“Fierfek.” Jango sighed. “Put it down, kid.”
But the lad wasn’t about to stand down. He stood right in front of Skirata, utterly calm, blaster raised at the perfect angle, fingers placed just so with the left hand steadying the right, totally focused. And deadly serious.
Skirata felt his jaw drop a good centimeter. Jango froze, then chuckled.
“I reckon that proves my point,” he said, but he still had his eyes fixed on the tiny assassin.
The kid clicked the safety catch. He seemed to be checking it was off
“It’s okay, son,” Skirata said, as gently as he could. He didn’t much care if the boy fried the Kaminoan, but he cared about the consequences for the kid. And he was instantly and totally proud of him-of all of them. “You don’t need to shoot. I’m not going to let him touch any of you. Just give me back the blaster.”
The child didn’t budge; the blaster didn’t waver. He should have been more concerned about cuddly toys than a clean shot at this stage in his young life. Skirata squatted down slowly behind him, trying not to spook him into firing.
But if the boy had his back to him … then he trusted him, didn’t he?
“Come on … just put it down, there’s a good lad. Now give me the blaster.” He kept his voice as soft and level as he could, when he was actually torn between cheering and doing the job himself. “You’re safe, I promise you.”
The boy paused, eyes and aim still both fixed on Orun Wa. “Yes sir.” Then he lowered the weapon to his side. Skirata put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and pulled him back carefully.
“Good lad.” Skirata took the blaster from his little fingers and scooped him up in his arms. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Nicely done, too.”
The Kaminoan showed no anger whatsoever, simply blinking, yellow, detached disappointment. “If that does not demonstrate their instability, then-“
“They’re coming with me.”
“This is not your decision.”
“No, it’s mine,” Jango interrupted. “And they’ve got the right stuff. Kal, get them out of here and I’ll settle this with Orun Wa.”
Skirata limped toward the door, still making sure he was between the Kaminoan and the kids. He was halfway down the corridor with his bizarre escort of tiny deviants before the boy he was carrying wriggled uncomfortably in his arms.
“I can walk, sir:’ he said.
He was perfectly articulate, fluent-a little soldier way beyond his years.
“Okay, son.”
Skirata lowered him to the floor and the kids fell in behind him, oddly quiet and disciplined. They didn’t strike him as dangerous or deviant, unless you counted stealing a weapon, pulling a feint, and almost shooting a Kaminoan as deviant. Skirata didn’t.
The kids were just trying to survive, like any soldier had a duty to do.
And they looked four or five years old, but Orun Wa had definitely said they were two. Skirata suddenly wanted to ask them how long they’d spent in those awful suffocating transparisteel vats, cold hard tanks that were nothing like the dark comfort of a womb. It must have been like drowning. Could they see each other as they floated? Had they understood what was happening to them?
Skirata reached the doors of his stark quarters and ushered them in, trying not to dwell on those thoughts.
The boys lined up against the wall automatically, hands clasped behind their backs, and waited without being told to.
I brought up two sons. How hard can it be to mind six kids for a few days?
Skirata waited for them to react but they simply stared back at him as if expecting orders. He had none. Rain lashed the window that ran the whole width of the wall. Lightning flared. They all flinched.
But they still stood in silence.
“Tell you what,” Skirata said, bewildered. He pointed to the couch. “You sit down over there and I’ll get you something to eat. Okay?”
They paused and then scrambled onto the couch, huddling together again. He found them so utterly disarming that he had to make a rapid exit to the kitchen area to gather his thoughts while he slapped uj cake onto a plate and sliced it roughly into six pieces. If this was how it was going to be for-for years … .
You’re stuck, chum.
You took the credits.
And this is your whole world for the foreseeable future… and maybe forever.
It never stopped raining. And he was holed up with a species he loathed on sight, and who thought it was okay to dispose of units who happened to be living, talking, walking children. He raked his fingers through his hair and despaired, eyes closed, until he was suddenly aware of someone staring up at him.
“Sir?” the boy said. It was the courageous little marksman. He might have been identical to his brothers, but his mannerisms were distinctive. He had a habit of balling one fist at his side while the other hand was relaxed. “May we use the ‘freshers?”