She wanted to ask him how he achieved that balance. They had both been raised in complete isolation from the everyday world, with their own set of values and disciplines, not because they had been chosen to be different but because they had been born that way. Their calling was random, genetic—unfair. He’d obviously succeeded brilliantly; she had failed in equal measure. She let the sensation of his clarity wash over her.
It was almost soothing. Then it was suddenly gone and a wave of pure exhilaration hit her like a body blow. Darman thrust his head through the entrance to the shelter.
“They’re coming,” he said. “My squad’s on its way.” He paused as if he was listening to something, his glove held against the side of his helmet. It was odd to watch someone so obviously delighted without having the slightest idea of his facial expression. “An hour or so. Niner’s taken out the comm station at Teklet. Fi and Atin have acquired a bit more gear that’ll come in handy. Plus a prisoner.” He paused again. His head was moving as if he was talking. He appeared to be able to switch back and forth between being audible and inaudible to her, as if his helmet was a separate environment into which he could retreat at will. “A Weequay, of all things. Oh well, they’ve got their reasons.”
He was utterly still for a few moments before nodding vigorously. He eased off his helmet and his face was one broad grin, aimed at nothing in particular.
“They’re all right, I take it,” Etain said.
“They’re fine.”
“I’m glad. You’re brothers, right?”
“No, not really.”
“All right, you’re clones.”
“They’re not my original squad,” Darman said. His expression was still all delight and good humor. “My brothers were all killed at the battle of Geonosis, and so were theirs. We didn’t even know each other before this mission. But three of us had the same training sergeant, so I suppose we feel like family. Except Atin, of course.”
It was an extraordinary statement. Darman showed not the slightest sign of being wounded by his recent loss. Etain knew little of biological families, but she knew that losing Master Fulier would still hurt badly in three months’ time, and even in three years. Perhaps they’d bred grief out of clones, too.
“You don’t miss your brothers, then.”
Darman’s grin slowly relaxed. “Of course I do,” he said quietly. “Every day.”
“You seem to be taking it… calmly.”
“We know we’re likely to get killed. If we dwell on that, we won’t be any use to anyone. You just get on with it, that’s what our old training sergeant used to say. We’re all going to die sometime, so you might as well die pushing the odds for something that matters.”
Etain wanted to ask him what mattered to him about the Republic’s cause. She was almost afraid to, but she needed to know.
“What do you think you’re fighting for, Darman?”
He looked blank for a moment. “Peace, ma’am.”
“Okay, what do you think you’re fighting against?”
“Anarchy and injustice.” It was a rote response, but he paused as if considering it for the first time. “Even if people aren’t grateful.”
“That sounds like your training sergeant, too.”
“He wasn’t wrong, though, was he?”
Etain thought of the locals who had betrayed them to Hokan’s men. Yes, she’d learned a lot about the reality of conflict in the last few weeks. But it still wasn’t enough.
“It’s getting light,” Darman said. He sat down cross-legged in the hide, armor plates clacking against something. “You look cold. Need any more painkillers?”
Etain had achieved a consistent level of dampness and pain that she could live with. She was too tired to think of doing anything else. She’d even stopped noticing the persistent odor of wet merlie wool. “I’m okay.”
“If we light a fire we’ll be a magnet for half the Separatist army.” He rummaged in his belt and held out a ration cube to her, still that incongruous amalgam of fresh naivete and utterly clinical killer. She shook her head. He pulled out a bag. “Dried kuvara?”
She realized from the way he had put the fruit carefully in his belt and not in his pack that he prized it. He lived on rations with all the taste appeal of rancid mott hide. The sacrifice was rather touching; she’d have plenty of time to gorge herself on the galaxy’s varied foods, provided she got off Qiilura alive, but Darman wouldn’t. She managed a smile and waved it away. “No. Eat up. That’s an order.”
He didn’t need encouraging. He chewed with his eyes closed and she felt desperately sorry for him; yet a little envious of his delight in ordinary things.
“I know a good way to warm up,” he said, and opened his eyes.
Etain bristled. Maybe he wasn’t as naive as he seemed. “You do?”
“If you’re feeling up to it.”
“Up to what ?”
Darman made a wait-and-see gesture with one raised finger and got up to go outside. No, Etain thought, he wouldn’t have meant that at all. She was suddenly embarrassed that she’d even imagined he might. She stared at the backs of her hands, suddenly appalled at their abrasions and broken nails and general ugliness. A roughly trimmed pole was thrust into the shelter. She jumped. She didn’t need any more surprises.
“If that’s supposed to be funny, Darman, I’m not laughing.”
“Come on, commander.” He peered down the length of the pole. “Lightsaber drill. Let’s do it now before you have to for real.”
“I just want to rest.”
“I know.” He squatted down and stared at her. “I don’t know much about swords, either, but I’m trained in hand-to-hand combat.”
He didn’t move. His persistence annoyed her. Actually, it suddenly angered her; she’d had enough. She was exhausted, and she wanted to sit numbly and do absolutely nothing. She jumped to her feet, snatched the pole, and ran at him.
He sidestepped her, but only just.
“Relatively safe way to perfect your lightsaber skills,” Darman said.
“Relatively?” She held the pole two-handed, furious.
“Relatively,” Darman said, and brought his own mock lightsaber around sharply on her shin.
“Ow! You—”
“Come on. Do your worst.” Darman leapt back out of the range of a savage and uncontrolled lunge. “That’s it. Come at me.”
That was the point at which she always stumbled—the fine line between giving maximum effort and being blinded by angry violence. You have to mean it. It’s not a game anymore. She came at him with a two-handed sweep from right to left, cracking hard against his weapon and feeling the impact in her wrists and elbows, forcing Darman onto his back foot. Three more rapid sweeps, right, right, left—and then one immediately downwards, unexpected, hitting him so hard between neck and shoulder that if the pole had been a real lightsaber she would have sliced him in half.
She heard the sickening thwack. It was the first time she’d seen him in pain. It was a split second of a grimace, no more, but she was instantly appalled at herself.
“Sorry—” she said, but he came straight back at her and sent the stake flying from her hand.
“You have to press home your advantage,” Darman said, rubbing his neck. “I’ve never used an energy blade and I don’t have the Force to call on. But I do know when to go all-out.”
“I know,” Etain said, inspecting her shin and catching her breath. “Did I do any damage?”
“Nothing serious. Good move.”
“I don’t want to let you down when you need me most.”
“You’ve done fine so far, Commander.”
“How can you do all this, Darman?”
“Do what? Fight?”