28 BBY: Approx. 7 years before the Battle of Geonosis (TBG)
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"Why is Mij GIlamar sending me memos about your guys?" Fett asked Ad'ra at the next staff meeting.
"I couldn't tell you, not being privy to those inter-personnel messages, Mand'Alor," she said politely.
Not that she couldn't access them if she wanted.
"Why do you still have your buy'ce on?" he asked suddenly.
It was aberrant behavior. And he suspected aberrant behavior.
"Would you believe I have an unsightly breakout?" she asked him.
"No."
"We're on a long-term simulated op."
"Authorized by whom?"
"Me."
"Where?"
"Mustafar."
He saw where this was going.
"If you bake them too high for too long there can be permanent damage done."
"And if they get somewhere hotter than the suits can regulate they're going to be in for one hell of a culture shock."
"I don't want to find out about this shit from other people from now on," he told her.
"Roger. Will endeavor to circumvent your messaging queue before you access them from now on."
He nodded. Turned his head and centered up on his next victim.
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After the board dismissed Ad'ra went back to her roasting kernels of commandos.
Chuckled about the little joke Pax had made.
"Heads up, RKCs!" she called.
They shot to attention at their acting company commander's sharp Kesush!
She popped open a holo-chart.
Crouched in the center of the space between their bunks.
"We need to dismantle a few racks and make some work benches."
"Some of us could double-bunk permanently, Marshal," Ven suggested. He'd been christened Venku. She loved him.
The nickname ven—future—suited him.
"I appreciate it, but there'd be complaints if it was long-term. If we melt a few of you out of your silky blacks and there's some empty ones we'll re-eval in future."
Roger sucked at his teeth and shook his head. "Not funny, ma'am."
"Hey, what do you do with the warra nuts that don't pop when you roast them?" she asked.
"I assume turn them into ammo to use on the gett'se of whatever or'dinii sold them to you."
They were a little on edge. A mission would help.
"We're going to fix our boots. I want to be able to launch missions without having to soften our footsteps. Like, right from the parade field. I think—since they're already magnetized like mine?—I think the way to go would to be to fashion some sort of taps out of them. Something we keep on our plates and just affix as needed."
"Instead of the other way around," One nodded. "I like it."
"Me, too. Can we add sigils?" Ver demanded.
She turned to him.
He tapped the side of his cuisse. "If we affixed them here nobody would know what they were. It would look on-purpose. Like Delta."
Delta Squad of Dalphina Company was the coolest of the cool. Oh, how they idolized Walon Vau's quad of warriors in their custom paint jobs.
"I can see that," she said thoughtfully.
"A lot of militias' insignia and uniform patches are close to being heel-shaped anyway," Ven added.
"It would be cool it we could mount a pocket for other stuff, and they just slid in instead."
"Not going to happen."
"Are we doing our black boots as well as the white?"
"We are. But they're not my main concern. They're easy enough to just tread carefully in to mute our steps. These white things are starting to get on my nerves. Plus I'm pretty sure I'm going to have a blister the size of Tee on the top of my ankle when I get them off."
"You're not even as big as us. I'll bet they don't fit you right," Rog said sadly.
She nodded. "I'll get over it."
"When will your plates get back?"
She shrugged. "For all I know they're already here and I'm just being tortured."
"I like these. We did a good job on them."
"Cute," Lathlo agreed.
"That's what I was going for."
She'd gotten a set of shiny whites—just like them—for the exercise. Figured it was as good a time as any to bite the bullet and get new beskar'gam commissioned. Nobody had thought about the challenges of having this much native metal in one place and no dedicated beskar'goran. And no fekking way was she trusting her armor to the aiwha-bait's production team, even if they were the ones knocking out millions of durasteel plates for her vode.
They'd commiserated with her. You got used to something—the way it felt, the way it worked. Her helmet was badly out of date and so was the data'pad in her gauntlet. Cin had helped her dismantle it, keeping it intact and creating a larger cuff so she could still wear it over the temporary armor.
Which they'd helped her dar-cin, dar-vhetin. No longer white, no longer plain.
It had swirls of color. Mad patterns and unclear edges. Whorls of pinks and reds and purples like a hurricane of flower petals decorated her right cuisse and hip plate. It was surrounded by black dotted with the patterns of starry skies they hadn't seen yet. Runes, ancient and forgotten, ran down the backs of both of her arms and legs. On her right calf they'd painstakingly painted individual blades of grass so realistic she'd tried to feel them. Shadows and light hit them, sparkling on the drops of dew one of them insisted they add.
She'd seen pasture in op-sims. Had crouched with her father in dried fields and grasslands—albeit in armor. Couldn't remember ever having walked through grass like this, fresh and soft-looking. She wished she could pick some. Smell it.
Browns and golds and tans fronted that foot. Seashells littered the little faux-beach. A pearl rolled in the sand that had been painted on. They'd utilized the negative spaces, blurring all of their designs into black. Sharp edges mid-plate confused the eye of the beholder and recreated a physique she didn't have. Across her shoulders was a blue sky—something else her vode hadn't ever witnessed. The shadow of a hawk behind a cloud. A dragon curled up napping on her right shoulder blade. A blueprint—which, if examined closely would have revealed how to build a heart—was painted against her ribs below the sky.
An ark, open to the whims of sea and sky, floated above her hip. From it launched every kind of tigerelle her vode could come up with.
And, sweetly, they'd listed their names in dadita over her left ribcage. All of them. In a rainbow of colors. Worked it into the design so seamlessly that few knew what the hidden meaning really was.
"I can find out if a ship landed," Cin offered.
"You find out where we're going to find the plates to make the taps," she assigned him.
"What are we going to use to permanently soften our boots without sacrificing integrity?" Taung asked.
They got down to it.
.
It took Fett three weeks to figure out what was up.
"Ad'ra," he hailed as a company of miniature-warriors clomped by him. "This is impressive."
He watched them churn down the stairwell, nary a sound except an occasional piece of kit bouncing.
"We're even quieter outside."
There was a hurricane outside. How could you be heard over it?
Two days later they were marching with the familiar ring of plastic-clad shock armor, their boots making that ominous clapping sound as they passed.
He frowned. Backtracked.
Made certain of the insignia. Called out to them.
"4th Company Halt!"
"Ke'mot!" their acting company commander echoed.
"Stabit!" the young men on the outside of each line of troopers called in response.
So she was teaching them Bothan again. Fett shook his head.
"Arret!"
"I'm unfamiliar with that one, commando, enlighten me," he ordered the one closest to him.
"It is old Eriaduian, Mand'Alor, sir!" he snapped out smartly.
"Old Eriaduian?"
"Yes, sir, Mand'Alor, sir! The Adenn has us learning the languages of planets with strong affiliations with the Trade Federation and Intergalactic Banking Clan, sir! Thinking, sir, that if a native people needed a private codex that they would probably fall back on one that was thought to be forgotten or only learned in secret now. So that if we were to encounter something there, or become detained, we would understand without need to use translation devices or programs. Nothing beats the muscle between your ears, sir!"
"Nothing beats the muscle between your ears, Trooper. Carry on, commander," he waved them on.
Heard the order to forward march given in Mando'a come echoed back in Bothan and then the flowery, unfamiliar tongue.
"Wait!" he called out again when their boots sounded. "Trooper, let me see your boots, if you would."
"Respectfully, sir, it's Ranger. Or RC-1101."
"One," he remembered.
"Yes, sir, Mand'Alor, sir."
"How many pairs of boots do you have, lad?"
"These and my blacks, sir."
Fett held out his hand. The kid—a little more than half his bulk, probably, and as tall as his shoulders—slung his weapon over his back and balanced on one leg to detach his boots from the kute.
"What's the new word for kiss my shebs?" he asked.
"Mand'Alor, sir," the boy said reproachfully. "Ad'ra Adenn didn't teach us that sort of thing."
"But you'll find out and get back to me?"
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
"I trust you or one of your cohorts can send the answer straight to my commlink?"
"Ye-e-es, sir," he agreed. He was already wracking his brain to think of a polite way to word that message so it didn't backfire on them.
Mya. Mya could take that kyr'bes by the horns and run with it.
Fett examined the improvised boot cover. "Show me how it works."
"Sir, it's magnetic, sir, meant to work with the original design of the heel sole. It's harder to get off than it is to get on. We're working on that. Don't want to lose one on the parade ground, though, Mand'Alor, sir."
"Of course not."
He watched as One used both thumbs to activate a manual latch. Two long pins released and dropped into his hands. Then he unhooked a hinge on the very back of the heel that recessed in.
"It was decided, in our line of work, that staying quiet was more important than getting loud."
"What if any of this breaks?"
"Sir, there are a hundred and three other Ranger Commandos in my unit, sir. One bootstep shouldn't be missed."
"Yours would be missed sorely, One," Fett told him. Watched him re-rig it. It really did slide on fast.
"Thank you, Mand'Alor, sir. And same to you, sir."
He could hear the smile in the boy's words.
Pure Jango, Ad'ra called them. Slice of Jango, Maze had started muttering. Of course, his ARCs were nearly perfect specimens and only altered in that they aged faster and had been flash-trained from day one to be obedient and militarily precise in their correctness.
Maze gave Ad'ra the creeps.
Jango liked him. Liked this little Slice of Jango, too.
They'd been altered to be just a bit narrower, thinner of frame. They didn't need to be hulks for their missions—they needed stealth. And a less-bulky body needed fewer calories. They were still muscular and could carry enormous amounts of kit. They were just more wiry with it.
"This is genius, Ranger. Good on you. And good on you, to the rest of you who worked on the project, too."
"Thank you, sir, we're pleased that you're pleased, sir."
"Blacks just the same?"
"Similar."
"Where do you store them? I assume you keep them close for when you hear officers approaching and need to look like a regular white job?"
"Yes, sir. Here, sir."
He held out his hand when Jango worked the pins and showed him how they pivoted into the edges. The whole thing tucked into the hidden pocket of the new holster guards at their hips.
Holster guards indeed. Ad'ra was genius. She didn't want a magnetized area on their hips so that they could secure kit from bouncing and betraying their movement better. She was hiding this little beaut of a trick.
They must have heard the change in his breathing because they all snapped back up to an even straighter posture.
"As you were, gentlemen," Fett responded. "I'm not going to cane the bottom of your feet because your training sergeant is devious."
"Sir, I take full responsibility for the actions and behavior of the 4th, sir!" the acting CC called out.
"Loyal to a fault," Fett called up to him. "Sah, am I right?"
"Sir, yes, sir!"
"You can still report to your sergeant that I was impressed. With and without them."
"Yes, sir! Thank you, Mand'Alor, sir!" He snapped the handle of his rifle against his chest.
"Gratias tibi, sir!" rang out. Then "Merci, Mand'Alor!"
If he hadn't been in his buy'ce he'd have put a hand to his occipital bone in an effort to stave off a headache.
"What do you think would be an appropriate reward, on my part, as accolades for the work you've done?"
"We serve at the pleasure of the Mand'Alor and for the furtherance of the Galactic Republic, sir!"
He nodded. Ran his tongue over his teeth.
"I'd like to treat you to something, I think. Can you suggest two or three things you might like as reward? What does your sergeant do to encourage outside the box thinking?"
"Usually try to kill us, sir!" the lad responded.
Fett heard laughter behind him. Turned to see Kei're Hosch Tiethe' and Mij Gilamar.
His own face had cracked at the admission, too.
"Maybe something more benign than that. Feel free to speak easily. Any of you."
"Sir? Sometimes we're allotted additional shower time. If we can beat her times, sir!"
"I like a long, hot shower at the end of a day, too," he agreed. "I was thinking something more long-lasting."
"Visors, sir," one couldn't help himself from saying.
"You don't need them," he shot back immediately. "You're 100% Jango, trained by the Adenn. You've no need of anything to take your shots save the rifle on your back and the courage in your hearts."
"Paint," Gil told him.
He turned again. Whipped back around.
"Paint?" he asked. "What need do you have for paint?"
"They'd like to detail out their armor," the doctor suggested. "Perhaps not to the extreme that their sergeant has, but they're ready to be out of the shiny whites."
"Take off your bucket, Ranger," Fett told the one closest to him.
The lad moved immediately to comply. One wondered how much kit he was going to be handing over to the Mand'alor today. Now he was bareheaded and standing in one cetare and one under-boot.
"You'd like some personalization on your gear?" Fett asked.
"Yes, sir. Eventually, sir. We do like the looks of Delta Squad, sir."
"What's stopping you?"
"Ad'ra said we should wait another year or two, sir," the boy said. "And, sir? She wants a tattoo, sir. It would be hard for us to be granted a permission she was denied. You understand, sir?"
"You understand that your training sergeant is given free range of the complex, eats in the better mess and as often as she wants to, may watch holo'vids and entertain herself in any way she chooses during her downtime… a whole host of privileges you are not party to."
"Yes, sir, Mand'Alor, sir!"
He carefully looked just over Fett's ear at the blank wall beyond as he barked out the affirmation.
"So let's do this. What about a shoulder pauldron? If you were issued a shoulder pauldron and could detail it however suited you?" Fett glanced over at the doctor. "Would that be something you'd accept as reward for job well done?"
"Sir! Yes, sir! Yes, sir, Mand'Alor, sir!"
He fought the wide-eyed anticipation and excitement that tried to break over his face.
Fett respected that, too.
"Get yourself put back together, Ranger. There's no need to speak of this with your sergeant. I assume you can help yourselves to whatever you need?"
"Yes, sir!" the kid said. Had the grace to blush. "With your permission, sir!"
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"Not a word," he told the other cuy'val dar as he approached.
"Of course not," Rav grinned at him.
Fett watched the kid bend, secure his boot.
"She's something else with them," Gil murmured.
"She's something else no matter what. I wonder if Liam can see her, see the successes she's made."
"You still miss him something terrible?" Rav asked gently.
"Like you miss a limb, I imagine. We spent more time apart than together, but he always had my back. Even when we were too young to understand what we'd grow to be. Boba will never know him. Won't have any memories of him, save any that Ad'ra or I might have shared. Holo-images of him she still has. Things like that."
"It's hard to lose a soul mate," Gil murmured.
Fett frowned. "I don't mean to put it against you losing Tani," he said quickly. "There's nothing that could compare to losing a wife."
"A bond is a bond," the physician told him. "You didn't hold him in your heart, but he's part of your clan. Part of what made you and kept you."
"He and I had a plan…"
Fett looked around at the sterile hallway. So fekking cold and clinical.
"Does she ever ask after her mother?" Rav asked him.
The blue and silver clad man shook his head. "Not a murmur."
"Probably doesn't remember her," Gil suggested.
"Not kindly, anyway. You'd think that Karina would have looked for her. Would have tried to reach Liam by now."
Rav knew the circumstances of the marriage. Doubted that the young woman would look for anything other than the seven-year abandonment clause that would free her from the 'marriage' arranged for her by her family. As a widow she would be free from their influence and could choose her own direction next.
"Why didn't you want them to tell Ad'ra about your deal?"
"I want her to absolutely shit herself when she goes in there and they've added pauldrons complete with custom paint jobs."
He should have known she was monitoring their comms.
.
He felt her young, slim arms slide around his neck from behind when they sat for the evening meal.
A fine feast. He'd taken a small group of them hunting and this was the second meal from that largesse. Smoke pits had been erected—the wood and flavorful leaf coming back in the hold as well as the large tusked mammals.
"Thank you so much!" she told him. Squeezed. "You are the sweetest sweetie!"
"I believe this one's Jaig's," he told her. "You ate mine yesterday."
"I meant the kindness you showed my vode," she corrected, slipping into her seat beside him. Boba was on his left, the others filling in at the head table according to rank or privilege of invitation.
"Thank you," she murmured to the serving droid who set a covered dish in front of her.
Her napkin was folded neatly on her lap.
"I take it they told you we spoke?"
"I heard," she said vaguely. "I do not approve of you setting them to research bad words. They're supposed to be polite and gentlemanly little saboteurs and assassins."
"What other languages do you know?"
"Da taught me one of each," she told him, buttering a roll and handing it to his son.
Fett cut the boy's steak before starting on his own meal.
"You've already taught them those," he countered.
"Now we're freelancing. It's good to actually immerse in a variety of cultures."
He took a bite. Spoke around the masticated roast beast.
"And what, pray tell, is the war cry from Eriadu going to sound like?"
Boba thought that was funny. Let loose with a few suggestions.
Jaig laughed and encouraged him. Fett was pretty sure that both Ad'ra and Boba thought the man they considered a substitute ba'buir was the wittiest to have ever graced a table.
Ad'ra blushed. Vau couldn't wait to hear what the answer really was.
She looked hopefully at Fett when the serving droid came round with rich, deep red wine. Was denied that pleasure.
"I have to know," Rav begged.
She made a little zipping sound with her lips.
"What?"
Jaig leaned closer, patted the boy beside him into submission so they could hear.
"The hell is that?" H.G. asked from Ad'ra's side. He slid his steak onto her plate. Took the root vegetable she'd just pushed around with her fork.
She beamed at him.
"This ought to be good."
"You know when you make a purchase from the holo-web and prepay with your banking information? Well… our studies are focusing on Banking Clan members just now-"
"I heard that."
"That's as close to that sound as we could make." She swished her lips, jerking her head to the side.
There was a roar of laughter from their end of the dining room that garnered the attention of the other cuy'val dar in attendance.
"You are a caution, child," Fett told her. Shook his head.
"Next time may I go hunting with you?"
"If you're big enough to haul your own kill back," Jaig told her.
She pouted. "Tech or no tech?"
"No tech. We do some things the old fashioned way. As gentlemen."
"The next bounty I take I'm bringing back here and letting my vod have a roast of their own."
H.G. held up his hand to stop her. Covered his mouth with his hands.
"Please. You don't eat flesh anyway," she complained. "And I'm sure that Kute would taste like fish."
"I told you to stop calling her that," Fett leaned over to hiss at her.
"Who?"
He just cocked his head away. Waved his fork at her.
"You're going to call her that to her face and she's going to make you her next experiment."
Ad'ra lifted a shoulder. Took more mash and another roll.
"She thinks I have an accent or a speech impediment. I'm not worried about it."
"That's because you spoke with such a heavily Bothan inflection when you got here," Rav consoled from her place beside Jaig.
"Mando'a was hard for her grandmother," Fett excused away the complaint. "Liam spoke Bothan from the cradle and called his mother every day-good son that he was!"
Jaig chuckled. "What was it Benn used to say? 'Can't scare me. I'm married to a Bothan princess.'" He roared with laughter.
Ad'ra grinned. "Was she terrifying?"
Jango shook his head. "Only if you crossed her. She was the perfect Mando wife. She was something else. I remember her stabbing your grandfather once for reaching into the cookie jar instead of kissing her first when he got home from a trip once."
Rav grinned. "She and Blue made quite the pair," she said, mentioning Jaig's wife.
He rolled his eyes. "The two of them could ride a body to death. What one got the other wanted. From dishtowels to those damn Corvettes they both lusted after."
"Can't beat a Corellian Corvette for what they are, though..."
"What was the war cry from Corellia?" Skip asked suddenly. "I missed that one."
"Motor revving," Vau answered, blotting his lips on the napkin.
There was something incongruous about dining in a luxury room with fine linens, sparkling crystal, and dainty dishes and cutlery—dressed in beskar'gam while serving their Mand'alor as instructors of a secret clone army on a clinically white water world. Not that he didn't appreciate drinking good wine from nice glasses. Just… incongruous.
"A motor revving?"
"We liked the shipyards," Ad'ra explained. "When the war starts we want to go there, capture that, is that all right?"
Boba nodded. "Me, too."
"I'll help you," Vau promised.
"Walon…"
He feigned an innocent look. "What? Shipyards are very important to a military. How can the GAR mount a navy with no fleet? And, with my experience, I'd be the logical choice to advise on such a mission."
"A supreme sacrifice, I'm sure. If the two of you ever form an alliance there'll be international incidents one after another," Fett complained.
Ad'ra winked at Boba.
When the little boy finished she absconded with the meat from his dinner, too. There was quite the pile beginning to form on her plate.
"Do you want mine, too?"
She nodded at Rav. "Only if you're not going to finish it. Just don't let them throw it away."
"Why, Ad'ra?"
She blinked up at Fett. "I'm going to put it in my conservator. For later."
"Do not try to smoke meat in your room."
"Of course not," she promised.
"You ate so many rolls you barely touched yours," Jaig fussed.
"I promise, this is not going to waste. I have big plans to eat myself sick as often as possible in the next twenty-four hours."
"What happens after twenty-four hours?"
Ad'ra blinked up at H.G.
"Tuesday?"
He stared down at her. Checked his chrono for something he'd missed.
Glanced around. Saw the others scrolling over mini'pads and things.
"What the krif?" Fett demanded. "Do you do that on purpose?"
She beamed at him.
Every once in a while he still regretted not settling down younger and having somewhere to go back to... with a warm hearth and a half-dozen Bobas and Ad'ras running around. Then she pulled this shit and he could only hope his son didn't grow up thinking he was a comedian, too.
Jango let her escape with him when the port was served. He didn't bother warning her off when he heard her promising him they'd raid the kitchens for their own dessert later when they weren't so full.
"Do you think she really brings him in here to raid the kitchens?" he complained to his compatriots.
"I would almost guarantee it," Rav told him. "If not actually in here, certainly the ready room."
"What is she going to do with all that meat?" Jaig wondered aloud. "She has to have six or seven pounds of it!"
She'd scooped up some more on her way out. Which was fine. Nobody was going hungry for it.
Still…
Fett shook his head. "Her father used to make his own jerky. I keep waiting to see her make an attempt at it."
Vau snorted into the small glass of spirits he'd been offered.
She was going to take it to the clones in her company. No question. He was surprised she hadn't invited them to the feast. And if the kitchen were raided, he knew exactly who would be watching her six while she chose delicacies.
At least she was generous. No one could fault her compassion.
Still… time and place for it.
He leaned forward. "So, she's sweetening you up to her 'vode' too, eh? You going to start sneaking your ARCs sugar tits and browned custards?"
Fett lifted both his middle fingers. Rav clucked in remonstration.
H.G. jumped on the bandwagon.
"That's right. Skipped right over that. What did you do that pleased her?"
"Have you heard them marching lately?"
"Not so I noticed," they had to admit.
Shakes of heads, glances around at each other.
"They can do it silently. Not a clink, clank, or clatter."
"They're Rangers. We can move pretty silently, too."
"Marching, though?"
"Isn't the whole point of marching to stay on rhythm?" Vau objected.
"Usually. This was so quiet it was creepy. It was like turning around and all of a sudden they were there. A hundred-plus specters. Then just gone. No sound."
Rav shook her head. "They have some kind of taps they're attaching to their boots for regular appearances. Silencers for when they want to sneak around."
"Oh. Fantastic. Let's encourage that osik."
Laughter was probably the response given due to the alcohol served with the very good meal, not genuine amusement at either the thought of the 4th Ranger Company sneaking around in silenced boots or the wittiness of the complaint.
H.G. pushed away from the table as soon as Fett made his adieus. He slapped Vau on both shoulder plates.
"I couldn't borrow Delta Squad for some HTH demos, could I?"
"Of course. When do you want them?"
"I figured to run the little lads through some night drills this evening."
"I've got them on KP, then they're yours all night," Vau told him.
His friend guffawed.
"You've got your golden-haired boys on KP?" There was a merry twinkle in Jaig's eyes.
Vau just sipped his last drink.
"I have no golden-haired boys. Not in my company. I believe you'd have to look elsewhere to find deviants."
There was a rash outbreak of commando cadets either shaving their heads or bleaching their hair or both.
He'd kill a member of Dalphina Company.
Had told them that in no uncertain terms. And they'd believed him.
The other man made a face at the purposeful misunderstanding of his words.
KP in the officers mess was an invitation to indulge in some of the better food served there. And miss any really unsavory chores assigned the entire company as punishment. Vau had been known to use it before as a clandestine reward.
He knew from past experience that his squad had also smuggled leftover food back to their barracks to share around when there was something easily portable and easily eaten remaining. The aiwha-bait and their carefully calculated nutritional rations could kiss his shebs.
.
In his room Jango stripped down as he listened to the message left for him by ASSRC-4.
"Mr. Mand'Alor, sir," the clone standing at attention had begun. "Our apologies, good sir, in not being able to produce an exact translation in either Bothan or Old Ermenuian for the requested vulgarity. It seems that particular topic never came up or else was possibly so horrific a concept they buried it and it became taboo. Please accept, in replacement, this list of viable insults or curses…"
He'd proceeded to read from a scroll. A real scroll. Jango wondered if they'd made it from a pillow case and part of the bedstand like they had other props that had been called for over the years.
Had to be the one Ad'ra called Mya.
Had to be.
No one else could deliver the litany of profanities—translated into near approximations in all four languages when possible—with a straight face and the aplomb of a stage actor.