Uthan looked completely impassive, staring slightly past Hokan as if she was calculating something.

“I can remove the biomaterials and my staff,” she said at last. “The equipment can be replaced if needed. I won’t be able to continue working without a safe laboratory environ­ment, of course, but if you believe the project is at risk, then idle time is a better option than wasting three months’ work.”

What a splendidly sensible woman she was, almost Man­dalorian in her discipline and dedication. Hokan ushered the droid out. “How long?” he asked.

“Six hours, perhaps.”

“Is this material that dangerous?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Only if you’re a clone. If you’re not, it might simply make you unwell.”

“It must be strange to fight with weapons you can’t see.”

“War is about technology,” she said.

Hokan smiled politely and walked back out into the court­yard to stand in the dim light from the doorway. There was the first hint of chill on the night air; winter was coming, and the landscape would be much easier to patrol when the leaves had fallen. When the snows came, it would be even easier. But he suspected that this conflict was going to be a rapid one. Intelligence reports were starting to come in that the Republic was now fighting on hundreds of different fronts. Hundreds.

Their new army would have to be millions strong to achieve that dispersal. So they were all clones. Sad travesties of the great Jango Fett.

Well, he knew one thing. The Republic wouldn’t be sending clones to deal with this particular problem. They had to know the Separatists already had the one weapon that could stop them in their tracks. And this kind of operation was beyond the capacity of the docile infantry clones Uthan had described. This was not a game of numbers.

Hokan replaced his helmet and started visualizing the research facility as a trap. So they wanted to come and take a look, did they? He’d make them welcome.

“Droids, form up. Two ranks across this entrance.”

The droids moved as one, even in the darkness, and Hokan again admired their precision. Now they were a road sign pointing the way to the target, confirming what the Republic thought it knew. But they’d be wrong. They’d be sending their best men to a decoy.

War is about technology.

“No,” Hokan said aloud. The droids snapped to attention. “War isn’t even about firepower.” He tapped his temple. “It’s about applying your brains.” Then he touched his chest. “And it’s about courage.”

He didn’t expect the droids to understand that. Clones probably didn’t understand it, either.

The straw stank of something awful, but Darman was too exhausted to care. It looked like it might be soft enough to sink into. That was good enough for him.

But first he walked around the walls of the barn and checked for an exit if he needed one in an emergency. There were several loose boards in one wall that would do fine. The rickety building looked as if he could actually punch an es­cape hole through any fragile plank he chose.

Reassured, he dropped everything he was carrying and tried to sit on the bales, but it turned into more of an uncon­trolled slump. He didn’t even take his helmet off. He sat back and let out a breath.

The Padawan commander leaned over him. “Are you all right, Darman?” She held her hand out, palm down over him, as if she was going to touch him but didn’t.

“I’m fit to fight, Commander.” He started to sit up, and she held her hand in a slightly different gesture that clearly meant Stay where you are.

“I didn’t ask that,” she said. “I can feel you’re in some dis­tress. Tell me.”

It was an order. It came from a Jedi. “I injured my leg when I landed. Apart from that I’m just tired and a bit hun­gry.” Bit hungry? He was ravenous. “Nothing at all, Com­mander.”

“Landed?”

“I free-fell from a vessel.”

“With all that equipment?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You astound me.” He couldn’t tell if that was good or bad. “Two things, though. Please don’t call me Padawan or Commander–I don’t want to be recognized as a Jedi. And I’d rather be called Etain than ma’am.” She paused, no doubt thinking of some other failure on his part. “And please take your helmet off. It’s rather disturbing.”

So far Darman had met three Jedi and they all seemed to find him distracting in some way, with or without his helmet. All his life he had been taught that he and his brothers were created for the Jedi, to help them fight their enemies; he’d ex­pected some recognition of that bond, or at least an expres­sion of satisfaction. He removed his helmet and sat feeling confused, torn between the absolute clarity of his military expertise, and the confusion of dealing with the civilian world he had been thrust into for the first time.

The Padawan—no, Etain, she’d made her orders clear—took a small sphere out of her cloak and opened it in both hands. Layer after layer of holographic images spilled out of it, stacking neatly like plates.

“Plans,” she said. Her voice had changed completely. She radiated relief. “Plans of all the Separatist and Neimoidian buildings in this region. Floor plans, utility layouts, wiring diagrams, drainage, ducts, specifics on materials used—every detail of how the contractors built them. This is what you need, isn’t it? What you are looking for?”

Darman wasn’t tired anymore. He reached out and broke the beam of the projection, flipping a plan vertically so he could read it. He looked through them all and heard himself let out an involuntary breath.

Etain was right. It was nearly every bit of intelligence they needed, apart from more fluid details such as personnel num­bers and routines. With these plans they knew how to cut power to the buildings, where to insert nerve agents into air ducts or water supplies, and exactly what they would see and where they would have to go when they gained entry. The plans showed the construction of walls, doors, bulkheads, and windows, so they knew precisely what size of charge or type of ram would be needed to breach them. This was a set of clear instructions for achieving their objective.

But Etain didn’t seem to know that objective. “What are you going to do with this?” she asked.

“We’ve come to abduct Ovolot Qail Uthan and destroy her research facility,” Darman said. “She’s developing a nanovirus intended to kill clones.”

Etain leaned closer. “Clones?”

“I’m a clone. The whole Grand Army is composed of clones, millions of us, all commanded by Jedi generals.”

Her face was a study in blank surprise. It was also fasci­nating in a way he couldn’t define. He had never seen a human female this close, this real. He was astonished by the dappling of small brown dots across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks, and the different strands of colors in her long, unkempt hair—light browns, golds, even reds. And she was as thin as the locals. He could see blue veins in the backs of her hands, and she smelled different from anyone he’d ever shared space with. He wasn’t sure if she was pretty or downright ugly. He just knew she was utterly alien and ut­terly fascinating, as alien as a gdan or a Gurlanin. It was al­most stopping him from concentrating on the job.

“All like you?” she said at last, blinking rapidly. She seemed unsettled by his scrutiny. “What have I said?”

“No ma’am—sorry, Etain. I’m a commando. We’re trained differently. Some people say… that we’re eccentric. I realize you haven’t received much by way of intelligence.”

“All I knew—all my Master would tell me—was that Uthan was here and that the plans were critical to the Repub­lic’s safety. Clones didn’t come into the conversation.” She was staring at him just as Jusik had. “There’s an old woman who told me you were coming, but she didn’t tell me much else. How many of there are you on Qiilura now?”