Skirata had worked out fast that Kaminoans despised everything that didn't fit their intolerant, arrogant society's ideal of perfection. So … they thought Jango's genome wasn't the perfect model for a soldier without a little adjustment, then. Maybe it was his solitary nature; he'd make a rotten infantry soldier. Jango wasn't a team player.
And maybe they didn't know that it was often imperfection that gave humans an edge.
The kids' gaze darted between Skirata and Jango, and the doorway, and all around the room, as if they were checking for an escape or appealing for help.
“Chief Scientist Ko Sai apologizes, as do I,” said Orun Wa. “Six units did not survive incubation, but these developed normally and appeared to meet specifications, so they have undergone some flash-instruction and trials. Unfortunately, psychological testing indicates that they are simply too unreliable and fail to meet the personality profile required!”
“Which is?” said Jango.
“That they can carry out orders:' Orun Wa blinked rapidly: he seemed embarrassed by error. “I can assure you that we will address these problems in the current Alpha production run. These units will be reconditioned, of course. Is there anything you wish to ask?”
“Yeah,” said Skirata. “What do you mean by reconditioned?”
“In this case, terminated.”
There was a long silence in the bland, peaceful, white-walled room. Evil was supposed to be black, jet black; and it wasn't supposed to be soft-spoken. Then Skirata registered terminated and his instinct reacted before his brain.
His clenched fist was pressed against Orun Wa's chest in a second and the vile unfeeling thing jerked his head backward.
“You touch one of those kids, you gray freak, and I'll skin you alive and feed you to the aiwhas—”
“Steady,” Jango said. He grabbed Skirata's arm.
Orun Wa stood blinking at Skirata with those awful reptilian yellow eyes. “This is uncalled for. We care only about our customers' satisfaction.”
Skirata could hear his pulse pounding in his head and all he could care about was ripping Orun Wa apart. Killing someone in combat was one thing, but there was no honor in destroying unarmed kids. He yanked his arm out of Jango's grip and stepped back in front of the children. They were utterly silent. He dared not look at them. He fixed on Orun Wa.
Jango gripped his shoulder and squeezed hard enough to hurt. Don't. Leave this to me. It was his warning gesture. But Skirata was too angry and disgusted to fear Jango's wrath.
“We could do with a few wild cards,” Jango said carefully, moving between Skirata and the Kaminoan. “It's good to have some surprises up your sleeve for the enemy. What are these kids really like? And how old are they?”
“Nearly two standard years' growth. Highly intelligent, deviant, disturbed—and uncommandable.”
“Could be ideal for intel work.” It was pure bluff: Skirata could see the little twitch of muscle in Jango's jaw. He was shocked, too. The bounty hunter couldn't hide that from his old associate. “I say we keep 'em?”
Two? The boys looked older. Skirata half turned to check on them, and their gazes were locked on him: it was almost an accusation. He glanced away, but took a step backward and put his hand discreetly behind him to place his palm on the head of the boy defending his brothers, just as a helpless gesture of comfort.
But a small hand closed tightly around his fingers instead.
Skirata swallowed hard. Two years old.
“I can train them,” he said. “What are their names?”
“These units are numbered. And I must emphasize that they're unresponsive to command.” Orun Wa persisted as if talking to a particularly stupid Weequay. “Our quality control designated them Null class and wishes to start—”
“Null? As in no di'kutla use?”
Jango took a discreet but audible breath. “Leave this to me, Kal.”
“No, they're not units.” The little hand was grasping his for dear life. He reached back with his other hand and another boy pressed up against his leg, clinging to him. It was pitiful. “And I can train them.”
“Unwise,” said Orun Wa.
The Kaminoan took a gliding step forward. They were such graceful creatures, but they were loathsome at a level that Skirata could simply not comprehend.
And then the little lad grasping his leg suddenly snatched the hold-out blaster from Skirata's boot. Before he could react the kid had tossed it to the one who'd been clinging to his hand in apparent terror.
The boy caught it cleanly and aimed it two-handed at Orun Wa's chest.
“Fierfek.” Jango sighed. “Put it down, kid.”
But the lad wasn't about to stand down. He stood right in front of Skirata, utterly calm, blaster raised at the perfect angle, fingers placed just so with the left hand steadying the right, totally focused. And deadly serious.
Skirata felt his jaw drop a good centimeter. Jango froze, then chuckled.
“I reckon that proves my point,” he said, but he still had his eyes fixed on the tiny assassin.
The kid clicked the safety catch. He seemed to be checking it was off.
“It's okay, son,” Skirata said, as gently as he could. He didn't much care if the boy fried the Kaminoan, but he cared about the consequences for the kid. And he was instantly and totally proud of him—of all of them. “You don't need to shoot. I'm not going to let him touch any of you. Just give me back the blaster.”
The child didn't budge; the blaster didn't waver. He should have been more concerned about cuddly toys than a clean shot at this stage in his young life. Skirata squatted down slowly behind him, trying not to spook him into firing.
But if the boy had his back to him … then he trusted him, didn't he?
“Come on … just put it down, there's a good lad. Now give me the blaster.” He kept his voice as soft and level as he could, when he was actually torn between cheering and doing the job himself. “You're safe, I promise you.”
The boy paused, eyes and aim still both fixed on Orun Wa. “Yes sir.” Then he lowered the weapon to his side. Skirata put his hand on the boy's shoulder and pulled him back carefully.
“Good lad.” Skirata took the blaster from his little fingers and scooped him up in his arms. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Nicely done, too.”
The Kaminoan showed no anger whatsoever, simply blinking, yellow, detached disappointment. “If that does not demonstrate their instability, then—”
“They're coming with me.”
“This is not your decision.”
“No, it's mine,” Jango interrupted. “And they've got the right stuff. Kal, get them out of here and I'll settle this with Orun Wa.”
Skirata limped toward the door, still making sure he was between the Kaminoan and the kids. He was halfway down the corridor with his bizarre escort of tiny deviants before the boy he was carrying wriggled uncomfortably in his arms.
“I can walk, sir,” he said.
He was perfectly articulate, fluent—a little soldier way beyond his years.
“Okay, son.”
Skirata lowered him to the floor and the kids fell in behind him, oddly quiet and disciplined. They didn't strike him as dangerous or deviant, unless you counted stealing a weapon, pulling a feint, and almost shooting a Kaminoan as deviant. Skirata didn't.
The kids were just trying to survive, like any soldier had a duty to do.
And they looked four or five years old, but Orun Wa had definitely said they were two. Skirata suddenly wanted to ask them how long they'd spent in those awful suffocating transparisteel vats, cold hard tanks that were nothing like the dark comfort of a womb. It must have been like drowning. Could they see each other as they floated? Had they understood what was happening to them?