Thjuyera was walking home and then she wasn’t. She was lifted off her feet, and her headscarf was pulled off. Something thick and opaque was jammed over her head. Hands grabbed her, and then she was face down on something with her wrists pushed together behind her back. Something cold and clicked over them. Heavy bars of pressure across her narrow shoulders and the tops of her thighs. They were moving: she felt the vibrations through whatever she was lying on. Something beeped, and hands were on her again, half-rolling her, patting down the line of her hips until they found the lumps of her faraday pockets.
A pause, and then she felt them lift her overskirts. Thjuyera tried to kick, frantically; they grabbed her ankles and forced her legs down. She’d never been this scared in her life, not even when her eyes had been taken out the first time. But - after they’d taken the pockets off, they pulled her skirt back into place, roughly enough that she could feel the hem hit the back of her calves through her stockings. They took her shoes off so she couldn’t run, and left her to lie there, fear shivering down her back and pooling behind her knees. She couldn’t quite get enough air through the material of the hood, and she bit the inside of her cheek until she could focus on the pain instead of panicking. She clicked a couple of times, experimentally, but got nothing back.
She lost track of how many seconds they drove for, listening to the pitch of the engine change with the stuttering stops and starts of Coruscant traffic, and started factoring instead, the slow thousands of numbers giving her something to concentrate on. When she tried to roll onto her side a hand came down on her shoulder, and pushed her back over, none too gently.
Finally, finally, they stopped. Mechanical noises, and someone picked her up, and carried her for forty seven steps before they stopped, and stood still. A turbolift, she guessed, from the internal pull. Eighteen steps, her feet nudging a wall as they perhaps turned a corner, then another eleven. They put her down on what felt like a chair, and Thjuyera couldn’t stop herself from curling over, trying to hide herself. It didn’t work: the hood was pulled off her head, and then she was blinking, her cheap eyes slow to adjust to the light.
Her kidnappers were armoured clones. There was one right next to her, his gauntlet hooked into the binders, holding her down. More were in front, watching her, all standing between her and the door. Every bit of nonsense she’d heard and discarded rushed to the front of her mind. Clones burnt down houses with children inside, executed the wounded, took trophies from the dead. She was abruptly aware of the way she was forced to arch forward due to the binder cuffs. There were stories - there always were, if there were soldiers - some said clones were capable, some said they weren’t. Others said they used a knife.
Two in plain glossy white armour, but two officers in kama and pauldrons, also unmarked. Officers meant logistics. Planning. The one behind her half stood, and took his hand off the binders, so -
She’d never make it to the door, but there was a window. Thjuyera feinted towards the door, and bolted right, shoulder braced to take out the safety glass. It’d hurt, but not for long; it was easy to fall on Coruscant. Someone’s armoured body took her down, thrashing, crushing her into the flooring, and Thjuyera couldn’t stop one ragged sob from escaping. She held in the next, worrying at her cheek until she could taste the blood freely on her tongue.
The door slammed open, and to her surprise she heard a woman’s voice - an angry woman’s voice - speaking a language she didn’t know. A pause, and a clone replied in the same language, voice slower, placating. Both of them had Coruscanti accents, but there was something else to the clone’s. She couldn’t place it.
“Ma’am,” said another clone, distressingly close. “Excuse me, ma’am.” She snapped her eyes open. So stupid, to concentrate on the argument. There were at least three more to keep track of.
An officer. The woman was arguing with the other one, and she couldn’t hear the other two. Couldn’t see them. Couldn’t stop her substandard eyes flicking all over the room to find them anyway. They were probably behind her, waiting for the officer to do - something. She closed her eyes, and clicked, hoping he wouldn’t recognise her attempt to echolocate them. There were three people - she thought - behind her, two bright returns, and one duller, masked by something that didn’t return at all. Two in armour, and one in clothes, against...something odd.
Thjuyera began to chew on the inside of her lower lip, biting harder to get past the throb in her already raw cheek. Her attention was drawn back to the clone in front of her; a faint hiss as the pressure equalised, and he took his helmet off. The argument stopped.
He looked just like she’d expected, of course, no distinguishing marks. It was shocking to see him try and smile at her, as if a clone taking his armour off would be reassuring.
“I’m going to take those cuffs off you now, ma’am,” he said, and leaned forward over her. Thjuyera’s heart kicked like a frightened tooka; he was too close. If he had been out of armour she’d’ve been able to feel his body heat.
Her hands were shaking, wrists nearly rattling in the binders, and the clone had to hold them in place for the key to work. She wrenched her arms away as soon the weight of the cuffs was gone, crossing them over her chest, and bringing her knees up.
A baby started to cry, the siren wail of the young and displeased, and the woman snapped a phrase at the officer, and left the room. Thjuyera would almost have called after her if she wasn’t choking back her screams, but the woman came back, holding the crying baby. She dumped it on the officer she’d been arguing with. Thjuyera blinked.
“Etain -” the clone protested, but he was already holding the baby, its head cupped carefully in one armoured hand.
“You brought it on yourself, Mereel,” said the tiny woman, switching to Basic. Etain. “You woke him up.”
“We were quiet,” he said, in the same language, gently jiggling the baby up and down. If that was Mereel, she knew who the other officer was, and this was a disaster of her own making.
“Talking in your helmets, were you?” said Etain, and scoffed at his nod.
“I’m sorry,” Etain said, turning to face Thjuyera. “They’re not good at some things, like remembering this is a helmets-off house.” She half-glared at whoever was standing behind Thjuyera.
“Hey!” said one of them as he moved into Thjuyera’s field of view. His voice was disconcertingly light and cheerful, and he was smiling widely. “That’s not fair. I’m good at lots of things.” Thjuyera thought she heard a muffled snort from behind her.
“Fi, go and make some tea,” ordered Etain, her soprano clear commanding, and Fi - who was good at both making tea and kidnapping people - went, and did not argue. “Jaing, can you help her back onto the chair? Thank you.” Thjuyera shied away from him, scrabbling across the floor ungracefully until she could climb into it. The Null moved to stand on her left, just inside her limited peripheral vision.
“They gossip terribly inside their helmets, you know,” she said to Thjuyera, who hadn’t. “All of them.”
“Ordo’s on his way,” said Mereel, circling behind the chair. She heard the hiss of his helmet, and he was visible again, making silly faces at the quieting baby as he paced the length of the room. “For debrief.”
“Debrief,” said Etain, a sour turn to the word. “I’m Etain Tur-Mukan. I was trained as - I used to serve as a Jedi.” A Force user; she might have heard the thump, or felt the surge of Thjuyera’s terror. “Otherwise, that’s Mereel on childcare,” Etain continued, pointing. “Over there is Sev - don’t let him breathe on you, his breath is awful, Atin by the door - his girlfriend lives here, but she’s at work now, Fi should be back soon with your tea, and Jaing there took the cuffs off you.”
So she’d guessed right, now when it was too late. None of the scenarios she’d helped game up had included her being snatched right off the street. It was simply incomprehensible; for slicers in her milieu, going kinetic was - no one did it. Not even the syndicates. Your crew would kick you. You’d have to change pseudonym and build rep from scratch. Her bruises told her that Nulls didn’t have the same sensibility, and Thjuyera wondered again who’d trained them. They’d analysed Jaing’s programs to find his signature, and found them to be a unique mix of old techniques and impressive intuitive leaps.
Fi came in, a brightly coloured mug incongruous in one gloved hand.
“I, uh, can’t actually tell how hot it is,” he said, offering it handle first. She held up one shaking hand for him to look at; she’d spill it all over herself if she tried to take it.
“Ah,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed. “Etain, is there a table?” A table was produced, the cup went on it, and Fi disappeared again because Atin had bought biscuits, and sugar was good for shock.
He put three on a plate next to her tea, and the rest of the bags disappeared with astonishing speed. As soon as she could, she picked up the tea and clutched it between her hands. The warmth helped, and she could use the ceramic as a weapon if she had to.
Pretending to sip the tea, she looked around the room. It wasn’t overly big, and the presence of five men, four of whom were in armour, made it seem even smaller. But it felt welcoming, somehow reassuring. The furniture was worn, but comfortable, and some of it was real wood. Colourful rugs hung on the walls, their patterns a blur at this distance. Behind her, one entire wall was dedicated to plants; the whole room smelled faintly green. It must have been very expensive. Most Coruscanti only had algae racks to help purify the air and produce oxygen, but Etain’s wall had flowers on it. She unconsciously ran her knuckles over the nubbly fabric of her chair, and braced herself against the wait.
Ordo - another Null - arrived, and was visibly annoyed to find out there were no biscuits left. By then Mereel was reading a datapad, having passed the now sleeping baby to Atin. It was drooling into the cloth of his civvies as it slept.
“Why isn’t she in restraints?” Ordo asked, in much the same tone of voice he’d used to ask why they hadn’t saved him biscuits.
“Because it’s my living room and I don’t like it,” said Etain. “With five of you, one of me, and her all by herself? I decided it was an acceptable risk.”
Ordo didn’t argue, but dragged a spare chair up to her, Jaing an unmoving blur on her periphery.
She’d known this was coming since Etain had identified Mereel. Her body managed to find a last burst of adrenaline. This was probably going to hurt.
“I have a dead man’s switch,” she said, but the effect wasn’t at all what she’d feared. Ordo leaned back in in disgust, and tossed something - credit chips? - to Mereel and Jaing. Fi half-whooped with delight before Sev slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Shut it, you’ll wake the baby,” Atin reminded everyone, stroking it’s head.
“Told you,” said Mereel smugly.
“Wait,” Jaing interrupted, turning towards her. “Do you have a duress code?”
“...yes?” said Thjuyera, squinting at him in confusion. These eyes were hopeless for microexpressions. Of course she did.
“That’s our girl!” said Fi, quieter, his smile stretching across his entire face. Ordo produced another credit chip and threw it to Jaing.
“Told you,” said Jaing to Mereel. Mereel threw his credit chip at Jaing, who plucked it out of the air, laughing. None of their voices were taut with frustration or anger.
Etain got up suddenly, ignoring the byplay to open the door. There was another clone standing there, one hand hanging in mid air where he hadn’t yet turned the handle.
“Dar!” she said, in as happy a voice as Thjuyera had ever heard. He kissed her on the forehead, and tucked her close to him with one arm, while Etain hugged him. That explained the baby, although everyone knew Jedi weren’t supposed to take lovers. It was such a staple that there was a whole genre of holodrama dedicated to it - and even if they did, Etain had chosen a clone?
“Niner says he’d rather watch boloball,” he reported. “I brought Laseema.” Atin, who understandably found his girlfriend more interesting than whatever this was, dumped the sleeping baby onto Ordo, who scowled but took it carefully, propping it up on one shoulder.
“This is not how I was trained to conduct interrogations,” he complained, but softly. The baby was asleep, after all. Thjuyera almost sympathised with him. Whatever she’d expected, lying on the floor of a cargo speeder, trying not to suffocate and straining to hear anything, sitting in a comfortable seat in an ex-Jedi’s living room was not it. An ex-Jedi with a clone lover, and a baby. No one had even touched her, except Jaing, once, to take her binders off. Fi had seemed honestly concerned that she might hurt herself on the too-hot mug of tea. Her stomach had revolted at the idea of eating the biscuits, but Ordo hadn’t touched the ones on her plate.
Now this; the Nulls seemed barely annoyed at being thwarted.
“Jaing, Mereel, go talk to her,” Ordo said, and moved away to an overstuffed armchair as soon as Mereel vacated it, leaning back and closing his eyes. The baby slept on. Etain reluctantly left Dar to join them, folding herself gracefully onto the floor. As if you’d need to be a mind-reader to see how out of her depth Thjuyera was.
“First things first,” said Mereel. “How long until your switch trips?”
“Can I have my headcowl back?” she tried, stalling for another precious second.
But he didn’t do anything to her. The two Nulls exchanged glances, and Mereel called out in the same language they’d been speaking in earlier. Sev produced it from a pouch, and held it out, briefly, before putting it down on the arm of her chair.
“You two don’t need to stay here for this,” said Mereel. Sev nodded, one sharp jerk of his chin, but Fi came over, helmet tucked under one arm.
“Nice to meet you, Ms Ral. I’m going to take Sev out dancing now, he’s a maniac on the floor.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re good biscuits. Don’t let Ordo talk you out of them. We’ll see you later.”
Sev snorted at him, affectionately. They left nearly soundlessly, despite their armour; maybe the hood hadn’t muffled as much as she’d thought.
“Your dead man’s switch,” said Mereel, almost idly except for the thin edge of frustration. One of his hands had dropped out of view.
“The first layers have already tripped,” she said, in a brittle rush. There, it was done. She was done. Down by her side, Etain started. The switch only cut Thjuyera out of the network; it protected the rest of the Whistlers, her friends and co-conspirators. No matter what she said, and in the end the Nulls could surely make her say nearly anything, her friends were safe. She was twisting in the wind, all by herself, and the Nulls had plenty of rope.
“What?” said Mereel, brought to a standstill.
“It’s behavioral,” said Jaing, abruptly. “The switch is shabla behavioral, and we tripped it - she never made it home.”
“Fierfek. I don’t know whether to murder you or marry you,” Mereel told Thjuyera, and if he didn’t know, she was completely lost. “Can you reset it from home? No, I haven’t forgotten about the duress code, Jan’ika,” this to an impatient movement from the other Null. “Can you?”
“Yes,” she said, voice thin. They still hadn’t hurt her. Whatever was in Mereel’s hand hadn’t been used to hurt her.
“Jaing can drive and I’ll explain on the way,” said Mereel, standing expectantly, flicking something out sight so fast she barely saw it, waiting for them to catch up. “Come on, Ms Ral. We don’t have a moment to waste.”
“Civvies?” asked Etain, gesturing at them.
“We’ll be more anonymous in armour. Dar, can you get her things? Atin will have put them somewhere.”
Thjuyera tucked on her headcowl with numb fingers, and left her boots unlaced. She stood, stiff with bruises and hours of tense waiting. Ordo’s breathing had evened out; he was either asleep or feigning it very well. The other Nulls dropped their kama and pauldrons and put their helmets back on. In their unmarked white armour, they were indistinguishable from any other clone on Coruscant.
“They don’t want to hurt you,” Etain told her, quietly. Thjuyera had heard that before, often just before someone had hurt her. Her disbelief must have been visible, or Etain had sensed something, because she continued. “Mereel and Jaing helped me. When I was pregnant. They don’t enjoy pain.”
It was a nice idea. Thjuyera didn’t argue. They didn’t have to enjoy it, as long as they could bring themselves to inflict it, and they could. It was ludicrous to think otherwise. But they hadn’t yet, and she ruthlessly stomped on a slow curl of hope.
“Chop chop, Ms Ral, your clock is ticking,” said Mereel, holding the door open for her. The last thing she heard as she left the room she’d thought she’d die in was Dar asking Etain if he could eat the biscuits she’d left behind.
