Part 2 (2/2)
They often said that, these men gestated in gla.s.s vats. Dar's brother Fi loved negotiating the dizzying canyons of buildings on Coruscant; the Null ARC troopers like Ordo didn't care for confined s.p.a.ces. Etain let Levet go on ahead and slowed down to concentrate on the child within her, wondering if he might turn out a little claustrophobic, too.
It's not genetic. Is it?
But will he die before his time? Will he inherit Dar's accelerated aging?
She'd been worried first for Darman, and then for herself, but her anxieties were now largely taken up by the baby and all the things she didn't know. Kal Skirata was right. She hadn't thought. She'd been so set on giving Darman a son that-Force-guided or not-there were too many things she hadn't considered carefully enough.
Accelerating the pregnancy is convenient for me-but what about him?
She no longer had a choice. She'd agreed to hand over the baby to Kal'buir, Papa Kal. He must have been a good father; his clones clearly adored him, and he treated them all as if they were his own flesh and blood. Her son-and it look all her strength not to name him-would be fine with him. He had to be. Her Force-awareness told her that her son would touch and shape many lives.
Kal won't even let me give him a name.
She could make a run for it, but she knew Kal Skirata would find her wherever she hid.
I want this baby so badly. It's only temporary. When the war's over, I'll get him back, and... will he even know me?
Jinart brushed past her legs, reminding her suddenly of Walon Vau's hunting animal, a half-wild strill called Lord Mirdalan.
The Gurlanin glanced back at her with vivid orange eyes ”The last of the farmers will leave in a few days, girl, and after that-you concentrate on producing a healthy baby. Nothing else.”
There was plenty more to worry about, but Jinart was right-that was enough lo be going on with. Etain went back into the house, settled into meditation, and couldn't resist reaching out in the Force lo touch Darman.
He'd feel it. She knew he would.
Mygeeto, Outer Rim, vaults of the Dressian Kiolsh Merchant Bank, 470 days after Geonosis Walon Vau enjoyed irony, and there was none more pro-found than seizing-as a soldier-the inheritance his father had denied him for wanting lo join the army.
On the metal door of the deposit box, a cupboard with a set of sliding shelves, was an engraved plate that read VAU, COUNT OF GESL.
”When the old chakaar dies, that'll be me,” Vau said. ”In theory, anyway. It'll pa.s.s to my cousin.” He looked over his shoulder, even though the sensors in his Mandalorian helmet gave him wraparound vision. ”Didn't I say thin out, Delia? Move it.”
Vau wasn't used to anything other than instant obedience from his squads. He'd drummed it into them on Kamino, the hard way when necessary. Skirata thought you built special forces soldiers by treats and pats on the head, but it just produced weaklings; Vau's squads had the lowest casualty rates because he reinforced the animal will lo survive in every man. He was proud of it.
”You did,” Boss said, ”but you look like you need a hand. Anyway-you're not our sergeant any longer. Technically speaking. No disrespect... Citizen Vau.”
I was hard on them because I cared. Because they had to be hard to survive. Kal never understood that, the fool.
Vau still had trouble breathing some days thanks lo the broken nose Skirata had given him. The crazy little chakaar didn't understand training at all.
The next droid patrol wouldn't come this way for a few hours. Security droids trundled constantly through the labyrinth of corridors deep under the Mygeetan ice, a banking stronghold the Muuns claimed could never be breached. It still made sense to get out sooner rather than later. And Delta should have banged out by now; they'd called in air strikes and sabotaged ground defenses, and Bacara's Marines were moving in again. They'd achieved their mission, and it was extraction time.
”I should have thrashed more sense into you, then,” Vau said. He unfolded a plastoid bivouac sheet and knotted the corners. It was always a bad idea not to plan for the most extreme situation: he'd been certain he would only take what was rightfully his, but this was too good to pa.s.s up. ”Okay, you and Scorch hold this between you while I fill it.”
”We can empty the-”
”I steal. You don't.”
It was a fine point but it mattered to Vau. Skirata might have raised a pack of hooligans, but Vau's squads were disciplined. Even Sev... Sev was psychotic and lacked even the most basic social graces, but he wasn't a criminal.
As Vau tipped the first likely-looking box into the makes.h.i.+ft container-cash credits and bonds, which would do very nicely indeed-the whiff of oily musk announced the arrival of his strill, Lord Mirdalan. Fixer stepped back to let the animal pa.s.s.
”Mird, I told you to wait by the exit,” said Vau. All strills were intelligent, but Mird was especially smart. The animal padded down the narrow pa.s.sage in velvet silence and looked up expectantly, somehow managing not to drool of the floor for once. It fixed Vau with an intense, knowing gold stare, making any anger impossible: who couldn't love a face like that? That strill had stood by him since boyhood-and anyone who didn't see its miraculous spirit had no common decency or heart. They said strills stank, but Vau didn't care. A little natural musk never hurt anyone. ”You want to help, Mird'ika? Here.” He slipped his flamethrower off his webbing. ”Carry this. Good Mird!”
The strill took the barrel of the weapon in its ma.s.sive jaws and sat back on its haunches. Drool ran down to the trigger guard and pooled on the floor.
”Cute,” Sev muttered.
”And clever.” Vau signaled to Mird to watch the door, and slid the drawers of the Vau deposit box from their runners. ”Anyone who doesn't like my friend Mird can slana'pi.”
”Sarge, it's the ugliest thing in the galaxy,” Scorch said. ”And we've seen plenty of ugly.”
”Yeah, you've got a mirror,” said Sev.
”Ugliness is an illusion, gentlemen.” Vau began sorting through his disputed inheritance. ”Like beauty. Like color. All depends on the light.” The first thing that caught his eye in the family box was his mother's flawless square-cut shoroni sapphire, the size of a human thumbprint, set on a pin and flanked by two smaller matching stones. In some kinds of light, they were a vibrant cobalt blue, while in others they turned forest green. Beautiful: but real forests had been destroyed to find them, and slaves died mining them. ”The only reality is action.”
Sev grunted deep in his throat. He didn't like wasting time and wasn't good at hiding it. His HUD icon showed he was watching Mird carefully. ”Whatever you say, Sergeant.”
The strongroom held a treasure trove of portable, easily hidden, and untraceable things that could be converted to credits anywhere in the galaxy. Vau stumbled on only one deposit box whose contents were inexplicably worthless: a bundle of love letters tied with green ribbon. He read the opening line of the first three and threw them back. Apart from that one box, the rest were a rich man's emergency belt, the equivalent of the soldier's survival kit of a fis.h.i.+ng line, blade, and a dozen compact essentials for staying alive be-hind enemy lines.
Vau's hundred-liter backpack had room enough for a few extras. Everything-gems, wads of flimsi bonds, cash cred-its, metal coins, small lacquered jewel boxes he didn't pause to open-was tipped in unceremoniously. Delta stood around fidgeting, unused to idleness while the chrono was counting down.
”I told you to leave me here.” Vau could still manage the voice of menace. ”Don't disobey me. You know what hap-pens.”
Boss hung manfully to his end of the plastoid sheet, but his voice was shaky. ”You can't give us an order, Citizen Vau.”
They were the best special forces troops in the galaxy, and here Vau was, still unable to manage the thank you or well done that they deserved. But much as he wanted to, the cold black heart of his father, his true legacy, choked off all at-tempts to express it. Nothing was ever good enough for his father, especially him. Maybe the old man just couldn't bring himself to say it, and he meant to all along.
No, he didn't. Don't make excuses for him. But my boys know me. I don't have to spell it out for them.
”I ought to shoot you,” Vau said. ”You're getting sloppy.”
Vau checked the chrono on his forearm plate. Anytime now, Bacara's Galactic Marines would start pounding the city of Jygat with glacier-busters. He was sure he'd feel it like a seismic shock.
”Looking for anything in particular?” Sev asked. ”No. Random opportunism.” Vau didn't need to cover his tracks: his father didn't know or care if he was alive or dead. Your disappointment of a son came back, Papa. You didn't even know I disappeared to Kamino for ten years, did you? There was nothing the senile hut'uun could do about it any-way. Vau was the one better able to swing a crippling punch these days. ”Just a smokescreen. And make it worth the trip.” He knew what their next question would have been, if they'd asked it. They never asked what they knew they didn't need to be told. What was he going to do with it all?
He couldn't tell them. It was too much, too soon. He was going to hand it all over to a man who'd kill him for a bet- all except what was rightfully his.
”I'm not planning to live in luxurious exile,” Vau said.
Scorch stepped over Mird and stood at the door, Deece ready. ”Donating it to the Treasury, then?”
”It'll be used responsibly.”
Vau's backpack was now stuffed solid, and heavy enough to make him wince when he heaved it up on his shoulders. He tied the plastoid sheet into a bundle-a bundle worth mil-lions, maybe-and slung it across his chest. He hoped he didn't fall or he'd never get up again.
”Oya,” he said, nodding toward the doors. ”Let's go.”
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