to keep Ahsoka occupied. And how hard could that be?

  A tiny figure came striding down the passage toward them, coping remarkably well with a pair of durasteel-capped safety boots. Ahsoka’s head-tails bounced like braids.

  “I’m ready, Rex.” She beamed. “Show me the conc missile bay.”

  ATHAR: NEXT MORNING

  “YOU!” YELLED THE OVERSEER AT THE FACTORY GATES. HE WAS strikingly pale, and for a moment Hallena thought he was an albino. But he was just very blond, an oddity in Athar. “You, with the red scarf! You want some machine shop work?”

  She realized he was pointing at her. She stood in the ragged line of laborers outside the munitions factory, just one of a crowd waiting for work assigned by the day.

  Great way to miss security checks. Some dictatorships are so wonderfully dumb.

  “No, sir.” That was always the hardest act for her: pretending to be deferential. “Just sweeping up. You got any jobs?”

  The gray dust had drifted everywhere like fine, grubby snow. At least the wind had dropped.

  “We’ve always got sweeping jobs,” the overseer said, kicking a pile of dust into the air by way of demonstration. “Especially now. Get in here. Where’s your ID?”

  Hallena edged her way to the front of the line, drawing surly and envious glances as if she were being accorded some kind of privilege. As she turned sideways to edge between two men—remember, mind your body language, think passive, think humble—she caught the eye of one of them, and it was a moment of reminder, of revelation. She looked into the eyes of a starving man; not literally, because he
seemed solidly built, but a man desperate to find a day’s work, and perhaps she had snatched it from him. The man stared back. It was just a heartbeat, not even a second.

  She had never seen that look on Coruscant, not up close. Suddenly she understood the heart of the enemy she was facing; and it scared her more than warships and invasions because it could not be shot down, bombed, or brought to a negotiating table. It was the face of desperation, of a fear and need so primal that it could be mobilized to do anything.

  We’ve picked a loser here.

  This place is ripe for revolution. No wonder the Seps want to move in. One push, one coup—

  “What are you kriffing well waiting for, then?” the overseer yelled. “You want this job or not? I got a hundred ready to take your place, sweetheart.”

  “Sorry, sir.” Arrogant barve. I hope I have cause to drop you … “Right away, sir.”

  Hallena jerked her eyes away and pushed through the line. She hadn’t realized it had been that obvious. It was just a split second’s glance. She’d have to be much more careful in a society where everyone was clearly geared up to watching and denouncing their neighbor to survive.

  She held out her fake identichip to the overseer. He took it, slipped it into a chip reader, and stared at the display. It wasn’t the first time that she’d stood on that knife-edge between life and death, hoping that her cover wasn’t blown, but—

  Hey, I’m not behind enemy lines yet. I’m here with the Regent’s consent and knowledge. Why am I feeling like this?

  The overseer smirked as he glanced at the readout. It must have shown him her prison record. “Learned your lesson, then, troublemaker?”

  “I just want to keep my head down and put food on the table,” she said.

  “If I get a single sniff of you stirring up the rabble in here, I’ll personally cut your throat.”

  Yes, this was the hardest part of undercover work. Not staring down the muzzle of a blaster; not dreading discovery and a lonely, anonymous death, undiscovered and a long way from home. The most unbearable moment for Hallena Devis was biting her lip while a piece of scum like this insulted her intelligence, and not dispensing the instant justice he richly deserved.