The Clone Wars_ No Prisoners Part 3

"No, not at all. I'm just on edge. I look at Herbin being hounded, and I think what it would do to you if the Jedi Council found out."

Anakin hadn't really thought about what discovery would do to Padme's reputation. He hadn't considered it in those terms; she didn't so much have a career as a never-ending duty, so he couldn't imagine her worrying about being forced to resign. If it was just the Jedi Council's outrage, that was another thing entirely. He'd handle that when the time came.

This isn't going to go on forever.

"But we're not like Herbin and what's-her-name," he said. "We're married. We're not cheating on our spouses. There's no disgrace in this."

"Okay, let me put it this way." The caf was boiling now, sending steam into the air and clouding the windows. Padme turned off the heat and poured from the pot. "What would you do if Master Yoda found out we were married and told you- well, what would he tell you to do? Divorce me?"

"He would make me choose between you and the Jedi Order." Would he? Anakin didn't actually know. Now that he stopped to think it through, he had gone no farther in his imagination than the immediate arguments and dire warnings of what attachment would lead to. He hadn't done what any general should have, what he would have done if this had been a real battle rather than a war of Jedi ideologies: he hadn't asked what the worst outcome might be. "And I'll never give you up. Never."

It wasn't an answer. Anakin knew that. He wanted to say that he would tell Yoda that he refused to obey, but he wasn't sure where that would leave him as a Jedi. Could he remain one? Of course he could. It wasn't like the Senate, and party alle-giances, where politicians got kicked out of their parties if they didn't vote the right way. He didn't have a Jedi party members.h.i.+p card. His Force-using nature was in his blood, in his very cells.

Padme took the cups and steered him toward the living room. "I'll never give you up, either, Ani. But let's not risk a con-frontation with the Jedi Council. Not yet."

Anakin felt the resentment, doubt, and bewilderment start to bubble up again. He stretched out on the sofa, his head resting on Padme's lap, and thought of one member of the Jedi Council.

Ki-Adi-Mundi's got wives. Not just one. Five. And lots of daughters. Usual for a Cerean. But a Jedi?

The Cerean didn't look as if he'd been corrupted by attachment. n.o.body mentioned it; Jedi did marry, then, and the galaxy didn't implode. This fact was the bantha in the dining room, the huge, silent, looming thing that everyone could see but n.o.body talked about, as if it wasn't there at all, and had to be ignored at all costs.

Just because Cereans had a low birthrate, and too few males, they had to take wives. So Ki-Adi-Mundi could remain a Jedi, serve on the Council, and have a family. Suddenly none of this made sense to Anakin. The needs of Cerea had no bearing on it. Either attachment was a bad idea for Jedi, or it wasn't.

Fine. Have it your way, Master Yoda. I feel no guilt about bending the rules to fit my heart if you bend the rules on the basis of species. Or expedience. Or whatever.

"They say love turns a Jedi to the dark side," he said at last. "I can't see how love can do that. But being forced to skulk around and lie-that's a recipe for trouble. Now, look at Ki-Adi..."

"You're not going to have this out with Master Yoda, are you, Ani?" Padme stroked his hair. "Please?"

"No. I promise."

"Good. Let's make the most of these few days."

"Are you sure n.o.body's said anything to you? You're really edgy."

Padme reached for her caf, and he found himself staring up at the bottom of the exquisite antique cup, so fine and delicate that the light filtered through it.

"I'm just rattled by this business with Herbin," she said. "Humor me."

Anakin would do whatever she asked. He was besotted, and always would be, he knew. He didn't feel any less of a Jedi for loving her so much.

"I will," he said.

REPUBLIC a.s.sAULT s.h.i.+P LEVELER, WORKING-UP POST-REFIT, DANTUS SECTOR.

Pellaeon slid the last few meters down the ladder to the lower engineering deck, boots braking against the polished rails, and scattered some junior ratings as he landed. They saluted as the smell of singed paint filled his nostrils and caught the back of his throat. There were good new smells in a refitted s.h.i.+p, and worrying ones; these were the latter kind.

"Lammin, what the stang is going on with those dampers?" He never broke into a run, not unless the vessel was at action stations, but he could stride at record speed along the pa.s.sages. He swung through the hatch to the main drive section. "Lammin? She's lurching like a drunk every time we hyperjump."

"I think we've still got a low pressure problem, sir." Lammin, the chief engineer, was wedged in the small s.p.a.ce between two bulkheads, trying to s.h.i.+ft a stubborn bolt. He cursed eloquently and held out his hand to the engineer waiting patiently with his tool kit, like a surgeon gesturing to a nurse for a scalpel. "Ollo, hand me the Weequay servodriver, will you? Some preci-sion work's required."

Ollo selected the biggest hammer in the box, handed it to Lammin, and put his fingers in his ears. Lammin leaned back as far as he could and took a mighty swipe at something Pellaeon couldn't see. The resulting clang of metal was so loud that it hurt.

Lammin whacked the defiant bolt-or whatever it was-a few more times for good measure. It was like standing inside an Andoan monastery bell when the monks struck it. Pellaeon felt his teeth vibrate clean through to his sinuses.

"Ah, that s.h.i.+fted it. . . ," Lammin said happily.

"I'm relieved you're not a surgeon, Chief."

"Well, if I was, my patients wouldn't be in pain for very long, sir." Lammin eased himself out of the tiny gap and peered at the gauges on the bulkhead. "I freed up something. Better check exactly what. I hate mysteries."

"Carry on," Pellaeon said. He opened his comlink and called his first lieutenant. Every single fault was being collated and transmitted back to Fleet to be pa.s.sed to the procurement overseers, and no doubt to the accountants to enable them to argue about the costs. "Number One, make another note for the yard, will you? The damper pressure relief valves..."

"Sir, sorry to interrupt, but long-range sensors just picked up some activity in the adjacent sector, off Tangar. A Sep flotilla dropped out of hypers.p.a.ce, then jumped again."

Pellaeon conjured up a mental three-dimensional chart of the region, calculating transit time. If anything kicked off, he needed to know if Leveler could respond, and how fast.

"Keep an eye on it, Rumahn," he said. "Any friendlies in range?"

"Only us, sir. Dark and lonely work out here."

Working-up had to be done in remote places or very well-defended ones these days because nothing invited an attack quite like a s.h.i.+p that wasn't at full fighting efficiency. And there was nothing to be gained in charging after every Sep hull that pre-sented itself. Some commanders might have felt obligated out of some bizarrely misplaced machismo, but Pellaeon preferred prudence over showy enthusiasm. He'd bide his time.

"Let's hope they don't present us with an inevitable target, then," he said. "I want the s.h.i.+p to be ready to fight. We've still got some problems."

He left the engineering crew to their task and continued his tour of the lower decks, checking through the tick-list on his dat-apad as he visited each section to see how well Leveler was holding up. He could have called the section heads to a meeting and just listened to their reports. But that wasn't Gil Pellaeon's way. He needed to see. He needed to feel. He needed to listen to the sounds of the s.h.i.+p. And he needed to see the men and women who worked to keep her s.p.a.ceworthy and ready to fight.

There was no subst.i.tute for firsthand examination of the many small systems that made this vast, complex island of durasteel into a fighting machine.

And it was home, too. It was community. No civilian could possibly understand the emotional significance of a s.h.i.+p to those who served in her. It didn't matter if they were clone or non-clone; this was one united s.h.i.+p's company, and he refused to allow it to be any other way.

I just wish I could tell them apart more easily ...

He had his techniques, though.

A group of clones pa.s.sed him, all helmeted. "Sir," one said, nodding polite acknowledgment.

Pellaeon had taken off his cap, so there were no formal salutes. He checked the electronic reader that scanned clone armor tallies to identify them, and a list of names flashed up on the tiny screen.

"Petty Officer Bren," he said. "Mess deck accommodation to everyone's satisfaction?"

"Small problem with the water pressure in A-seven-two 'freshers, sir, but that's been resolved."

"Splendid." Pellaeon made another quick note, tapping on his datapad. "Carry on."

So I need a prompt. Any commander of a s.h.i.+p this size does. What matters is that every crew member knows he or she mat-ters, too.

He strode on, distracted for a moment by the thought of where Hallena might be now, and what she would think of Leveler. Yes, he'd bring her on board and show her. Gossip didn't bother him. He had nothing to lose now except battles.

Overall, the yard had done a typical rush job-Pellaeon-grade inadequate, anyone else's reasonable. There was always some nagging problem that irritated him, often small but potentially lethal oversights like fresh paint blocking valves, hidden wiring faults, or unseated gaskets pinched between blocks, ready to leak at any time. Those were the things he sought out. Any idiot could see major defects from ten klicks; he could, anyway.

So far, all he'd found to trouble him were the dampers and some of the command systems. Software, the technicians said, could be fixed.

Show me, then.

Climbing the ladder to one of the concussion missile bays, he found himself looking up at Rex as the clone commander leaned over from the gantry above. Rex, even without his distinctive blue-and-white 501st armor, was easy to spot among the s.h.i.+p's company. He had his helmet clipped to his belt, and he was sporting another new hairstyle. Instead of being shaven to a fine polish, as when Pellaeon had last seen him, his scalp was now covered with short fuzz of blue-dyed hair cut into stripes.

"Very . . . different, Rex," Pellaeon said.

Ahsoka leaned over the rail beside Rex, although she had to stand on tiptoe to do it. She twitched her striped head-tails. "Nothing wrong with stripes, sir."

"Bolo-ball final," Rex said. "I'm somewhat partisan. Byllu-ran Athletic."

Pellaeon had no idea how Rex-bred on Kamino without any of the usual sense of geographic or species tribalism-decided which team to support. Bylluran was a Sull.u.s.tan team. But most teams had fans who'd never been within ten pa.r.s.ecs of their home ground, and some couldn't even breathe the same atmosphere, so maybe that was.. . normal.

Stang, he's like any other being. A normal human male. It's hardwired in all of us, this need to ally and belong.

"So, Rex, what do you think of the upgrades?"

Rex replaced his helmet. "I can't judge the new concussion missiles until I see them take out a city or a capital s.h.i.+p, but I'm not convinced that the improved laser recharge time was worth the expenditure."

"That's the Treasury's problem."

"Maybe so, but..."

Rex stopped. Pellaeon heard the comm alert at the same time as the clone commander did, a nasal tone from the small transmitter in the comlink attached to his belt.

"Ops to Pellaeon, we have enemy vessels exiting hypers.p.a.ce in the Fath system. Stand by."

"That's a couple of hours away," Ahsoka said. "What are they doing there?"

Pellaeon climbed the ladder and headed for the nearest ops room to see what was on their sensors. Fath was close to a hy-pers.p.a.ce lane; apart from that, it was the scruffy backside of the Outer Rim, nothing remarkable. Were the Seps just emerging from hypers.p.a.ce, dropping out to receive essential comms before jumping elsewhere again, or did they have a more local target?

"How many vessels?" Rex asked. "I can't patch my HUD through to the ops display. One more glitch for the list."

"Six." Pellaeon decided there was no harm keeping an eye on the flotilla. "Comms, can you intercept any signals?"

"Just out of maximum range, sir," Rumahn cut in. "Another problem we've found."

"Very well, a.s.suming that we still have propulsion, Number One, can we move within range?"

"I'd rather not jump until the dampers are sorted, sir."

"Let's stroll in their direction on sublight, then."

Pellaeon trusted his gut as much as any sensor, and his internal alarm bells were starting to ring. The crew knew that. The more relaxed his tone, the more worried they knew he was. Rex stood and watched the scan with him-or at least he appeared to be facing it. Once Rex had his helmet on, there was no way of telling whether he was watching what was in front of him or occupied with something happening on his HUD. Ahsoka edged up beside them.

"I feel it," she said hesitantly.

"What, my dear?" Pellaeon asked.

"A disturbance in the Force." She reached out and held her hand close to the repeater screen without touching it. "A lot of . . . misery boiling over into anger."

Pellaeon never turned down useful intelligence. He just preferred definitive bearings, coordinates, and distances, and Jedi unnerved him; the young ones troubled him most of all, like this little Togruta, a gauche kid arguing about her short skirt one moment and then changing before his eyes into an ancient and primal creature connected to something he could never see. It seemed a vast gift for the universe to grant such a child. "You can tell that from touching the screen, can you?"

"No, Captain, it just helps me concentrate if I focus on an image."

"So is that a threat a.s.sessment?"

"Last time she said that," Rex muttered, "the next word was incoming."

Pellaeon was rea.s.sured that his gut worked almost as well as a Jedi's senses. "I'll take that as a solid early warning, then."

"I'll round up my men," said Rex.

There was always the chance it would end in nothing; there was a great deal of seething anger everywhere in the galaxy these days, and predicting trouble was a safe bet. But Pallaeon knew he wasn't that lucky.

He opened his comlink. "Lammin," he said. "Let me know the moment you get those dampers fixed."

A TAPCAF IN THE METALWORKERS' QUARTERS, ATHAR, IP JANFATHAL: LATER THAT NIGHT.

Hallena was sure she'd never be able to lift her arms again.

Twelve hours. Twelve hours of sweeping and scrubbing that cesspit of a factory. There was only so much sweeping she could do before she was conspicuously idle, so she'd ended up cleaning all the refreshers, and the smell of disinfectant clung to her.

She braced her elbows on the tapcaf table and stared at her hands, fingertips still wrinkled from being constantly wet.

"You timed this very well," said Merish. s.h.i.+l placed two mugs of ale in front of them on the table and pulled up a chair. "Who sprung you?"

Hallena was now in the limbo of winging her way through a conversation that could end in victory or death. At least she was exhausted enough to act convincingly surly. "You don't need to know."

"True." The woman kept glancing at the doors. She seemed more triumphant than nervous. "You might find some familiar faces joining us tonight, then."

I hope not. There aren't any.

"So what do you want from me?" Hallena asked.

Open questions, suspiciously asked. It was all she could do. Local intelligence hadn't filled her in on all the blanks, evidently. No wonder they needed backup from Republic Intel; they were only good for spying on citizens for minor garbage like being dissatisfied and vocal about it.

"When things change, we need people who we can trust," said Merish. "People we know aren't tainted by a.s.sociation with the old regime."

"And I qualify." Posing as a newly released political prisoner excused all hesitation and cluelessness on Hallena's part. "Well, thanks."

"You're union. You know how to organize people. We're going to need that very soon."

"Forget it," Hallena said. No, don't. Keep it coming. "I've had enough of that. I can't face the prospect of year after year of banging my head against a wall and seeing nothing change."

"Oh, change is coming all right, Sister. Sooner than you think."