[Republic Commando] - 02(39)

“Er … I’ve been assessing our requirements.” He cleared his plate again, and Skirata slid his unwanted eggs onto the man’s plate and watched them disappear. “Kit is an issue. We need to discuss this before you see Zey. This is going to take some serious resources-vehicles, safe houses, special surveillance equipment, and ordnance?’

Skirata had been doing the calculations at the same time Ordo had.

They’d need two squads, at least, and a couple of Nulls. But two squads of Republic Commandos in their distinctively bulky, bad-boy Katarn Mark III kit and Ordo and Mereel in their spectacular red and blue would be noticeable as unusual activity.

They might need to wear that armor sooner or later, even if they could be deployed in civilian clothing the rest of the time.

Skirata chewed the last overdone piece of smoked nerf he saved the delectable crunchy bits for last-and a solution blossomed as his jaw worked.

Hide in plain sight.

He was good at that. He could become so mundane-unkempt hair, scruffy clothing-that he was almost invisible. And so could his lads, by being the opposite.

All they had to do was be one of a number of clone personnel wandering around Coruscant in full armor. And if occasionally they took off that armor and went about in fatigues, then who would really recognize them as individuals?

They all looked the same to most people, other than a few Jedi who cared about them as men, and their own brothers.

Skirata considered it a very productive working breakfast.

He opened his comlink and keyed a meeting request to General Zey. Then he leaned across the table, seized Ordo two-handed by his shoulder pauldron, and gave him a noisy and exaggerated paternal kiss on the top of his head.

“Sorted!” he said. “Plain sight!”

The Twi’lek waitress watched, fascinated. “Hey, can I try that, too?”

“He’s just a boy,” Skirata said, and left her a very generous tip. Ordo got up to follow him, pocketing a couple of mealbread sticks for later. “My son.”

RAS Fearless hangar deck

“Good grief, here comes the armored division,” said Commander Gett. He strode toward the Neimoidian vessel. Its casing was streaked and pocked with scorch marks. “RCs look like tanks, don’t they?”

Republic Commandos did look fearsomely bulky alongside the clone troopers. The first four to clamber out of the seized Trade Federation craft were a riot of color, their battered armor daubed with green, yellow, red, and orange markings.

The second squad was armored in matte black, utterly featureless and grim. But Etain knew instantly who they were and which man was which. She needed no battle livery to distinguish them: their forms in the Force were almost like trails of phosphorescence in a tropical ocean, and they were instantly familiar, instantly old friends.

I was only with them for a few days and I haven’t seen or talked to them for months. But it’s as if we were never apart.

Fi-oh yes, she knew it was Fi even before he spoke-saluted, lifted his helmet, and winked.

“Ma’am, you look like the back end of a bantha,” he said sympathetically. “Are they looking after you properly here?”

“Fi!” She knew she was supposed to remain dignified and aloof, and she’d felt comradeship with many clone troopers in the intervening months, but her first reluctant command with Omega had utterly changed her. “Fi, I’ve really missed you. What happened to the gray armor?”

“You know how much Dar griped about being too visible on Qiilura. Anyway, he’s brought you a present.” He gestured over his shoulder. Darman was helping a group of troopers haul the prisoners out of the Neimoidian landing craft while

Gett examined it. “They’re all in one piece, too. We’ve been really good boys this time.”

Delta Squad had simply disappeared. When Etain looked around, she saw they had settled in a tight knot in a corner of the hangar deck, helmets on, obviously talking intently. She knew the body language now. They didn’t feel like Omega in the Force at all. They were a concentrated well, a bottomless pool of something unyielding, and totally enmeshed with each other. The general impression they made on the Force was one of triumphant high spirits.

Niner and Atin approached and clasped hands with her. It didn’t feel at all inappropriate. They looked tired and anxious, and she wanted very badly to make things right for them. They were her friends.

“I bet you’d like something to eat,” she said.

“Any chance of a hot shower and a few hours’ sleep first, please, General?” Niner looked apologetic and shoved Fi gently in the back. “Me first. I’m pulling rank.”

“He’s not really a sergeant, General,” said Fi. “He just helps them out when they’re busy.”