“Is that how you feel?”
“That stalking out and refusing to lead them is more for my comfort than theirs?”
He lowered his head on his folded arms for a moment. “Well, that answers my question.”
As a Jedi, Etain had never known a real father any more than a clone had, but in that moment she knew exactly who she wanted him to be. She moved closer to Skirata to let her arm drape on his shoulder and rested her head against his. A tear welled up in the wrinkled corner of his eye then spilled down his cheek, and she wiped it away with her sleeve. He managed a smile even though he kept his gaze fixed on the traffic far below.
“You’re a good man and a good father,” she said. “You should never doubt that for a moment. Your men don’t, and neither do I.”
“Well, I wasn’t a good father until they made one out of me.”
But now he would also be a grandfather, too; and she knew it would delight him. She had given Darman back his future. She closed her eyes and savored the new life within her, strong and strange and wonderful.
Qibbu’s Hut, main bar, 1800 hours, 385 days after Geonosis
Ordo shouldered a space for himself at the bar table between Niner and Boss and helped himself to the container of juice.
Corr was showing Scorch a dangerous trick with a vibroblade that required lightning reflexes to withdraw his hand before the blade thudded into the surface of the table. Scorch seemed wary.
“But your hand’s metal, you cheating di’kut,” he said. “I bleed.”
“Yaaah, jealous!” Corr jeered. His blade shaved Scorch’s finger and went thunnkk in the table to cheers from Jusik and Darman. “You shiny boys always did envy us meat cans.”
The two squads seemed in good spirits, good enough to be telling long and elaborate jokes without the usual competitive edge of bravado between Sev and Fi. They had a task to complete in thirty hours and it seemed to have focused them completely, erasing all squad boundaries. It was what Ordo had expected. They were professionals; professionals put the job first. Anything less got you killed.
But now they were having fun. Ordo suspected it was the first time they’d ever let their hair down in an environment like this, because it was certainly a first for him. Skirata looked as happy as he had ever seen him. And Jusik sat among them, wearing of all things a chest plate of Mandalorian armor under his jacket.
“We presented it to Bard ‘ika as a souvenir,” Skirata said, rapping his knuckles on the plate. “In case we don’t manage to have that fancy dinner.”
In case some of us are dead by the end of tomorrow.
That was what he meant, and everyone knew it. They lived with it. It just seemed the more poignant now for knowing that a rare bond had been formed between unlikely comrades: two Jedi who openly admitted they struggled with the disciplines of attachment-and Ordo was sure now that he understood that-and a very mixed bag of clone soldiers from captain to trooper who had abandoned rank to answer to a sergeant who didn’t answer to anyone.
Fi, with his uncanny talent for spotting a mood, raised his glass. “Here’s to Sicko.”
The mention of the pilot’s name brought instant reverence to the noisy table.
“To Sicko,” they chorused.
There was no point grieving: settling a score with Separatists was a far more productive use of their energy. Jusik winked at Ordo, clearly happy in a way that reached beyond noisy laughter in a crowded bar. Whatever moat of serenity and separateness surrounded men like Zey, Jusik’s had vanished-if he had ever had it. He was daring to feel part of a tight-knit group of men. Whatever brotherhood was like within the Jedi Order, it didn’t appear to be like this.
Mereel, his hair rinsed clean to its natural black, was now holding court and reciting an astonishing list of obscenities in forty different languages. So far he hadn’t repeated himself once. Fi was bent double over the table, roaring with laughter.
Even Niner was enjoying it, contributing the odd word of Huttese. “It’s nice to know that your advanced linguistic skills were devoted to something useful.”
“Urpghurit,” Mereel said, deadpan.
“Disgusting,” said Fi.
“Baay shfat”
“What does that mean?”
Mereel whispered a translation in Fi’s ear and his face fell slightly. Mereel frowned. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard that one.”
“We were raised to be polite boys,” Fi said, clearly aghast. “Can Hutts really do that?”
“You better believe it.”
“I’m not sure I like civilian society,” Fi said. “I think I felt safer under fire.”
Coming from Fi, it would usually have been a joke. But like all his jokes, bitter reality lay not far beneath. Fi hadn’t adjusted gracefully to the outside world. There was a moment of silence as reality intruded on all of them.