Chapter Text
Sometimes, if his squad got their ship inspections and maintenance done early, and if there was extra fuel, and if it was long enough between campaigns to justify the time and expense as training, Davijaan would go flying.
He still loved flying, three years into the war. There was something soothing about being inside a ship, in space. The feeling of weightlessness from the safety of a cockpit. The easy fun of looping around and around a venator or racing Fiddle to the nearest asteroid or bringing his fighter to a standstill and drifting, for a time, in the shine of the white and blue stars.
When he’d taken Piloting and Navigation courses Sergeant Rau had told his class it didn’t matter if they loved flying, the only thing that mattered was that they were good at it. He agreed. The higher-ups didn’t care if he liked his job, so long as he did it and did it well.
But, ‘17 had told him if he had to do something for his whole life he might as well enjoy doing it. So, Davijaan let himself love flying. And he was pretty sure that love was due entirely to the rare times he and his squad were able to take their ships out into space without being shot at.
Half his mind was on the pressure gauge he was calibrating and the other half was wondering if today might be one of those times—he and Mitts were ahead of schedule, and there was fuel due in the resupply next week—when his comm beeped.
The sound yanked him out of the stars and back into the ARC-170’s cockpit. He quickly finished with the pressure gauge and then rolled back his sleeve to get to his wristcomm. The new message was from Kote, reminding him of their joint briefing at 1100 hours. He checked his chrono. It was 1040.
There hadn’t been a briefing when he’d checked his schedule that morning. He hadn’t had to attend a formal briefing for almost three months, not since the campaign on Umbara. The sudden addition was… concerning.
“Mitts?” he called, climbing out of the cockpit.
“Yes, boss?” Mitts was muffled, head still stuck inside the engine.
“Something came up.”
“Huh?”
Davijaan tugged on his foot until he slid out of the engine, squinting, and handed him the datapad with the inspection checklist. “Surprise briefing. Get Fiddle to help with the rest of them if I’m not back in an hour.”
“But, sir—”
“Sorry, I’ve got to be on the bridge in fifteen.” He marched towards the locker room, already striping off his jumpsuit. “Tell Fiddle I’ll take his maintenance shift next week. And, if you get done early, don’t wait for me.”
The door slid shut before Mitts could shout a ‘yes sir’ after him, but that was fine. Davijaan wasn’t a stickler for protocol when they weren’t in the field. Or in the air, as it were. He trusted his squad and they trusted him, and he knew Fiddle would grumble about the shift swap but get the inspection done quickly and completely.
Fourteen minutes later he had his armor on and was striding to the briefing room, trying not to speculate on why he’d been summoned. Maybe whatever this was wouldn’t take more than an hour. Maybe he’d even be back in time to take one of the ARC-170’s out, just for a few loops around the Negotiator'shull.
The door slid open just before he reached it, and Kote stepped out into the hall. His helmet was clipped to his belt, giving Davijaan a good look at the grim set of his jaw and the determined curve of his mouth. Unease curled cold in his stomach.
“Commander.”
“Marshal.”
Kote gave a sharp nod, and ushered Davijaan inside.
He didn’t let the formalities get to him. This was a formal briefing, after all. But, Kote had been distant since that mess with the 501st’s rogue ARC. Davijaan didn’t hold his anger against him, but it had been weeks, and Kote knew better than to fixate on a single death or a single betrayal or whatever it was about that whole disaster that still had him distracted; focused on something far away from the 212th, and Davijaan.
Maybe it was just that Rex was still distracted, and Fox wasn’t answering his messages.
“Sorry for the short notice,” said Kote, perfunctory. “The orders were only issued this morning.”
“What orders? What is this about?” he asked, removing his own helmet and glancing around the empty room. “Where is everyone?”
“General Kenobi will be joining us shortly.”
“Just the General?”
“Before he arrives, complete this.”
Kote passed him a datapad with a form already open. He skimmed the heading and almost dropped the ‘pad, and then took a deep breath and read through the whole thing, his grip tightening as he worked his way down to where High General Obi-Wan Kenobi and Marshal Commander CC-2224 had already signed off on the request. Only the line for his number and acknowledgement remained blank.
“I’m being transferred,” he said, flat.
“Only temporarily, but I need the paperwork properly filed so I can properly promote your second. Mitts, right?”
“Kote.” Davijaan set the ‘pad down on the table and met his brother’s gaze, deliberate. “What is going on?”
“I’ll give the General the honor of explaining the situation in full.” Kote’s eyes were bright with fury, tempered with a carefully rationed measure of vicious glee. Whatever was happening, he didn’t like it any more than Davijaan did, but already had some kind of plan in motion to ensure the outcome was to his advantage.
Davijaan glared his best if-you-don’t-stop-with-the-dramatics-I’m-going-to-punch-you-in-the-nose glare.
“In short,” Kote relented, not wanting to be punched in the nose, “you are on loan to General Quinlan Vos for a SF mission.”
The name sounded familiar, but Davijaan’s focus settled on SF. Special Forces. A clone officer was needed for a Special Forces mission, and of all the clone officers in the whole entire 3rd systems army, the one to be yanked out of their comfortable posting and dumped into an SF mess in the making was Davijaan? And they wanted him to work with—
“Wait.” He went cold as familiarity resolved into recognition. “Quinlan Vos. The traitor? That bastard?”
“You hear that Obi-Wan?” a cheerful voice interrupted. “That bastard. I have an admirer already.”
The datapad clattered to the table as Kote and Davijaan both snapped to attention, saluting the two Generals as they entered the room. Kenobi nodded politely to the formality. Quinlan Vos offered a salute of his own, mockingly perfect, and a too-wide smile.
Quinlan Vos, traitor to the Republic. Standing smiling on the bridge of the Negotiator.
He’d heard all about what happened when Vos went rogue. To this day Faie wouldn’t say a word, but plenty of his troops spread the stories. Davijaan tried not to gape, in shock or in fear.
Vos was either human or near human. He was almost… disappointingly normal. Or, as normal as Jedi got. He was wearing the plain brown robes Jedi preferred, lightsaber on his belt, locs hanging loose to the middle of his back. A yellow ribbon of a tattoo stretched across his nose and cheeks, a bright contrast to his dark skin. He had an inch or two on Kenobi, and almost a full head on Davijaan and Kote. When he crossed his arms Davijaan saw he was wearing black gloves.
When he dragged his attention from the gloves to look Vos in the eye, he found the traitor looking back.
“Ex-traitor, actually. It didn’t stick,” he said, as if he’d heard that moniker. Or maybe just read it on Davijaan’s face. Stars, he should have kept his helmet on.
“I’ve met the other one, so you must be CC-2237,” Vos continued. “My very own clone commander. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
His smile was starting to look more like bared teeth. Davijaan swallowed hard.
Kenobi quite possibly saved his life by taking Vos by the elbow and firmly steering him to a chair.
“Honestly Quin,” Kenobi grumbled, seating himself primly. “Leave the poor man alone. You’ll have time to make friends on the trip. Quinlan Vos, Oddball. Oddball, Quinlan Vos.” He gestured between them. “Now, Cody, if you would.”
Kote and Davijaan exchanged a look, and Davijaan had to bite his tongue hard to keep from giggling hysterically as they took their seats.
Ex-traitor.
Davijaan tried not to think about all the implications of that.
Kote and Kenobi jumped right into the mission briefing, working off each other with practiced ease. They started with the failed Ringo Vinda campaign and ended with rumors of renewed attempts at biological warfare. Oddball and Vos were supposed to infiltrate the space station, slice into the databases, and collect whatever information they could find to either confirm or crush the rumors.
It was a necessary mission. Frighteningly necessary. Davijaan had read the reports on the Blue Shadow virus situation and knew with terrifying clarity that if the Seppies managed to produce a virus that specifically targeted clones they could decimate the GAR in a tenday.
It even made a sort of sense for Vos to be assigned to it. Presumably he knew how best to access Seppie space stations and Seppie databases, even if Davijaan personally wouldn’t trust a two-time double-crosser not to double-cross again. Hearing Kote read that part of the plan out loud gave him sudden insight to his brother’s rage.
What made absolutely no sense was why Davijaan was the unlucky officer assigned to watch ex-traitor Quinlan Vos’ back. He could definitely fly Vos to the station unnoticed and fly him back to safety fast, but so could a thousand other pilots in the 7th Sky Corps, and Davijaan was terrible at slicing and terrible at stealth work. His navigation and agility scores had barely been high enough to keep him in command track.
SF missions had the highest fatality rate in the GAR. It would just be him and Vos, no backup. This mission was urgent and dangerous, potentially deadly, potentially disastrous for the whole Republic, and someone had decided Davijaan was the best for the job.
The orders were already issued. The forms were already filled out. He was going to Ringo Vinda with General Vos, and if he didn’t make it back, well. That was what the chain of command was for. He’d taught Mitts himself, he would be an excellent Flight Squad Commander.
“Any questions?” Kote asked.
Davijaan shook his head and filled in the final blank on the transfer request.
***
Vos and Kenobi left as soon as the briefing was over. The door slid shut, and Davijaan pounced.
Kote was expecting it, or maybe resigned to it, and allowed Davijaan to take him by the shoulders and shake him good and hard.
“I cannot believe you,” he hissed. “No warning?”
“I told you.” Kote shrugged him off, face set like stone. “The orders—and Vos, for that matter—were unexpected. And urgent.”
“Not even a note. Not even a damn note. The least I deserve is a warning when I’m marching to my death.”
Kote was void of compassion. “If I can survive Kenobi, you can survive Vos. I believe in you.”
Davijaan threw his hands up in defeat. “I hate you.”
“I love you too.”
“Can’t believe I've kept my nose clean for three years only to be court-martialed for murdering my brother.”
Kote’s mask cracked, and a sliver of a smile slipped through. Something caught in Davijaan’s throat, wondering if this would be the last time he saw it.
Don’t think about it.
He cleared his throat and tried for a more playful tone. “Maybe I can survive Vos, but I don’t know about the mission. What idiot decided a Flight Squad Commander would be just the officer to have on a SF job?”
“Me,” said Kote.
Davijaan blinked.
“You see,” said Kote, mild and false as the Coruscant sky, “our resident ex-traitor is not supposed to be on the field.”
All of his earlier unease came flooding back, cold and heavy and smothering. “I couldn’t make that part make sense,” he said, low. “Why would they trust someone like that with a mission like this?”
“There hasn’t been a sighting of Dooku for over a month now.”
“Yes?” They’d lost track of Seppie Generals before, but never Dooku, and never for this long. It was making the rank and file nervous. “What does Dooku have to do with anything?”
“Apparently, Vos killed him.”
It took a moment for the full meaning of that statement to process.
Dooku was dead. Vos had killed him.
If Dooku was dead—
What that meant for the war was not lost on Davijaan, nor, he could see, on Kote. What came out of his mouth was, “I can understand how that would improve his standing, yes.”
“The Separatists are keeping this under wraps. I have no idea why the Republic decided to follow suit.” The Supreme Chancellor had the final say on what stayed need-to-know and what could be widely distributed, and Davijaan sometimes wondered if the man really understood that power. “Vos came crawling back to the Order a month ago. He had enough of playing Sith, and thought Dooku’s head would be an appropriate apology. He’s technically on probation. The only reason he’s on the field and not in a cell, as far as I understand it, is that the GAR is running short on Jedi.”
“Ah.” Comforting.
Kote acknowledged the implications with a grim nod. “I didn’t hear any of this from Kenobi. I got most of it from Wolffe, because General Koon’s been involved in the rehabilitation process. Kenobi won’t speak a word against Vos,” he said, lip curling slightly, disgusted. “They’re still friends, even now.”
Davijaan knew, even if his brother would die before he admitted it, that Kote didn’t give a damn about the Republic. But he very much gave a damn about betrayal.
“Vos caught up with us this morning with orders directly from the High Council. The mission objective, and also an order for Kenobi to assist in any way Vos requested. He requested a temporary commander. Kenobi told me to pick someone I trusted.”
Davijaan took that in for a moment. Turned the thought around in his head, trying to make it make sense. Slowly, he shook his head. “You trust me, sure, but—”
“Who else?”
“Someone with applicable training! Someone who can provide backup!”
“If Vos actually does his job, he won’t need backup! He was one of the most skilled Jedi in the Order, before he went rogue. He doesn’t need backup. He was assigned this mission solo, and he requested a temp commander of his own volition.” Kote tipped his chin up and met Davijaan’s eyes, as inescapable and unrelenting as the Kaminoan sea. “If he wants a watchdog so bad, then I’m going to damn well give him one.”
And with that, it made sense, and Davijaan’s throat went so dry he couldn’t swallow. “You want me to spy on a Jedi.”
“I want you to spy on a former Separatist officer and Sith apprentice who is potentially spying on us.”
Davijaan took a deep breath, and reminded himself about orders straight from the Jedi High Council. About the transfer form he’d just filled out and submitted. About the gleam in Kote’s eye that meant he already had a plan in motion.
“Alright,” he said, because he couldn’t say anything else. “Alright. I’ll keep an eye on Vos.”
Some of the tension eased out of Kote’s shoulders, and he looked almost apologetic. “If I had anyone else… I need Crys and Gregor here with me more than I want them out there with Vos.” Which was polite shorthand for, ‘you are expendable, they are not.’ Which he already knew. But it still stung, coming from Kote.
“It will be a short mission,” Kote said.
“I know.”
“All you have to do is keep an eye on who he’s in contact with. Don’t leave him alone between jumps. Don’t try to confront him either, if it comes to that, just relay what you see straight to me.”
“Got it.”
Kote reached out, and then drew his hand back, hesitant. He knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what he deserved—or didn’t deserve—but abruptly Davijaan didn’t care. He surged forward and gathered his brother up in a hug.
Both of them melted into it, holding on tight, and now Davijaan was glad he’d taken his helmet off because now he could bury his face in his brother’s neck and pretend this was just another ‘just in case’ hug before a battle. For all practical intents and purposes, it was.
After a time, Kote sighed, and pulled away. “Better go get packed. You’re leaving in an hour and thirteen minutes.”
I don’t want to, Davijaan didn’t say.
***
Shoving his armor maintenance kit, hygiene kit, and spare undersuit in a pack took less than a minute. He knew Kote had given him the hour to say goodbye to his squad in person, and issue his final orders.
Instead of racing back to Hangar 7, he sat, and set his wristcomm on his desk.
He knew better than to fly into this blind. He had access to Vos’ old mission reports and he had GAR-wide rumors, but he wanted something more than that. Vos had been the General of the 120th for six months, early in the war. There were records. And, more than formal mission reports, there were eyewitnesses.
He hadn’t spoken to CC-3990 since… Since command track, actually. They’d been assigned their first posts in the 3rd and 5th System Armies, respectively, so their leave never lined up, and they hadn’t been friendly enough back on Kamino to keep in touch.
Still, Davijaan had his contact information saved, the same way he had all his former classmates’ contact information saved. Just in case. And he’d never imagined this particular scenario in his mental list of ‘just in case’ scenarios, but he’d take discussing the living over discussing the dead any day. He found the link for a private comm-line and made the call.
In a flash of blue, 3990 appeared. He’d wanted to be called Faie back in command track. Davijaan did his best to smile, and hoped that preference hadn’t changed. “Hello, Faie. It’s been a while. How are you?”
Faie’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Oddball? Why are you contacting me?”
So ‘Faie’ was fine then. Asshole. “I just said it’s been a while, maybe I’m checking in.”
“It’s been three years. And Kote is the one who checks in. Why are you contacting me?”
Davijaan bit his tongue on his first response. And his second. He debated throwing his comm across the room, but he really did want whatever info Faie had. He widened his smile. “You worked with General Vos, right?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“What was he like?”
Faie regarded him in silence for a moment. “Have you got Neyo or someone standing behind you taking notes?”
Davijaan groaned and tipped forward to bury his face in his hands.
“Listen,” he said, muffled, “this is not for a prank or blackmail or—or anything. I’m…” Like Dooku’s death, Vos’ return to the Order was not public knowledge. He wanted to discuss this openly, but it seemed he wasn’t going to get anything he wanted when it came to this assignment. “The details are confidential, but I’ve been transferred to another post and my mission involves Quinlan Vos. I just wanted to ask you—what was he like to work with?”
“Hm.” Another few seconds of suspicious squinting, and then the firm line of Faie’s mouth softened just a bit. “About time you got a real command post, Odds.”
“Flight Squad Commander is a real post! That is a real position! That I have held for three very real years!”
“Sure. So, what? You need info? Most of the details were on my reports.”
“I need the stuff you left off the reports. I was serious, asking what he was like to work with.”
“That’s it?”
Davijaan nodded.
Faie smirked. “Well. In a word, frustrating.”
Damn it.
“He always had something to say about GAR structure, or SOP, or clones. He was weird about clones. I didn’t realize it until after I started working with Yoda, but Vos never let himself be alone in a room with more than a squad at a time. Preferred one-on-one meetings to bridge briefings. Or maybe that was just part of his usual paranoia.”
“Paranoia? A Jedi?” Granted, he’d only ever worked with Kenobi and Skywalker. They weren’t paranoid so much as they were dutifully pessimistic. He would have thought it would be hard to be paranoid when you were one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy.
“Vos was the most paranoid person I’ve ever known. Though…” Some of Faie’s sudden good humor faded. “The more I think about it, the more I think he had reason to be. You know he was some kind of Jedi SpecOps before the war? He was dangerous. Not the way most Jedi are dangerous; the way we are. The way you have to be when you live your whole life waiting for that one lucky shot.”
He shrugged, hummed noncommittally.
“You should know that, if you’re going after Vos.”
Davijaan flinched. “I’m not—”
“Don’t,” Faie cut him off, sharp. “I know Vos is a problem. As long as he is working with the enemy we’re all at risk. I understand.” Some of the smile came back, sour. “I don’t know what kind of team they’ve put together, but you should all be aware Vos likely doesn’t trust his new friends any more than he trusted his old ones. He’ll be expecting to be stabbed in the back.”
“I… I’ll keep that in mind.” And, it did make a certain kind of sense, for someone who betrayed his people to expect to be betrayed by them in turn.
“He wasn’t a bad General,” Faie said, defensive. “He complained about SOP, but he followed it. Didn’t know what to do with a battalion at first, but it only took him one battle to figure it out. Don’t underestimate him.”
“I won’t.” Thinking about being stuck alone on a ship with a paranoid bastard who was weird about clones for a week, or two weeks, or however long this mission lasted was starting to make him feel—so he didn’t think. It was always better to have the info than to not have the info. Always.
The question the entire GAR had been speculating on for the last two years was still unasked. Davijaan hesitated, because as far as he knew nobody had been able to get even speculation out of Faie, but he was leaving in less than an hour. He had to try.
“Do you have any idea why he went rogue?”
Faie regarded him in silence, the sharp blue lines of his face severe.
“The Jedi call it Falling,” he said. He shook his head. “No, I don’t. I never spoke to Vos about anything other than the war. And, when it happened, I wasn’t close enough to hear what Dooku said to him. I tried to follow when their fight moved off the field, get in range to take a shot, but one of them pinned me with the Force. Stuck my feet to the ground.”
Something angry and aching twisted his features. “I don’t recommend pissing off a Force user. It felt like being knee deep in cold stone.”
Davijaan held himself very still, and did not shiver.
“I thought, when Vos Fell, he was going to kill us all. He could have. But he didn’t. He just left, with Dooku, and the droids all stopped shooting and marched away behind them. And that was that.”
Between the reports and the rumors, Davijaan knew Vos hadn’t fought many battles during his time with the Separatists. When he had, he’d led from the rear. He’d disrupted supply lines and spied on GAR movements and kidnapped politicians, but he hadn’t gone after clones with the same glee as Ventress and Maul.
Vos had hunted Jedi. Even managed to kill a few. The death of General Krell had almost cost them Umbara, and Davijaan didn’t want to know what would have happened if the 327th hadn’t arrived in time to provide support.
Maybe Vos preferred the challenge of an enemy who could fight back.
Davijaan cleared his throat. “So he doesn’t kill for the fun of it? That is reassuring, thank you.”
Faie scoffed.
“If the best that can be said about Vos is that he won’t stab me on sight, I’ll take it.”
“Only if you sneak up on him.”
“Same rules as with siblings, then?”
Faie didn’t laugh, but he stopped sneering long enough to roll his eyes, and Davijaan counted that as a win.
Reluctantly, he shifted his focus from the comm to the chrono. “I’ve got to be on a ship in twenty,” he said, standing and taking the comm with him. “Thank you for the help.” However begrudgingly it had been given.
“Hm.” Faie frowned, and then sighed. “Don’t die.”
“I’ll do my best.” He exchanged a nod with his former classmate, and ended the call.
Throwing the comm and his personal ‘pad into the pack, he took inventory of what was left of his quarters.
The bunk, the desk, and the closet. The packs of cards and dice Wolffe periodically gifted him that sat untouched on one side of his desk. The book Kote had borrowed from Kenobi about passenger ships that he’d sort of skimmed. The extra ration bars he kept in a drawer.
A bright woven band was coiled next to the cards. Fiddle had made it for him out of orange and yellow and green and blue thread. Davijaan thought there was supposed to be a pattern, but he’d never been able to make it out. He wasn’t sure what the point of the thing was, but he’d worn it wrapped around his wrist under his vambrace for every battle since he’d received it.
He’d just as soon toss the cards and dice as use them, gifts from Wolffe or not, and Kenobi would track down his book eventually. Rations were rations and could go to whoever got this room next.
He took his left vambrace off and wrapped the band around his wrist twice, tucking in the ends and closing the vambrace over it. He hefted his pack and left.
***
By 1300, Davijaan was working his way through Hangar 3 to where Vos’ ship was docked. The transfer notice would be waiting for Mitts when he got off shift, along with a personal message with his final orders and advice. Pick a good second, mostly. Having someone you trusted to watch your back meant everything in a fight. He had no doubt that the first thing Mitts would do with his new power would be to promote Fiddle.
Theoretically, he might be back at his old post in a tenday and this would have been a whole lot of disruption for a whole lot of nothing. But that thought was staying firmly theoretical.
Vos’ ship wasn’t hard to find. It was a light freighter, a VCX-00 or VCX-100 it looked like, with a little VCX series auxiliary fighter docked between the main engines. Something for travel, and something for stealth. Perfect for this mission.
The hatch was open, so he made his way up the gangplank. Standing just outside, he called, “General Vos?” His voice echoed faintly in the empty hold.
No response. He’d better wait until Vos got here to board.
He turned around and ran smack into a broad chest, where it had appeared soundlessly directly behind him.
Davijaan managed to strangle his instinctual shriek, took a stumbling step back, tripped over the lip of the hatch, and fell flat on his back in the hold, armor clattering hollow against the metal floor.
“Did you need me for something, Commander?” Vos asked, ever so sweetly. Apparently he wasn’t just a traitor, he was also the kind of CO who liked to make his subordinates jump. Noted.
Davijaan scrambled to his feet with as much dignity as he could manage, hefting his pack and scowling at the inside of his helmet. At least he’d learned that lesson quickly. “No sir. Ready for departure when you are, sir.”
Vos brushed past him and made for the cockpit. Davijaan followed.
Sprawling comfortably in the pilot’s chair, Vos got to work on the pre-flight checks with a focus Davijaan found somewhat reassuring. When he tried to take the copilot’s chair he was waved off. “You can go,” said Vos, mild. “Pick an empty cabin, settle in, relax. It’s going to be a long flight.”
Davijaan blinked. It wasn’t far to Ringo Vinda, only two jumps, somewhere between twelve and thirteen hours. If that was long to Vos then Davijaan wanted to know what he thought of the typical travel time between campaigns. “You don’t… want a co-pilot?”
“Not really. I may not have a genetically modified brain, but I can calculate a jump just fine.”
Davijaan wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he retreated from the cockpit to find the cabins.
***
He picked the cabin farthest from the one Vos had claimed, stowed his kit, and wandered around the ship, familiarizing himself with the layout. It was indeed a 100 series model, he discovered when he stuck his head into the engine room. The latest on the market.
Takeoff was smooth, but the jump to hyperspace rattled through a ship this small. He felt odd sitting in his cabin through the whole process, but technically a copilot wasn’t necessary for a VCX. Just, recommended. But maybe Vos just didn’t want an unknown in his cockpit. Davijaan could understand that. Maybe he had an astromech stashed under the console he preferred to work with.
Or maybe ‘weird about clones’ was an understatement.
Once they were in hyperspace and he wasn’t waiting for Vos to change his mind and order him up to the cockpit, Davijaan relaxed. He ate a ration bar, and made up the bunk, and for lack of anything better to fill the time re-read the mission brief. It held the same orders it had that morning.
Maybe Vos would let him stay in the ship, and go into the station alone. Though, he reminded himself with a grimace, Kote wouldn’t like Vos going anywhere alone. He couldn’t exactly send coded messages while they were in hyperspace, but alone in a Seppie station? If Vos told him to stay on the ship he’d have to try and come up with an excuse to follow inside.
He spent most of the afternoon sitting in the cabin, pondering possible excuses and despairing over his suitability as a spy, annoyed with Kote and annoyed with himself and especially annoyed with Vos for causing this mess in the first place.
In the early evening the ship shuddered again, vibrations buzzing in his back teeth as they entered realspace. Again he waited to be ordered to the cockpit, but after ten minutes the ship shuddered its way back into hyperspace.
After that he gave up. He stripped out of his armor and lay in the bunk and stared up at the ceiling, mind carefully blank, and waited to fall asleep. They’d arrive at Ringo Vinda in another eight hours. He could worry about Vos when he actually had to deal with him.
***
Davijaan woke in the middle of the night with the lurch of the ship dropping out of hyperspace. He blinked a bit, and rolled onto the cold side of the pillow.
And then sat straight up in his bunk, panicked.
The jump was supposed to last eight hours; the blinking chrono on the desk said it’d barely been five. Either another ship had pulled them out of hyperspace or something was wrong with the hyperdrive. There should be an alarm going off. Vos should be yelling for him to get his ass to the guns or the engine room.
He scrambled out of bed and shoved his feet in his boots, not bothering with armor.
When he came crashing into the cockpit Vos looked up from the console, surprised. No lights were flashing that should not be flashing. There was nothing but stars visible through the viewshield. A starmap was open and the console computer was on, everything ready to start calculating a jump.
“Oh, hi again. Did the shaking wake you? Sorry about that.” Vos winced in sympathy. “You can go back to sleep. We’ve still got a few more jumps to make, we’ll probably get there tomorrow around 1700 hours. I’ll come find you when we’re an hour out.”
“Sir…” Davijaan swallowed hard. “It’s only two jumps to Ringo Vinda.”
Vos’ eyes flashed; his lip curled. Davijaan flinched, but just as suddenly as Vos’ face had twisted up it smoothed out, erasing his anger like it had never existed.
“My mistake,” he said, calm. “Must have gotten turned around somewhere. You know how it is. All it takes is reading one starmap upside down.” He chuckled, smiling at Davijaan like they were both in on the joke. As if reading a starmap wrong and getting so far off course it required several extra jumps to correct could ever be a joke.
Davijaan smiled back. I hate it when Kote is right. “I can plot a new course for you, no problem.”
“That won’t be necessary, Commander. I’m sure I can manage.”
“If you say so, sir.” He gave a crisp salute, turned on his heel, and marched out of the cockpit.
The doors slid shut behind him, and Davijaan ran.
They were in realspace. The next jump hadn’t been calculated yet. He didn’t have much but he did have time. He had time. He just had to—
Vos caught him in his cabin, as his hand closed around his comm. He didn’t waste breath on screaming; braced himself as he was hauled away from his pack and slammed into the wall, Vos’ shoulder and forearm pinning him with bruising strength. He tried to force his trembling hand to work, to at least turn the comm on—
“Oh, come on. Don’t do that.”
Vos took a step back and for a second Davijaan could breathe again, the weight across his chest gone, and then—
He choked as something cold curled around his neck; a steady invisible pressure coiling down around his torso and spiraling along his shoulders and arms and hands, forcing his fist open. He tried to kick and the pressure rushed down, encasing his legs, and Faie was wrong. Faie was wrong this wasn’t stone this was ice, a current of cold water flowing smoothly under his skin, freezing him solid inch by inch.
The comm drifted up and out of his hand, hovering in the space between his desperation and Vos’ fury.
“I was hoping we could have this conversation when we arrived, but you just had to poke around the cockpit, didn’t you. What, you don’t trust me?” Vos’ eye twitched, and the comm crumpled like wet paper. Davijaan bit his tongue to cut off a sob.
Vos was going to kill him. Vos was going to kill him right now and throw his body into space and he’d always known he was going to die in this war but he thought he was going to be with his siblings he was supposed to die in battle with his siblings and he didn’t want—
“Listen. Are you listening to me?”
Davijaan opened his mouth and no sound came out. He swallowed. Forced out a low, “Yes.”
“Good.” Vos’ brown eyes were as cold and unforgiving as the ice in Davijaan’s lungs.
“The Ringo Vinda mission is a cover. Our real mission is off the record. We are operating under a communications blackout. That is all you need to know. And all you need to do, is follow my orders. Can you do that? Can you be a good clone and follow orders until this is over?”
A hot spark of rage cut through the chill of his fear. Killing him was one thing, but expecting him to shut his mouth and go along with this shit?
“Fuck you,” he spat. “I am not a fucking traitor.”
Faster than he could follow, Vos lunged and grabbed the neck of his shirt, shoving him hard into the wall. “Neither am I.”
Davijaan tried to breathe, tried to look anywhere other than Vos’ face, tried to make neither am I make sense.
“You Fell,” he said, a question or an accusation he didn’t know. “You killed Jedi. You fought on the other side of this war for two years. What part of that wasn’t betrayal?”
For a split second Vos’ eyes flickered yellow, the same bright shade as his tattoo. He laughed, harsh and humorless. “Good question. I’ll get back to you when I have an answer. Smarter than you look, aren’t you?”
Davijaan grit his teeth. He didn’t have the courage to glare, but he held Vos’ gaze.
“Everything I do, I do on behalf of the Jedi Order. On behalf of my family,” he said. “This mission is for them. Every mission is for them.”
Faie had said something about Vos being a Jedi SpecOps. About the way he expected to be stabbed in the back.
And, Kenobi was still his friend. Even now.
The enormity of what he’d been dragged into crashed over him like a wave. “You were…” He wanted to scream. He wanted to kick and hit and scream and fight his way out of this crushing cold. “You were spying on the Separatists.”
Vos raised an eyebrow, neither confirming nor denying. “I was doing my job. I am doing my job, and I’m trying to do things the nice way for once. It’s going to be really damn annoying if I have to lock you in the brig and kidnap a different clone.”
Maybe he wasn’t going to die. Maybe he could follow orders and get through this mission and go back to his brother and back to his squad and back to his stolen time in space. He let himself go limp; breathed slowly in and out. “What do you want a clone for, sir?”
“Oh believe me, I don’t. I need a clone.”
“Please, I just want to know—”
Vos shook him, one sharp jerk before he was shoved back against the wall. “I’ll tell you what you need to know when you need to know it. You don’t trust me? Well I don’t trust you either, soldier,” he sneered. “Especially not with this mission.”
Davijaan held Vos’ gaze, steady, and watched the shift from disdain to calculation.
“There is something wrong with you,” he said at last, grip on Davijaan’s collar tightening. “With all of you clones. Something cold and creeping in your minds, your souls. The rest of the Order prefers to ignore the fact that you're weapons because you bleed red like the rest of us, but I know you were created for a purpose.”
Abruptly, he let go. The cold encasing Davijaan receded in a rush, and he fell to his knees, gasping.
“Now, Commander. Are you going to follow my orders?”
Davijaan kept his head down, and nodded, and didn’t say, I don’t want to.
***
Vos kept a heavy hand on the back of his neck all the way to the cockpit. He shoved him into the copilot’s chair and thrust a datastick into his hands. “You want to fly this ship so bad? Here. Calculate the next jump.”
Davijaan plugged the stick into the console computer, read the coordinates, and cold washed over him all over again.
“Sir, why… Why?”
“Because,” Vos slumped into the pilot’s chair, brow furrowed and gaze distant, “the answer to our biological warfare question is not on Ringo Vinda.”
Davijaan swallowed down his fear and plotted a course for Kamino.