[Republic Commando] - 02(145)
Ordo wasn’t quite as focused as he should have been. Maybe his mind was still on where lovely Besany Wennen might be. Whatever the reason, as Fi turned right, fists clenched, arms at shoulder height, ready to beat the rhythm on Niner’s back plate, he saw and heard Maze’s fist connect with Ordo’s chin.
Ordo carried on, blood weeping from his lip, refusing to break the rhythm. You didn’t stop if you got hit. You carried on.
Gra-‘tua-cuun-hett-su-dralshya!
Kom-‘rk-tsad-drot-en-t-roch-nyn-ures-adenn!
The line of commandos turned ninety degrees left, hammering the rhythm, and then right again, and Maze hit Ordo neatly and-Fi had to admit it-elegantly in the mouth again without losing the beat. Blood splashed on Ordo’s pristine white chest plate. Fi waited for the encounter to erupt in a fight, but the chant finished without incident and Ordo simply wiped his mouth on the palm of his glove.
“Sorry, ner vod,” Maze said, smiling with genuine amusement. “You know how clumsy we ordinary ARC troopers are. We make lousy dancers.”
Fi held his breath. He was ready to back Ordo up against Maze; Ordo was his friend. And Fi also knew that he was utterly unpredictable and totally unafraid of violence.
Ordo merely shrugged, held out his arm, and the two ARC captains shook hands and went to the bar. Skirata watched them carefully and smiled.
All ARCs were crazy. Sometimes Fi was grateful that he’d had the most volatile bits of Jango removed from his genes.
Skirata sat down on a bar stool and wiped sweat from his lined forehead with the palm of his hand.
“I’m not getting any younger,” he said, catching his breath, and laughed. “I’ll be black and blue in the morning. Shouldn’t try that without body armor.”
“You could have dipped out after a few minutes,” Fi said. He handed him a cloth. “We wouldn’t have minded.”
“But I would have. I can’t ask a man to do what I can’t or won’t do myself.”
“You never have.” Fi noted that a small silence had formed around the doorway-and its cause was Besany Wennen.
She walked in, looking around, then spotted Ordo and went over to him.
“I’m going out on the balcony to get some air,” Skirata said.
The last thing Fi saw before Obrim led him away to meet some officers who were very keen to buy him more drinks was Besany Wennen dabbing at Ordo’s split lip with a handkerchief and berating a visibly surprised Captain Maze.
“Hello,” Skirata said. “I didn’t realize you were out here, ad’ika.”
Etain looked up. She had been peering over the balcony at the lane upon lane of airspeeder traffic below. Nightscapes on Coruscant were as entertaining as a holovid. “It’s too noisy for me in there. You look like you’ve been having fun.”
Skirata joined her and rested folded arms on the safety rail. “Been showing CSF the Dha Werda.”
“I bet that was painful.” He seemed a fundamentally good man. She adored him, even if he scared her sometimes. “It’s good to see everyone relaxing. It’s been tough, hasn’t it?”
“We did it, though. All of us. You too, ad’ika. Well done.”
She was blissfully certain of life now. She felt good. She was also certain that Skirata was a man who understood love and the risks people would take to make those they loved happy. He defied generals and anyone who stood in his way to make sure his soldiers-his sons, for that was what they were-got what was rightfully theirs.
There was no reason not to tell him her wonderful news. She should have told Darman first, but she wasn’t quite sure how. And-anyway-Skirata was Kal’buir. He was everyone’s father.
“Thank you for being so understanding about me and Dar,” she said.
Skirata rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry for lecturing you. I’m very protective of them all. But you’re both happy, and I’m glad to see that.”
“I hope you’ll be glad that I’m having a baby, then.” There was a moment’s silence.
“What?” said Skirata.
“I’m pregnant.”
She watched his face harden. “Pregnant?”
She hadn’t expected that. An unpleasant coldness spread up from her stomach into her chest.
“Whose is it?” Skirata asked. His voice was level, controlled, distant. It was a mercenary’s voice.
That hurt. “Darman’s, of course.”
“He doesn’t know, then. He’d have told me if he did.”
“No, I haven’t told him.”
“Why?”
“How could he cope with that? It’s hard enough for a normal-“
“He’s not abnormal. He’s what you people made him.”