“How many shifts?”

“Three per daily roster, sir.”

“I might need to ask you to do something for me, Corr.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“But when I do, it will be classified and you're to discuss it with nobody, not even your supervisor. It will be part of a routine fraud audit, that's all, and that's why I need your silence.” Did it matter if he told him his name? Only the special forces inner circle knew who he was anyway. “My name is … Ordo. Mention that to nobody.”

“Yes sir. Understood.”

Ordo wanted to tell him that he understood his loneliness among strangers and his need to be back with his brothers at the front, doing real work. But he could tell him nothing. He ushered him back into the operations room, noted the lovely and apparently genuine smile that Supervisor Wennen gave him, and paused on his way out to break into the automated comlink relay and place a monitoring device.

Poor Corr. Ordo patted the sentry droid on the head and strode to his parked speeder.

Yes, I know how the Kaminoans did it. They used our genes against us, the ones that make us bond with our brothers, make us loyal, make us respect and obey our fathers—that's what they manipulated to make us more likely to obey orders. They had to remove what made Jango a selfish loner, because that makes a bad infantry soldier, and you can tell from the Alpha ARCS that the Kaminoans weren't wrong. But there's one thing I don't know yet—and that's how they controlled the aging process. That's the key. They robbed us of a full life span. But we will not be defeated by time, ner vod.

–ARC Trooper Lieutenant N-7—Mereel—in an encrypted transmission to N-11, Ordo

Republic Administration, Senate Head of Public Affairs Office, floor 391, Support Services Center, 370 days after Geonosis

Mar Rugeyan's office was very near the top floor of the administration building and had a view that some Senators would have killed for. Ordo wondered how Rugeyan did his killing—metaphorically, anyway—because he had the air of a man who would terminate anyone in his way without a second thought.

It was a long way down. Ordo tucked his helmet under his arm and admired the steady stream of speeders in the sky-lanes below.

“It's been a while,” Rugeyan said, perfectly pleasant. “I never imagined I might be in a position to be any help to you.”

The subtle threat wasn't lost on Skirata, at least if his blink rate was anything to go by. “I appreciated your assistance during the siege. You remember my captain, don't you? Captain Ordo? Sir, can Mr. Rugeyan offer you anything to drink?”

“A glass of juice would be very welcome, thank you.” Skirata was indeed inferior in rank, but it always made Ordo uncomfortable to hear Kal'buir call him sir. “We were wondering if you might be able to advise us.”

Rugeyan betrayed no discomfort whatsoever at talking to a clone. “Happy to help, Captain.” He tapped something on his desk. “Refreshments, please, Jayl. Juice and some cakes.” He smiled. “But what could I advise you upon? You seem to have your public image pretty well honed. Smart, efficient, and noble. You can't buy an image like that.”

“We feel that our troops should have a little more comfort in life and we're aware how much weight your advice carries with key members of the Defense Department,” said Ordo.

“Ah.” Rugeyan's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Quite right, too. What do you want out of this, then?”

“Leave.”

“More of it?”

“Any of it. They don't get leave. Any downtime is spent in barracks or in training.”

“Oh.”

“You didn't know that?”

“No, frankly, I didn't. I never asked.” Rugeyan actually seemed surprised, or at least he was feigning it very well. “But that's a command decision. They won't bend easily to public servants like me.”

Ordo took a glass of brilliant emerald juice handed to him by Rugeyan's young female assistant, who simply stared, eyes scanning him. Kal'buir was right: Civilians never saw clone soldiers face-to-face.

It almost threw him off track. “In strategic terms, the temporary withdrawal of a few thousand troops from the front line makes very little difference,” he said. “But I'm sure you know that warfare isn't all about big bangs. There's another front, and that's here.” Ordo tapped his temple. “Visible troops around Coruscant. Good for public confidence right now, with the constant threat of terror attacks. And good for our men.”

Rugeyan toyed with a cake studded with chunks of glistening red and purple fruit. “I admit that the Senate would like some positive results on the terror attacks. It's making the administration look helpless. Much as I respect our colleagues in the CSF, they're not making much progress, are they?”

Skirata cut in. “But if they did, it would be very timely, wouldn't it? And I'm sure that you'd be told about it right away.”

This was the interesting thing about Skirata. He could speak around corners. He was an articulate self-educated man, and that always came as a surprise to outsiders. Jusik fell for the rough-diamond act all too often, but Vau wasn't the only Mando with a razor-sharp mind and a fine line in rhetoric. Skirata could switch from Mando hard man to politician without a visible change of gear.

Ordo found every conversation an education.

“I always appreciate information,” Rugeyan said. “Especially when I know it'll serve some real purpose.”

“So,” Ordo said, and drained his glass. The assistant popped in again as if she'd been staking out the office and refilled it. “We have two battalions of the Forty-first Elite back in barracks and an assault ship's crew waiting on a refit. If someone could come up with the idea of an extended leave with the men allowed and encouraged to go off base, I think everyone would benefit. And maybe some credits to spend, because they don't get paid. A nice feel good story for the media.”

Rugeyan's expression flickered briefly from professional neutrality to surprise and then back again. “Never even thought of that, you know. So is this going to involve your men? The RCs?”

Rugeyan pronounced it Arr-Sees, like a soldier would. It was internal jargon and not for outsiders. Skirata blinked for a second, and then shifted down a gear into Mando mercenary again, albeit it one in a better mood than usual.

“They're not RCs. Arr-See sounds like a droid to the public. My boys are men. So please refer to them as Republic Commandos, not just commandos, and the other forces as troopers, or by their rank.” He slurped his caf enthusiastically. “Words like RCs, cannon fodder, grunts, gropos, squad-dies, pongoes, meat cans, white jobs, or even shiny boys create the wrong impression. Terminology is everything, I find.”

Rugeyan was actually making notes on a sheet of flimsi. He took no offense at all, not visibly anyway.

“Very useful,” he said. “Leave this to me.”

“And I'm sure Captain Obrim has your comlink code at the very top of his list, should there be any good news for you.”

Skirata smiled and looked as if he meant it. Ordo nursed his glass, leaving a little juice at the bottom to fend off more instant attention from Rugeyan's assistant.

“An inevitable fact of life is that some of us are doomed to do the dirty thankless work in the shadows while someone else gets the headlines,” Rugeyan said.

“Headlines can be overrated,” said Skirata. “The captain has another meeting to attend, but thank you for your time.”

It was all very civilized: another coded conversation where the unspeakable had somehow been spoken.