Prologue
Rath Crowe had always heard the taste of blood described as coppery. He'd tasted copper once, just to test that. That experiment had taught him that blood had a taste nothing else could claim.
At the moment, that singular taste was quite overpowering.
His opponent’s fist smashed into his jaw again, and this time Rath felt a tooth break loose. Fierfek, he thought woozily, blocking a jab and stepping backwards shakily. The other man, sensing an opening, moved forward. He had his hands up in front of his face, but the guard was loose. He was confident in the victory.
Sorry to disappoint, pal.
Rath sprang forwards, his fists jabbing swiftly at the man’s belly. Instinctively, the other’s right hand swept down to block Rath’s fists. Before he could realize his mistake, Rath swung a vicious hook to his ear. The crowd around their impromptu arena hissed in both approval and anger as the other man quickly stepped back, shaking his head to test his damaged hearing. Rath watched cautiously, weight on the balls of his feet. I still don’t even know this guy’s name, he reflected.
After a short recovery, Rath’ opponent swung a left hook at his jaw. Rather than block it, Rath stepped back, narrowly avoiding a jab that the hook had masked. He tried a few experimental blows, but the other man was now too cautious to be pulled into an engagement on Rath’s terms. This needed to end soon. The other man, while undoubtedly impaired, hadn’t had as much to drink as Rath had, and Rath could feel that in his own delayed responses. He sighed inwardly. This is why I need to stop drinking, he thought. The only way to put down a fighting drunk is with overwhelming force. Rath had had that unpleasant lesson demonstrated on him too many times to forget it. Stepping forward, he kicked out viciously into the man’s shin. The crowd winced at the audible crack. Howling, the other drunk crashed to the floor.
Rath moved away and breathed out. “Anyone friends with this guy?” he asked wearily. Another fellow, who was clearly too drunk to consider defending his companion, raised a shaky hand. Rath sighed. “Call him a cab, wouldja?” he called to the barkeep, a ghoulish Givin.
The barkeep scowled, insofar as one can scowl when one’s face looks like a mask made of melted putty. “I’m calling you a cab too, friend,” he said, hitting a few buttons on his comset. “You started that fight. You’re not staying in my bar.” Rath opened his mouth to object, but saw the Givin’s hand reach under the bar and grip something. He closed his mouth angrily. “Forget the cab. I’ll walk.” Grabbing his overcoat from a rack by the door, he swept out into the chill Ord Mantellian evening. He took no notice of the government soldiers slowly moving down the street in an armored hovercar, or of the freight transport parked at the side of the road.
The whole world suddenly went white.
Vision and hearing returned slowly, as did balance. Rath realized that he was lying on the ground, curled into a tight ball. He stood slowly, grimacing as both his bar-fight bruises and fresh injuries screamed for attention. He put a hand to the side of his head and brought it away tacky with uncongealed blood. He was vividly reminded of the few times he’d swum underwater, and shook his head to try and clear it. The resulting agony left him crouched and vomiting. When he felt able to stand, he straightened up and looked around him.
The freight vehicle had clearly held some kind of bomb. All that was left was a burning chassis. The military aircar hadn’t fared much better. The Republic-backed government’s money rarely left the pockets of the bureaucrats. The poorly funded planetary militia made do with upgraded versions of civilian transports, and until the Sith started channeling funds to the various malcontent groups, the militia had little trouble keeping the lid on. But when military-grade explosives and detonators were thrown into the mix, things shifted radically, and quickly.
At least two soldiers had survived the blast. One, a pale-faced youth, gripped his rifle and swept his gaze across the area. The other, whose helmet blocked Rath’s view of his face, was shouting into a comlink, sidearm in hand. Rath blearily watched them both die. A laser beam streaked across towards them from a second-floor window, striking the veteran. The rookie died the same way a moment later.
Without conscious thought, Rath’s feet began to move, sending him towards the ruined patrol vehicle. Standing over the bodies, he knelt and put a finger to the young soldier’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He felt nothing.
Hearing footsteps behind him, he stood and turned, wincing at the pain in his head. A Rattataki woman, her near-white skin in stark contrast to the black coveralls she wore, stood behind him, a pistol in hand. She didn’t appear surprised to see him.
Rath straightened fully and grunted. “Kriff, Jiri, couldn’t you at least warn all of us when you plan a karking bombing? “
The woman called Jiri didn’t reply immediately, but tilted her head to one side, studying Rath quizzically. “What?” he demanded. He hated the way her eyes probed at their target. It was like being stripped naked.
“I’m wondering how much better an operative you’d be if you stopped drinking so much,” came her reply after a long pause.
Rath barked a harsh laugh. “If I didn’t drink like I do, I probably wouldn’t be tangled up in this karking mess. Now let’s get out of here.”
Chapter One
Ka-thunk.
The rush of acceleration that followed that noise never failed to make Bal-Am Taske nauseous. He couldn't understand it- he'd been a Republic trooper for nine years now, and he'd spent most of his training and a good deal of his active duty being fired out of orbiting transports. Still, every time his pod was shot into atmosphere, the burly Echani couldn't help but feel a little queasy.
The falling pod began shaking as the viscous air tried to grip its nearly frictionless hull. Bal-Am distracted himself by running as thorough an equipment check as the cramped space allowed. Running through a mental inventory he'd memorized over the years, Bal-Am's mouth moved silently as his hands ran across his armor and through the rucksack he'd slung on his chest. As soon as he was landed, he'd get the pack on his back. But while he was in his pod, Bal-Am preferred to have everything ready at hand.
A soft pinging roused him from his hypnotic labor. The screen in front of him showed that the pod would impact in one minute. Another thunk, softer than that which had dispatched him on his journey, indicated that the repulsors had switched on. The pod shuddered violently for a moment, then settled into the same soft shaking that had characterized the early part of its flight. Bal-Am watched the airspeed drop steadily. At ten seconds, he closed his eyes and counted until, with a solid, ground-shaking thud, the pod landed.
The hatch before the soldier hissed open, and he leapt out, rifle sweeping the area. Ord Mantell was covered in junkyards, and he'd landed in one. The only movement his eyes caught were those of a pair of recycler droids picking through a promising pile, and a shocked Jawa, who squealed and ran for cover. With a slight smile, Bal-Am slung his rifle and rucksack on his back and checked his location. The rest of his fireteam would be rendezvousing a kilometer to the south in five minutes. With a heavy sigh, he began running.
Bal-Am's team was part of a large effort by the Republic Defense Ministry to put down various brushfire conflicts that had sprung up across Republic territory in wake of the Treaty of Coruscant. Here on Ord Mantell, separatist groups were attempting to split the planet off from Republic control. The rumor was that Sith Imperial agents were, of not active in the insurrection, helping push things along. The fact that the local government was openly in bed with the mobsters and crime bosses of the Outer Rim didn't help the Republic cause, either. But Bal-Am and the rest of the Republic military weren't politicians. Their job was to do what politicians told them to, and no further dared they step.
It took the Echani a little over four minutes to reach the rendezvous point, where he found the remainder of his team already present. Sistry Firin, a Human female, looked up grinning from where she sat on the ground, sniper rifle partially disassembled in her lap. "Nice to see you finally joined the party, sergeant."
"Blame the pod," replied Bal-Am. "I landed half a klick away from where I was supposed to." He looked to the rest of the soldiers; Sistry, a gifted sniper and scout; Ward Darklighter, a Human male who had a propensity for putting together