Star Wars_ The Black Fleet Crisis 03_ Tyrant's Test - Michael P. Kube-McDowell [180]
Fascinating, how they didn’t jump into action when they heard the child is missing. He really is: Dooku’s made sure of it. Jabba might be corrupt, but the child … he’s still an innocent. Fascinating … how the social acceptability of the parent affects the willingness to aid the child.
They were very selective, these Jedi, about where they focused their legendary compassion.
Palpatine hoped nothing went wrong and that the Huttlet was returned unharmed when he’d served his purpose. Rotta was, after all, another very long-term potential ally in his plan.
But if anything happened to the poor thing—ah, here he was, falling into the platitude trap of being a politician, lies repeated so often that they eventually persuaded even the speaker that he meant what he said, and had done no wrong.
There were always innocent casualties of war, but war still had to be fought. And Jabba would be even more firmly in the anti-Republic camp if anything happened to his son.
Fascinating and … yes, still strange occasionally to play both sides of this game as if I want each to win.
Palpatine opened the comlink on his desk. “I want to speak to Lord Jabba,” he said. “This is the Chancellor of the Republic.”
FORWARD AID STATION, CRYSTAL CITY, CHRISTOPHSIS
“Steady with the polish, sir,” said the squad sergeant, checking the fluid level on a hemostatic hypospray. “If you shine it up any more, we’ll have to put a camo net over you.”
Clone Captain Rex paused in midsweep, razor held between thumb and forefinger as he shaved his mirror-smooth scalp, and ran his other palm over his head to test for missed stubble. Hair was just annoying under a helmet. And regrowth itched. Shaving was now both a necessity and a diversion in quieter moments, a comforting ritual.
Rex went on dragging the razor across his head in precise, slightly overlapping strips, one boot resting on his helmet as it lay on the ground. “Use me for signaling. Should be able to see me from orbit.”
“You missed a patch, sir. Going for the tufted look?”
“Maybe a topknot.” Rex allowed himself a smile, then pocketed the razor. “Or a fancy braid like those Weequay pirates.”
It was the first chance he’d had to sit back and take a breather for days, and his head buzzed with fatigue. The armies of Separatist droids here had been reduced to scrap and a few pockets of resistance; Christophsis had finally fallen to the Republic. In the shelter of a colonnaded doorway that was doubling as a first-aid station, he took out his datapad to check the casualty reports coming in, conscious of an injured trooper sitting on an upturned crate while the sergeant—Coric—tended to the man’s shrapnel injury. Plastoid armor was said to be the best credits could buy; Rex staked his life on it. But it had to have joints, gaps, and seals—and they were always vulnerable. The trooper had taken a spray of jagged fragments as razor-sharp and as lethal as fléchettes. Some had penetrated the gap between back plate and shoulder.
“How you doing, Ged?” Rex asked.
“Grateful it’s just my shoulder, sir,” said the trooper, not looking around. “At least I can still sit down.”
Yes, it wasn’t bad kit. Could have been better, like the fancy ARC trooper rig he’d seen, but it did the job. The relatively short list of names and ID numbers on his ’pad was testament to that.
Light casualties for a battle. Doesn’t feel like that, though.
“Running low on bacta, sir,” Coric said. There was a metallic tinkle as he dropped bloodstained fragments into a plastoid container. “Okay on analgesics for the time being.”
Rex did a quick mental calculation of how long it would take the cruiser Hunter to reach the supply base, load up, and return. “They’ve sent the ship for replenishment. It