It wasn't subtle, but Darman obviously didn't think anyone else had noticed what was going on between them. He probably thought Skirata wanted to discuss the unsavory side of interrogation with her.

Skirata sat down next to Etain on the rickety bench against the landing platform wall. It was late afternoon and the air smelled of hot speeder drives and the powdery sweet scent of a solitary mayla vine that had taken root in a crack in the permacrete. Etain folded her hands in the lap of her pale blue tunic. Without the dull brown robes she didn't look like a Jedi at all.

“You and Darman,” Skirata said carefully.

She closed her eyes for a second. “He told you, then. I suppose he tells you everything.”

“Not a word. But I'm not stupid.” It was amazing how easily people told you things when you didn't even ask a question. Perhaps she actually wanted people to know. But it seemed Darman didn't, and he had a right to keep what little privacy he had. “I heard the squad's comments after Qiilura.”

“Are you telling me to stop?”

“No, I'm asking where this is heading.”

“Are you going to tell him to stop?”

“Not if you make him happy.” Skirata trod carefully, but he knew where he drew the line and whose interests he would put first, war or not. “See, I know that much about Jedi. You can't love.”

“We're not supposed to. But we sometimes do. I do.”

“You're serious about him, then.”

“I never stopped thinking about him after Qiilura.”

“Have you really worked this out?”

“That I'll outlive him? Women outlive their men all the time. That I might be thrown out of the Jedi Order? As prices go, that's worth paying.”

“Etain, he's more vulnerable than you think. He's a grown man and he's a killing machine, but he's a kid, too. Crying over girlfriends can be dangerously distracting for him and the whole squad.”

“I know that.”

“I'd hate to see him used. If you're going to carry on with this, you'd better mean it.” He paused to make sure she understood what he was saying. “You know I'll protect him come what may, don't you?”

Etain's lips parted slightly and her cheeks looked suddenly pink. Her gaze flickered slightly. “I want him to be happy, Kal. I'd never use him.”

“I'm glad we agree,” he said.

Threatening a Jedi general was probably a court-martial offense. Skirata didn't care. Darman and his last remaining sons came before everything, before the needs of a likable young Jedi, before even his own life—and certainly before the interests of the Republic's politics.

It was a matter of honor, and love.

But Etain would give Darman a little comfort and tenderness in his life that would tide him through the dark and inevitable days ahead, days that for him and his brothers were already destined to be limited.

Skirata would just have to keep an eye on the situation. “Make him happy, then, ad'ika,” he said. “Just make him happy.”

* * *

Qibbu's Hut, 2100

The sign above the 'freshers read PATRONS PLEASE OBSERVE THE NO WEAPONS RULE. But although it was written in five languages as well as Basic, most of the patrons appeared not to understand it.

Ordo slipped among the motley assortment of drinkers and gamblers, now diluted considerably by a sea of dark red GAR fatigues, and hoped none of the species here were scent-followers. That was the trouble with some explosives. They had a distinctive smell. He'd scrubbed himself as thoroughly as he could and changed into the ubiquitous red fatigues as well.

Laseema, the Twi'lek female who had fled from the kitchens when he found her cowering behind a table, smiled nervously at him across the bar. By the time he reached it, she had his favorite muja juice waiting for him without the prompt of his distinctive armor.

“How do you know I'm me?” he said, puzzled. “I could be any clone.”

“The way you hold yourself.” She had a very soft voice, and he had to strain to hear her in the noisy bar. “You stand as if you're still wearing that skirt.”

“Kama,” he said patiently. “Belt-spat. It's based on a traditional Mandalorian hunting kama. It was designed to protect your legs.” Yes, the pauldron and kama did tend to make him stand more upright out of habit, his back a little arched. He'd have to watch that if he wanted to pass for an ordinary clone trooper. “But it's just for show now.”

“Ah,” she said. “It's certainly very showy.”

Ordo was getting used to the attention of Twi'lek females, and he rather liked it. “Is Qibbu treating you properly?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Laseema sounded as if she really was grateful. She leaned forward a little. He was still taken aback by the vivid blue of her skin, but he was willing to get used to it. She had a little scar on the point of her chin that was turquoise and more decorative than disfiguring. “Is your friend a captain?”

She glanced sideways and Ordo followed her gaze to Omega Squad and Skirata, who were eating something unidentifiable and occasionally lifting a lump of it on a fork to inspect it communally with worried frowns. “The one with the scar. He's nice.”

“That's Atin,” Ordo said, crushed. Oh. “He's … not a captain. He's a private.” The vast majority of the army was made up of privates: it wasn't restricted information. Atin glanced up with that unerring soldier's sense of knowing when someone was targeting you. He managed a shy smile. “Yes, he's very reliable.”

“He's got a lot of scars. Has he been in many battles?”

Oh, she really had been studying Atin carefully: apart from the thin diagonal scar across his face, the rest were harder to spot, just a couple on his hands and one telltale line that was visible above the neckline of his red tunic.

“Yes,” Ordo said. “They've all been in quite a few battles.”

“Poor Atin,” she said, looking smitten. “I'll bring your meal over in a moment.”

He forced a smile as Kal'buir had taught him, picked up his glass, and went to join Omega's table.

“What d'you reckon this is, Ordo?” Darman said. He held his fork so that Ordo could inspect the object skewered on it.

“A tube of some sort.”

“That's what we were afraid of.”

“It's all protein.” Ordo stared at Atin. “Laseema has taken a fancy to you, ner vod.”

There was no jeering or barracking as Ordo had seen ordinary males do at the mention of females. The squad simply sat in silence for a moment and then resumed their debate on the anatomical content of Qibbu's dish of the day. Skirata got up and moved along the bench to sit next to him.

“Successful shopping trip?”

“I have everything on the list now. Sorry for the delay. And I have a few extras.”

“How extra?”

“Surprising extras. Very noisy, too.”

Laseema glided up to the table and placed a dish in front of Ordo. She smiled at Atin before making her way back to the bar. Ordo picked up his fork to eat, and the squad studied his plate intently.

“But that's all vegetables,” Niner said accusingly.

“Of course it is,” Ordo said. “My intelligence score is at least thirty-five percent higher than yours.”

It happened to be true. Skirata laughed. Ordo cleared his plate as fast as he could and then indicated the turbolift. Skirata followed him up to their rooms, where Delta Squad sat cleaning their DC-17s.

“Just dusting,” Fixer said, subtle as a bantha.

“Dust away,” Skirata said. “They'll see action soon enough. So, Ordo, what did you get?”

“A hundred kilos of thermal plastoid plus five thousand detonators.”

Even Scorch looked up from his dismantled rifle at the mention of that. “That's a lot of ordnance to make disappear without anyone noticing, let alone store it.”