14

Word from our undercover team and their informants is that someone is offering explosives and arms on the black market. It's amazing how fast this scum flows in to fill the gaps. Time for us to move in. And only one warning before you open fire, okay? Let's see how much we can clean up once and for all.

–Organized Crime Unit squad briefing, CSF HQ, 383 days after Geonosis

Logistics center, Grand Army of the Republic, Coruscant Command HQ, 1000 hours, 383 days after Geonosis

Ordo walked through the center's doors unchallenged this time.

“Good morning, sir,” the sentry droid said.

Ordo shoved his stylus probe in the droid's dataport again and downloaded its latest recognized-personnel file. “Carry on,” he said.

Before he reached the operations room of the logistics wing, he stepped into the male fresher and ran the downloaded images of all the center's organic staff through his helmet's HUD to memorize every face. About 5 percent had changed since his last visit. Civilian staff moved on. Supervisor Wennen, he noted, was still there.

Then he copied all the data stored in his helmet to his datapad and wiped the HUD's memory. His armor was completely clean now, with no trace of who or what he was other than a classified ARC trooper tally ID. His sole connection to the special forces world would be the tiny bead comlink in his ear. His final task was to slide a wide-angle strip cam into the ventilation grille that passed between the male 'freshers and the female ones.

Then he replaced his helmet and walked into the operations room. There was no sign of Besany Wennen; the third-shift supervisor, a Nimbanel, was on duty.

“'Morning, sir,” Corr said.

“Just observing today, trooper,” Ordo said. He stood back as if watching the array of live traffic holocharts that covered the circular wall of the ops room, making it feel like the inside of an illuminated drum. In fact, his gaze was on Corr as he worked and occasionally moved around the room. Ordo was taking a crash course in how the trooper moved so that he could mimic him. He already had the measure of his voice with its faint flash-learned accent.

And the civilians always seemed to think he was looking in the direction that his helmet was facing. The basic trooper helmet's specification was available to anyone working in logistics, but they seemed to be unaware of its visual range. Who cared what a trooper could and could not see?

They ignore so much data, these civilians.

“Corr, I need you to show me something,” Ordo said. The civilians also seemed to ignore conversations between clones. “Come with me.”

Corr picked up his helmet, put the security code lock on his workstation with his gauntlet tally–good man, follows the regulations—and followed Ordo out of the room. They walked back down the corridor and Ordo gestured him into the 'freshers, marching him into the far end where the lockers were.

“This is where you have to follow my orders to the letter,” Ordo said.

Corr looked suddenly wary. “Yes sir.”

“Armor off. We're swapping suits.”

“Sir?”

“Remove your armor. I need it.”

Corr began unfastening the gription panels without argument and stacked the plates on the floor. Ordo did the same. They both stood there in black bodysuits, suddenly without visible rank, and Ordo was reminded of the price Corr had paid. He looked at the trooper's artificial hands.

“Was it very painful?” asked Ordo, who had never been that badly injured.

“I don't remember a thing, sir, but it hurt when I woke up in the bacta tank.” He pushed back his sleeves: he had lost both arms from just above the elbow. “I manage okay.”

Ordo had no idea what to say. “You should be invalided out. You shouldn't be going back to the front.”

“What about my brothers? What am I without them?”

He had no answer to that, either. He snapped Corr's plates onto his own suit. It was a tight fit: he had always known that the experimental genotype that had so disappointed Kaminoan quality control had made the Nulls slightly heavier in build than the clone trooper and clone commando batches. His armor would be a little loose on Corr.

“At least you get to play captain, then. Enjoy it.”

Corr attached the plates and had some trouble snapping the kama into place. Ordo adjusted it and put the pauldron on his shoulders, then handed him the helmet.

“Wow, this feels different,” Corr said, looking down at himself. The ARC trooper armor was built to a higher spec. “It's heavier than I thought.”

“Get those shoulders back a bit farther and let the kama and the holsters hang like that.” Ordo placed the helmet on Corr's head and was suddenly surprised to be staring back at himself: so that was how he looked to the world. “Take this datapad and walk out of the front doors. You'll be met by a taxi piloted by a Wookiee. Do not stop and do not talk to anyone. Just walk out as if you were me, and you'll be taken to a place where you'll be among brothers.”

“Very good, sir. How long?”

Ordo tried on Corr's helmet. It felt foreign. It smelled of a stranger: different food, different soap. “I don't know. Just savor the break and I'll see you later. What do you call the civilians?”

“I address them by their last name, except for the supervisors, whom I call ma'am or sir”

“Even Wennen?”

Corr paused. “We use first names when not in the center itself.”

Ordo tucked Corr's helmet under his arm. “Good. Off you go.”

They left the 'freshers a few seconds apart, and Ordo watched Corr disappear up the corridor. The weight of the kama and blasters gave him an authentic swagger. Ordo found it quite touching and turned back to the operations room to get used to being a simple meat can, a clone trooper that nobody—except the enemy, of course—dreaded or feared or avoided.

He had at least one shift to settle in before the biggest risk to his cover turned up. Besany Wennen seemed to be the one taking the most interest in Corr. He would have to be careful to get past her scrutiny. But he had a few hours to practice.

He unlocked the workstation and became compliant, conscientious CT-51 08/8843, invisible to the world. The job of checking that supplies had reached the correct battalion in the field and that contractors' schedules hadn't slipped was a simple one, and he occupied himself thinking of ways to make the system more efficient. He resisted the urge to upgrade the system there and then.

And he watched those around him.

“Sorry I'm late,” said a woman's voice behind him, a level, mellow voice with an undertone of warmth that sounded as if she were permanently smiling, the higher frequencies betraying a shortened vocal tract. “I'll work an extra hour for you tomorrow. Thanks for holding the fort.”

Ordo had no time to perfect his simple-trooper act. He glanced over his shoulder as he imagined Corr might, and gave Besany Wennen a slight nod that felt like it came a little too easily to him.

She smiled back. Ordo suspected she too was a consummate actor. But something in him greatly enjoyed that smile.

Operationalhouse, Qibbu's Hut, 2015 hours, 383 days after Geonosis

“Name your time for a discussion about the goods,” the stranger's voice said over the comlink. “And we'll name the place.”

Skirata didn't like the sound of that. Nor did Vau, evidently. He was listening to the comlink, too, scanner in one hand, and shaking his head slowly, tapping out a random pattern in the air with a forefinger. Can't trace the transmission point. Multiple relay. Just like us.