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A. MISSION: 1ST AND 2D SOBDE 0500 GST WILL SEIZE AND SECURE DESIGNATED SEPARATIST MANUFACTURING SITES FOR SSE BY FOLLOW-ON DEPLOYMENTS OF INTELLIGENCE UNITS.
MINIMAL DAMAGE TO STRUCTURES REQUIRED. ROE TO BE UPDATED.
ARKANIS SECTOR. PENDING CONFIRMATION OF COORDINATES.
— Extract of first WARNORD issued to commando units on Kamino, after an altercation between Jango Fett and visiting representative of the Jedi Order
Tipoca City, Kamino, standard hours until Geonosis
The leatheris was still nice on the glove.
Walon Vau particularly admired the palm and the back of the hand, where tabac stains hadn’t tarnished the marine blue.
Unlike other people Vau could name, Kamino hadn’t turned him to drink or bloodsport. But Vau didn’t congratulate himself. He wasn’t that kind of man. He concealed his one bad habit exactly as he indulged it: like an Irmenuan patrician, wearing full-grain thranta hide and downing lungfuls of salty air.
The parallels ended there. No true aristocrat would court their death on a balcony so cold, sterile, and—worst of all—ugly. Not even Lord Mirdalan could beautify it, sprawled belly-down on the railing, loose skin like golden sails draped atop a yardarm.
Vau exhaled. He fought the wind for his cigarette and replaced the squall in his chest with smoke. From this level of Tipoca’s Spec Ops annex, he could see the skyglow from the equally soulless city of Timira. They raised the police cadets there, the poor crimped bastards. And about a hundred nautical miles south-southwest, in the direction of a couple drifting cigarettes, were nurseries that would never empty before the coming war was done.
If Fett cared what happened to them, he’d never said. He’d be parsecs away now. Gone for good, Vau figured. A Jedi had arrived and there’d been an altercation. Vau hadn’t seen it, but a couple cadet platoons had, and the account was growing arms and legs as it raced through the barracks and training complexes.
Vau flicked the butt away. It tumbled into the spray that frothed above an endless, angry sea. Vau watched it disappear as he stroked Mird’s ears, and then he reached for another. Maybe he’d finish this pack, his last. No need to ration them: he wouldn’t be waiting anymore for Fett to smuggle in the one thing that kept him sane by putting some dirt back in his lungs, reminding him of worlds beyond the water. And to think I once burned to be in the shabla navy…
No, Vau’s residency on Kamino was rapidly coming to a close, and none too soon. The circumstances could’ve been better, though.
Geonosis. Restrictive terrain like that … no recce … going noisy but not allowed to go bouncy? There’s not enough bug spray in the sector. It’ll be a bloodbath.
Vau’s fellow cuy’val dar were rarely of one mind, especially the Mando contingent. They were colleagues at best, sworn enemies at worst; sometimes only contractual obligations and a mutual respect for Fett stopped them from killing one another. But on this they agreed: the flurry of warnords and fragords being issued to the commando units were pir’dushla. Who had authorized them? Did Fett have to do everything himself? Reau’s trainees could cascade comms better, and their literacy ended at the phonetic alphabet.
A brutal gust of wind stripped the cigarette from Vau’s fingers before he could light it, as if to scold him—for smoking, for loitering, for doing nothing.
Nothing to be done. Skirata will get the situation sewn up like a blind postmortem and thank himself for his service.
Kal Skirata had never found this balcony, and he wouldn’t be looking now. It was REDCON-1 down there. After getting over the shock of finding his Nulls gone, Skirata had begun grilling the Kaminoans with everything short of a beskar skewer. It seemed likely the hooligan would finally make good on his promise to kill one of them. Bait for aiwhaling; bootliners for his boys; tatsushi for someone’s table—Skirata’s plans for the first kaminii he slotted were as obscene as they were numerous.
He’ll clasp my arm with new gloves tomorrow and still call me the psycho.
When the Nulls needed sectioning in two months, and lead sedatives in two years, Vau hoped he was around to see it. It’d be a fascinating thing to witness, if only from afar.
But there was no telling what the next year or even the next day would bring. More questions, few answers, and no certainty but death. They’d only had a decade to prepare lab-grown boys to survive a war the Jedi would probably lose for them. Vau had done the best he could.
Suddenly, Mird rumbled and perked up in the direction of the doors. Vau turned around.
Yes, Walon Vau had done the best anyone could, because standing there, brightly backlit, was one of his trainees. One of his Deltas.
Vau had been followed to his own hide, and that was as shocking as it was impressive.
Mird jumped down to greet the intruder, tail thwacking. Thanks for nothing, Mird’ika.
“Private …” Vau prompted, demand riding his tone. He recognized the trainee—Oh-Seven’s armor detail was memorable to say the least—but he’d better start explaining himself. This balcony was behind a long series of locks.
“Sergeant.” Oh-Seven flipped his helmet up beneath his arm and snapped to attention like a bone breaking. “RC-1207, Sergeant. I’m sorry for the interruption, I’ll just—”
“Step forward, Oh-Seven.”
Oh-Seven obeyed, and moved stiffly around the strill to come to attention again. “Sergeant.”
Vau paused, waiting for Six-Two to come barreling around the corner. But it seemed Oh-Seven—Sev to his squad—was alone. Vau’s cold curiosity warmed a little.
“Did you follow me up here?” he finally asked.
“No, Sergeant.”
“Don’t lie.” He didn’t mean to bark—Vau never raised his voice, it was vulgar and unnecessary for inspiring true fear—but the wind silenced anything less.
“No, not this time, Sergeant. Just the first time.”
Shab. The hairs prickled on the back of Vau’s neck. “And when was that?” Still, not bad. A cadet who could out-stalk a strill…
“A couple years ago, Sergeant,” replied Sev.
“Be specific. You’re a sniper.” Attention to detail, prompt recall of the most minute observations, might save his squad one day.
“975. After your fight with Sergeant Skirata.” Before Vau could repeat the order for specificity—those fights could fill a small campaign history—Sev clarified: “When he broke your … when he objected to your training methods, Sergeant.”
Ah.
Vau hummed, fingers rubbing instinctively up the crooked bridge of his nose. That’d been some brawl, alright. “At ease, Private.”
Most cadets didn’t do easy well. Sev’s posture did the textbook things, but it looked like he was thinking hard about it. He continued to stare at the rheumy horizon and many klicks beyond.
Vau’s hand reached for his pocket next, fishing for a smoke. He pulled one out. There was no point hiding it. The nerf was already glue, couldn’t put the cork back in …
And the nest is about to get roundly kicked.
“So,” Vau began. He cupped his hand around his mouth to light up, and waited for the tip to cherry. “You thought I might have left again.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Sev had turned out in a hurry. Vau had begun circling him, idly taking in his appearance in the blanched light. His neck seal was misaligned, which Vau quickly sorted for him. But at least Sev’s hair was finally neat because he didn’t have any. Someone had sheared it to the bone.
“Well, I didn’t leave that time,” Vau reminded him. Not that he hadn’t been tempted, even just a waystation run for some smokes and some goddamned current literature. There could’ve been no coming back, however: Skirata would have been even more impossible to live with. “Why would I leave now?”
“Because the Prime did, Sergeant,” said Sev. “Because it’s time.”
Yes, even unblinking planks like Oh-Seven knew this readiness drill was not like the ones before it. Skirata usually didn’t run around like a purple grenade for starters. “You have your orders,” Vau said, though that was a painfully generous word. “You have Three-Eight. Does it matter where I am?”
Sev opened his mouth. Nothing came out. If anything, he looked less easy than before. There were sticks, and there was whatever this kid kept up his backside.
“Answer the question,” Vau ordered.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Yes, what, Private.” I swear I taught them better Basic than this.
“Yes, it matters, Sergeant. I don’t want you to— … I needed to say goodbye.”
The wind hadn’t abated. Those words just seemed to hang, ambient and heavy. And Sev’s gaze sank between Vau’s boots, because he was too disciplined to drop his chin.
Vau’s first thought was that Sev had somehow convinced himself he was going to die. That was contemptible enough.
Then another thought struck him, from somewhere a little lower down. And Vau had to grip the railing to stop himself from hurling Sev over it.
He’s fond of me.
After everything I did to him, he’s still … soft.
Vau’s hand flinched for the beskad at his belt.
Should’ve cut up the snivelling shabuir when he asked for it…
Vau burned. He felt perfectly ready to kill Sev now and save a bag the stain. But his stomach churned under one too many unbreathed breaths, and his hand flew instead for the cigarette dangling between his teeth. He hissed as he pulled it out, along with a thick stream of smoke that washed into Sev’s cowed face.
This was where it got difficult: being a teacher to fatherless sons. Not enough of you for all the boots you had to fill.
The smooth cut of alkotine worked to chamfer Vau’s anger, and his detachment soon returned. Sev wasn’t forgiven. Vau was still disgusted that he’d been made to picture, even for a fraction of a second, how low Sev’s perversion of deference might go. But he had to admit it: the kid had grit. Vau had smoked Delta-07 harder than any trainee in his company, because he needed it. Because if a boy wanted to wear blood on his armor, his bite better be much worse than his bark. And Oh-Seven no longer disappointed him. Much.
Well, he’s not the first di’kut to stumble into infatuation. You could’ve taught him a thing or two.
Vau unclenched his hand. Maybe it was time to let Oh-Seven take a breather. What else was Vau going to do, restrict privileges? Rough him up a little? Send him on a snipe hunt for Boba’s binky? That was all over now. Sev would be kicking up sand into his cod plate soon enough.
“Here,” Vau said, and offered Sev his cigarette.
Sev stared at it. Then he glanced up, uncertain, still bowed under the weight of obvious guilt. No actor was Oh-Seven; he’d need to keep his helmet on and let Three-Eight do the talking.
Vau grabbed Sev’s wrist and, pinching gently below the embers, propped the roll between his gloved fingers. “You smoke it, Sev,” he prompted. Of course Sev would be confused: smoking of substances was prohibited in every Kamino BioTech facility, and trainees didn’t get much in the way of popular entertainment to show them how it was done. “Hold it between your— … that’s it. Now put the end in your mouth.”
Sev obeyed, wide-eyed. He brought his hand to his face like a holo realizing it was real, and pursed his lips in expectation. Good—he’d been paying attention.
“Take a very shallow breath. It’ll be hot. Let it cool in your mouth, first,” Vau instructed as he stepped behind Sev. He made a fist and propped it at the base of the chest plate’s sternal vee, where Sev’s diaphragm would be—where Vau would shove the knife, if he wanted to suffocate the kid creatively. “Then, suck it down here.”
Slowly, Sev’s cheeks hollowed. Then they puffed out again over an explosive fit of coughing. Air shot from his tight lips like a cyclic blowpipe. The trainee hadn’t been given permission to cough, so he was doing his damndest not to, choking with the effort. Mird added to the distressing scene by whimpering at Sev from its perch on the rail.
Vau smirked, and thumped Sev for emphasis. “Here, Sev. Not in your throat, not in your stomach. Here. Don’t tell me I need to teach you how to breathe, too.”
Sev was gripped in a paroxysm. Keeping his fist where it was, Vau held Sev by the nape with his other hand, feeling the kid’s body chopping like the sea between his grip, enjoying whiffs of sharp secondhand smoke when the wind was right.
Finally, Sev stilled. He looked over his shoulder for direction, his eyes watery and swollen, nostrils flaring.
Vau raised an eyebrow. “Again, Oh-Seven. Until you get it right.”
Fortunately for Sev, the cigarette was on the short side now, though that meant he got the worst of it. Sev gamely chugged through the claggy tar, fingers already twitching with the buzz. This was a potent blend. The finest havao from Serenno. Sun-cured leaf from Ryloth’s ryll-rich valleys. But the principal draw was in managing to smell nothing like Kal’s root. And the chakaar thinks he’s special, receiving naughty treats from Jango.
After a minute, Vau pinched the butt back from Sev. “It’s finished when the char nears your fingers like that,” he said, tossing it over the rail. “And don’t ever litter, it’s immoral and stupid, and these are toxic to strills.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Sev rasped.
“Field strip it. Unroll it, bury the ash and what’s left of the leaf, and dispose of the slip in a proper receptacle.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you about light discipline, either.”
“No, Sergeant.”
Vau let his trainee go, and dug into his pocket again. Three left. “You try fresh ones until it starts feeling better,” he said, holding out the pack. Sev probably felt like a vacc-tube of death, but there was nothing like perseverance for building character. It’d do him good to have something real and earthy plastered down his throat. He might die tomorrow.
Sev showed no hesitation, though he’d just hacked his insides into pulp. He fingered one, then flipped it into his curled fingers with some dexterity for a novice in a gale. When Vau draped his between his lips, Sev did the same. Vau could have demonstrated how to chain-light. But some things were better discovered in a moment of desperation. He let Sev have a go with the lighter, pleased at the kid’s technique, and then wondering why he cared. He wasn’t being paid to care anymore.
“You don’t have much conversation, do you, Sev,” Vau said, when they were both lit. Vices were great levellers.
“I … I keep my mind free of distractions, Sergeant.”
Is that so. Well, clear conscience, dirty everything else, down to the lining of the lungs—that was one way to live it. Vau was about to suggest Sev ask Four-Oh about the collection of pornography he’d copied from Skirata’s unattended datapad, when Sev spoke unprompted.
“Do you believe in the Force, Sergeant?” he asked.
Vau paused. Sev was the last he’d peg as philosophic. But everyone reacted differently to a rush. Vau, for example, had forgotten that he’d wanted to slice Sev up into saberjowl chum.
“The Force …” he began, and leaned his elbows on the railing. The clones had been fed a lot of drivel about the Jedi and warfare, and their place in the galaxy relative to those two things. But the Force should be hard to question, even if they’d never seen it in action. “Yes, the Force is very real.” We know because the kaminiise are trying everything to bottle it. “You should have a healthy respect for it. It can undermine you in every way you’ve been taught, and then some. But I don’t believe much in the Jedi, if that’s what you’re getting at. Nor should you.”
Sev side-eyed him.
Vau found himself taking a rare angry drag. “You heard me. Fuck their fathers’ beards. If I could, I’d tear them down from the stars.” He coughed a little at his own words. They sounded like some of Skirata’s polemic, just with Irmenuan flavor. Neither of them had been at Galidraan, but it was Skirata who liked to pull that chip off his shoulder, chew it, and spew the juice everywhere.
Sev reverted to his old refrain. It seemed to ground him. “Yes, Sergeant.”
As Vau watched Sev ash his cig with a flick of his thumbnail, as if he’d been born puffing, something tickled in Vau’s chest. It couldn’t be the tug of a craving. It was something new, and it took a great deal for Vau to admit what it was.
Sev had relaxed. His pauldrons were no longer clawing up his ears. He was holding that light like it meant something to him.
Of all the things Vau had given Sev—beatings, shame, and punishments instead of praise—that cigarette might have been the most unkind. Not because of the tabac; he’d die long before his lungs caught up. But because it gave him something to hold onto, which held onto him right back, like a dead lover’s glove.
“I should return to my squad, Sergeant,” Sev finally said. But he dithered with a good half a cigarette in his hand, like he didn’t know what to do with it and whether his decision would be correct. Vau tossed it away for him, trying not to overthink how much Sev was overthinking everything.
“You’re dismissed,” Vau told him. You made an ideal soldier. A blank slate with perfect aim. You gave him the best chance at learning how to be a person on his own terms. “Wait—”
Before Sev could turn away, Vau popped the lighter next to the last cig in his pack and tucked the whole into the lip of Sev’s chest plate. “You’re going to need this,” he tried to explain, trusting Sev not to ask why.
Sev just stood staring at Mird, as if he was seeing the strill for the first time. Or the last. “Yes, Sergeant,” he replied by rote, before heading for the doors.
“And Oh-Seven?” Vau barked after him, dolman kicking up annoyingly as the wind shifted. “You tell anyone … Six-Two, Delta, anyone ... you know what happens to you.”
Some goodbye. But at least Sev had finally looked him in the eye.