Ordo shrugged and tilted his head in a conspicuously self-conscious glance down at his spotless white armor. “I don't think we're the Skysitter's type of clientele, anyway.”

Skirata couldn't see the expression behind the visor, but he knew Ordo was amused. It was good that a man who'd had an unimaginable nightmare of a childhood could find anything funny. “They have napkins. And I'll try not to splash sauce over you. Deal? Just to celebrate the fact that we're both still here a year on.”

Ordo started walking. “What were you doing a year ago today?”

“Wondering where all my boys had gone.”

“Sorry, Kal'buir. It was a very rapid deployment. I should have woken you.”

“You did fine. I should have shaped up and realized you had a job to do.”

“We certainly accounted for a number of enemy positions,” Ordo said.

“I never said good-bye to the lads who didn't come back, that's all. I lost nine out of my batch.”

“But the last time you saw them, you left them feeling confident, respected, and loved. That's enough for any buir to achieve.”

“Thanks, son.” How did he ever grow up this normal? “Let's enjoy ourselves for a change, shall we?”

For a few brief hours Skirata and Ordo did what normal civilians did and took an Easy Ride to the city's lower levels to have a dangerously unhealthy but comforting breakfast.

Skirata had never used public transport with Ordo in tow before, and the reactions of other passengers fascinated him. They sneaked sideways glances. Ordo's custom holster with its twin blasters probably focused them somewhat. The ARC trooper armor was spectacular even in a city jaded by the everyday presence of a thousand exotic species.

Skirata regularly forgot how few of the capital's civilians had ever seen a clone soldier face-to-face. Apart from the heavily publicized display of massed GAR battalions boarding assault ships at the military staging area a year ago, the vast majority of Coruscanti had no contact with them whatsoever.

And never without their helmets.

“Ord'ika,” he whispered. “Do me a favor. Take off your bucket, will you?”

Ordo paused for a moment and then popped the seal on his collar and lifted off his helmet. Skirata kept an eye on the other passengers' reactions. It was a revelation. Some looked blankly surprised. Others went a little farther.

“Oh no, they're human!” one man whispered. “And they're so young!”

Did anyone know how young? He hated using Ordo like this, but it had to be done. Skirata, tired and permanently irritable, bit back his retort and became a diplomat for a few moments.

“No sir, the war isn't droids fighting droids,” he said. “May I introduce Captain Ordo?”

Ordo nodded politely at the man in the seat across the aisle and extended his hand; Skirata had taught his little Nulls to act like nice boys when they needed to. The man hesitated and then reached across to shake Ordo's hand, surrendering soft pale civilian fingers to a black gauntlet. The look on his face said clearly that he hadn't expected to find flesh and blood inside the droid-like shell, or to retrieve his hand un-crushed afterward.

“My pleasure, sir,” Ordo said.

It was unusually quiet in the EasyRide after that. At least the reality had registered on them. Skirata nudged Ordo to get off when they reached the Kragget level, and the ARC replaced his helmet.

“You like to shock,” said Ordo.

“I like to educate,” said Skirata. “Sorry, son.”

Strolling around Coruscant with a fully armored ARC captain was hardly blending in, but it got him a good table in the Kragget, which meant one that the service droid actually wiped clean before they sat down. A couple of CFS officers acknowledged them. Police and security officers liked eating here because it was right on the edge of their “manor,” as some of them called the rough territory where they plied their trade, handy for a quick response to a call but far enough away to be a haven.

Ordo took his helmet off again to tuck into the plate of fried smoked nerf slices. The eggs were from something Skirata couldn't identify and knew he didn't want to. He concentrated on the seductively unctuous sensation of hot fat and salty yolk in his mouth and washed it down with several cups of caf.

“We can't leave this to the boys in blue any longer,” Skirata said. They both knew what this was without being specific in a public place. “They're hampered by having to do stuff by the book, and we don't know if they're all playing for our team anyway. This is one for us. I'm going to make Zey see sense about it. Once everyone's back in town, it'll be a lot harder for him to say no.”

“If the cryptography droid extracts some relevant data from Atin's little haul, it might be even harder.”

“Which reminds me. I haven't paid my respects to Vau.”

“Promise me you won't pull your knife on him again.”

“I'll behave.”

The server droid seemed to have been replaced by a female Twi'lek waitress, who looked past prime dancing age but who still distracted Skirata for a second or two. She put another plate of nerf strips in front of Ordo, who—like every clone soldier Skirata had ever known—would eat anything and everything put in front of him.

She smiled and lingered. Ordo froze and returned the smile in the nervous way of a small boy, then busied himself with his breakfast and the waitress moved away.

Skirata reflected on the careless power of youth and looks, and how incomplete a teacher he had been of social skills. “Somehow I don't think she's mistaken you for a droid.”

Ordo looked uncharacteristically flustered for a moment. “Er … I've been assessing our requirements.” He cleared his plate again, and Skirata slid his unwanted eggs onto the man's plate and watched them disappear. “Kit is an issue. We need to discuss this before you see Zey. This is going to take some serious resources—vehicles, safe houses, special surveillance equipment, and ordnance?”

Skirata had been doing the calculations at the same time Ordo had.

They'd need two squads, at least, and a couple of Nulls. But two squads of Republic Commandos in their distinctively bulky, bad-boy Katarn Mark III kit and Ordo and Mereel in their spectacular red and blue would be noticeable as unusual activity.

They might need to wear that armor sooner or later, even if they could be deployed in civilian clothing the rest of the time.

Skirata chewed the last overdone piece of smoked nerf he saved the delectable crunchy bits for last—and a solution blossomed as his jaw worked.

Hide in plain sight.

He was good at that. He could become so mundane—unkempt hair, scruffy clothing—that he was almost invisible. And so could his lads, by being the opposite.

All they had to do was be one of a number of clone personnel wandering around Coruscant in full armor. And if occasionally they took off that armor and went about in fatigues, then who would really recognize them as individuals?

They all looked the same to most people, other than a few Jedi who cared about them as men, and their own brothers.

Skirata considered it a very productive working breakfast.

He opened his comlink and keyed a meeting request to General Zey. Then he leaned across the table, seized Ordo two-handed by his shoulder pauldron, and gave him a noisy and exaggerated paternal kiss on the top of his head.

“Sorted!” he said. “Plain sight!”

The Twi'lek waitress watched, fascinated. “Hey, can I try that, too?”

“He's just a boy,” Skirata said, and left her a very generous tip. Ordo got up to follow him, pocketing a couple of meal-bread sticks for later. “My son.”

RAS Fearless hangar deck