“You won't like the answer.”
“I don't like a lot of things lately, but I still have to deal with them.”
“Okay. Day by day, I get more bitter when I see Mandalorian men—and that's what they are, whether you like it or not—used and discarded in a war in which they have no stake.” Skirata, sitting right behind Ordo, put his hand gently on the captain's armored shoulder. “But not on my watch.”
Etain had no answer to that. She hadn't articulated it in racial terms, and she knew that Mandalorians weren't a race as such. But there hadn't been one day since she had parted from Omega Squad on Qiilura nine months ago that she hadn't agonized over the use of soldiers who had no choice, no rights, and no future in the Republic that they gave their lives to defend.
It was wrong.
There was a point somewhere at which the means did not justify the ends, no matter what the numbers argued. Like this violent, passionate little man beside her, Etain didn't refuse her role in the war out of principle, because that would have been no more than shutting her eyes to it.
Men would still die.
And if the Jedi Council could accept the need to let that happen to save the Republic, then she could sink to a level she had never believed possible to save soldiers she knew as people.
“I'll try not to let you down,” she said.
“You mean me?” said Skirata.
And you, she thought.
Safe house, Brewery zone, Coruscant Quadrant J-47, 1000 hours, 371 days after Geonosis
Skirata had been expecting the safe house to be in another seedy part of the city where unusual activity was part of the landscape.
But Enacca had surpassed herself this time. The property was a small apartment in a refurbished quarter known as the Brewery; the construction droids were still working on some of the buildings, facing them with tasteful durasteel wrought-work. Zey was going to have a fit when he saw the bill for this one land on his desk.
“I think that's what our brothers might call kandosii,” Ordo said, bringing the speeder up to the landing platform. It had a discreet awning to shield it from view, although Coruscant was so traffic-packed that enemy surveillance from tall buildings—Skirata's dread—was less of a threat than usual here. Lines of sight were frequently obscured. “I'll be back later. Errands to run, Kal'buir.”
When the lobby doors closed behind them, the constant throb and hum of Coruscant was completely silenced. Ah. Top-range soundproofing. Enacca was a very smart Wookiee. Vau's job could be noisy. There was no point upsetting the neighbors in cheaper parts of town that had less efficient soundproofing.
And it was the last place Orjul's colleagues would come looking for him.
Etain had her arms folded tightly across her chest, her light brown wavy hair scraped back in a braid except for the wiry bits that had escaped and sprung into coils. Even her new civilian clothes already looked as if she had slept in them. She had a veil of freckles and an awkward gait; just a schoolgirl armed with a lightsaber, nothing more.
“You up to this, ad'ika?” Little one: Skirata slipped accidentally into being the reassuring father. But he reserved judgment. Like him, she might just have made a point of looking a lot less trouble than she actually was. “If not, walk away now”. And if she did, what would he have to do? She already knew dangerous numbers of people and places.
“No. I'm not backing out now.”
He thought she might suddenly reveal a powerful charisma or sweetness that would explain why this scrap of skin, bone, and unkempt hair had so riveted Darman. But she was just a kid, a Jedi kid with a lot of responsibility that showed in her young face and old eyes.
Skirata pressed on the entry buzzer into the main apartment, and after a moment the doors whispered apart. The strong smell that hit him on the moist air reminded him of walking into a barn full of frightened animals. It was so distinctive that he almost didn't notice the scent of the strill. But Mird was nowhere to be seen.
Vau, sitting at the table, looked tired. He still seemed like a professor who wasn't very happy with his class, but the physical effort showed in deeper lines from nose to mouth and the way he was drumming his fingers on the table in front of him. It was his trick for staying awake.
The man who had his head resting on the same table in front of him didn't look awake at all. Vau leaned forward and lifted the man's head by his hair, peered into his face, and set him down carefully again.
“You're the relief watch, then, Jedi?” Vau got up and stretched extravagantly, joints clicking, and indicated the empty chair. “All yours.”
Etain looked surprised. Skirata had expected her to register horror at the blood spatter on the otherwise pristine cream walls, but she just looked at Vau as if she was expecting to see someone else.
“Where are the other two?” Skirata asked.
“Nikto number one is M'truli, and he's secured in the small bedroom.” Vau was perfectly polite: this was just business after all, and even Skirata felt too centered on the task at hand to resume their feud where it had left off. “Nikto number two is Gysk, and he's in the study.”
“Your tunic could do with a wash.”
“It's the little horns. You can't punch a Nikto. Had to use something else.”
Etain sat down in Vau's seat and placed her hands flat on the table, still looking puzzled. Skirata leaned against the wall. Vau wandered into the 'fresher: water tinkled into a basin.
“You want to tell me what you know,” Etain said soothingly. “You want to give me the names of the people you operate with.”
Orjul twitched. He raised his head from the table with some difficulty and stared into her face for a second.
Then he spat in it.
Etain jerked back, visibly shocked, and wiped away the pink-stained spittle with one hand. Then she composed herself again.
“Keep your stinking mind tricks to yourself, Jedi,” Orjul hissed.
Skirata didn't expect her to break at that point. And she didn't: she simply sat there, although he knew it wasn't blank inactivity. She had been trained from childhood just like the clone army, except the first weapon she seized would be her control of the Force and her ability to read it like clamoring comlink signals.
Darman had told him. She could tell us apart right away by how we felt and thought, Sarge. Wouldn't that be a handy trick to have?
“Can I see the Nikto?” she asked suddenly.
Vau came out of the 'fresher, wiping his face on a fluffy white towel. “Help yourself.” He gave Skirata a you-know best look and unlocked the doors for her. “They're securely trussed. You know we keep them from talking to each other, don't you?”
“I worked that out,” Etain said.
She disappeared into one room for a minute and then came out and went into the other. When she emerged again, she walked up to Skirata and Vau and lowered her head.
“I'm pretty sure those Nikto have no information, and know they don't have it,” she said quietly.
“People have useful information all the time and don't know it,” Skirata said. “We piece the apparently useless stuff together and come up with connections.”
“What I mean is that they have this distinct sense that they're just afraid of dying.”
Vau shrugged. “So much for Nikto grit, eh?”
“Every creature avoids death. The difference is that Orjul is afraid of breaking. It feels different to me. It's not animal dread. It's not as deep in the Force.” Etain had her fingers meshed in that Jedi way that made her look as if she were wringing her hands. “I might as well concentrate on him. He has information he's afraid to reveal.”
They watched her walk the few meters back to the main room and settle down at the table opposite Orjul again and stare at him.
Vau shrugged. “Oh well. At least I can have a nap while she's minding the shop. Then I can get back to work with more tangible methods.”