But now he would also be a grandfather, too; and she knew it would delight him. She had given Darman back his future. She closed her eyes and savored the new life within her, strong and strange and wonderful.

Qibbu's Hut, main bar, 1800 hours, 385 days after Geonosis

Ordo shouldered a space for himself at the bar table between Niner and Boss and helped himself to the container of juice.

Corr was showing Scorch a dangerous trick with a vibroblade that required lightning reflexes to withdraw his hand before the blade thudded into the surface of the table. Scorch seemed wary.

“But your hand's metal, you cheating di'kut,” he said. “I bleed.”

“Yaaah, jealous!” Corr jeered. His blade shaved Scorch's finger and went thunnkk in the table to cheers from Jusik and Darman. “You shiny boys always did envy us meat cans.”

The two squads seemed in good spirits, good enough to be telling long and elaborate jokes without the usual competitive edge of bravado between Sev and Fi. They had a task to complete in thirty hours and it seemed to have focused them completely, erasing all squad boundaries. It was what Ordo had expected. They were professionals; professionals put the job first. Anything less got you killed.

But now they were having fun. Ordo suspected it was the first time they'd ever let their hair down in an environment like this, because it was certainly a first for him. Skirata looked as happy as he had ever seen him. And Jusik sat among them, wearing of all things a chest plate of Mandalorian armor under his jacket.

“We presented it to Bard'ika as a souvenir,” Skirata said, rapping his knuckles on the plate. “In case we don't manage to have that fancy dinner.”

In case some of us are dead by the end of tomorrow.

That was what he meant, and everyone knew it. They lived with it. It just seemed the more poignant now for knowing that a rare bond had been formed between unlikely comrades: two Jedi who openly admitted they struggled with the disciplines of attachment—and Ordo was sure now that he understood that—and a very mixed bag of clone soldiers from captain to trooper who had abandoned rank to answer to a sergeant who didn't answer to anyone.

Fi, with his uncanny talent for spotting a mood, raised his glass. “Here's to Sicko.”

The mention of the pilot's name brought instant reverence to the noisy table.

“To Sicko,” they chorused.

There was no point grieving: settling a score with Separatists was a far more productive use of their energy. Jusik winked at Ordo, clearly happy in a way that reached beyond noisy laughter in a crowded bar. Whatever moat of serenity and separateness surrounded men like Zey, Jusik's had vanished—if he had ever had it. He was daring to feel part of a tight-knit group of men. Whatever brotherhood was like within the Jedi Order, it didn't appear to be like this.

Mereel, his hair rinsed clean to its natural black, was now holding court and reciting an astonishing list of obscenities in forty different languages. So far he hadn't repeated himself once. Fi was bent double over the table, roaring with laughter.

Even Niner was enjoying it, contributing the odd word of Huttese. “It's nice to know that your advanced linguistic skills were devoted to something useful.”

“Urpghurit,” Mereel said, deadpan.

“Disgusting,” said Fi.

“Baay shfat.”

“What does that mean?”

Mereel whispered a translation in Fi's ear and his face fell slightly. Mereel frowned. “Don't tell me you've never heard that one.”

“We were raised to be polite boys,” Fi said, clearly aghast. “Can Hutts really do that?”

“You better believe it.”

“I'm not sure I like civilian society,” Fi said. “I think I felt safer under fire.”

Coming from Fi, it would usually have been a joke. But like all his jokes, bitter reality lay not far beneath. Fi hadn't adjusted gracefully to the outside world. There was a moment of silence as reality intruded on all of them.

“I'll shoot you and cheer you up, then,” Sev said suddenly.

Everyone laughed again. Darman drained his glass and got up to go. Scorch flicked a warra nut at him with impressive accuracy, and it bounced off his head. “Where you going, Dar?”

“I'm off to calibrate my Deece.”

There was more raucous laughter. Darman didn't look amused. He shrugged and walked off in the direction of the turbolift through a crowd of men from the Forty-first Elite who were shipping out in a few days. At least they'd had something few troopers ever would: two weeks without fighting. They didn't appear to be enjoying it, though. Kal'buir said that was what happened when you let someone out of prison after a long sentence. They didn't fit in and they didn't know how to live outside a cell or without a familiar routine.

I know, though. And Fi wants to know.

“Don't wind him up about Etain, son,” said Skirata.

Scorch looked wary. “He's not breaking any regulation, is he?”

“I don't think so, but she is.”

The best thing was not to think.

“What happens to us when the war's over?” Corr asked.

Mereel smiled. “You'll have the thanks of a grateful Republic. Now, who can guess what this Ubese word means?”

Ordo glanced at Skirata, who raised his glass. Atin came to take Darman's place at the table with the Twi'lek Laseema on his arm: the man obviously wasn't as shy as he seemed. Except for Vau and Etain, the entire strike team had gathered here, and there was some sense of an important bond having been accomplished. It also felt very final.

“You and Mereel are up to something,” Skirata said. “I can tell.”

“He has news, Kal'buir,” Ordo said.

“Oh.”

Should he tell him now? He'd thought it might distract him too much. But he didn't need to provide detail. It would give Kal'buir heart for what was to come.

“He's traced where our mutual friend fled immediately after the battle.”

There was no need to say that the friend was Kaminoan scientist Ko Sai, the head of the cloning program, or that she had gone missing after the Battle of Kamino. The hunt—and it was a private matter, not Republic business, although the Grand Army footed the bill—was often reduced to just two words: Any news?

And if any of his other brothers—Prudii, A'den, Kom'rk, Jaing—found anything as well, Skirata would be told. They might have been carrying out intelligence missions for the Republic, but their true focus was finding elements of Kaminoan cloning technology that only Ko Sai had access to.

Skirata's face became luminous. It seemed to erase every crease and scar for a few moments.

“This is what I want to hear,” he said softly. “You will have a future, all of you. I swear it.”

Jusik was watching him with interest. There was no point trying to conceal anything of an emotional nature from Jedi as sensitive to the living Force as Jusik and Etain, but it was unlikely that Skirata had shared that secret with him. He hadn't even told his commando squads. It was too fragile a mission; it was safer for them all not to know for the time being.

Jusik raised his glass. It was just juice. Nobody would drink before a mission if they had any sense. Alcohol had proved not to be a major preoccupation with commandos anyway: and, whatever had been rumored, Kal'buir's only concession to alcohol was one glass of fiery colorless tihaar atnight to try to get to sleep. He found sleep increasingly elusive as the years of training progressed on Kamino and his conscience tore him apart piece by piece.

He'd sleep well without it tonight, even if it was in a chair.

“This is very, very good news,” Skirata said, a changed man for the moment. “I'd dare to say it bodes well.”