“Does our host get nervous about storing ordnance?” Ordo said.

“He's a Hutt,” said Skirata. “He's stored a lot worse. And what he doesn't know won't keep him awake at night.”

Scorch seemed impressed. “You really were a bit of a bad boy in your past, weren't you, Sarge?”

“What d'you mean, past?” Sev said.

And they laughed. They were perfect special forces troops, very bad boys in their own right, but they had never dealt with the criminal underworld—and crime was an inevitable partner of terrorism. It was one reason why Skirata didn't feel one scrap of misgiving about going bandit himself.

Fierfek, he'd impressed them. The Delta boys were emerging from their closed, tight-knit exclusivity and settling into the larger team. That was one problem solved.

There was still the operation itself, of course.

And keeping an eye on Atin, Vau, and Sev.

And introducing Etain to an element of war that wasn't remotely noble.

And making sure that everyone came out of it alive.

Skirata reached over the back of the seat and gave Sev and Scorch a playful swat, then nudged Ordo beside him.

“I promised you all a night out,” he said. “When we get this cleaned up, Zey's going to get a really big mess bill from the officers' club.”

“Maybe we shouldn't wait until then,” Scorch said. “You never know what's around the corner.”

No. You didn't. You never did.

When the enemy is a droid or a wet with a weapon, then killing them is easy. But in this game you're operating among civvies, on your home ground. You could be workingright next door to the enemy. They might even be people you know and like. But they're still the enemy and you'll have to slot them just the same. There's no Mandalorian word for “hero,” and that's just as well, because however many lives you save in black ops, you will never, ever be a hero. Deal with it.

–Sergeant Kal Skirata, teaching counterterrorist tactics to Republic Commando companies Alpha through Epsilon, Kamino, three years before Geonosis

Arca Company Barracks parade ground,0730 hours, 371 days after Geonosis

The missile skimmed the top of Etain's head and bounced off the Force-shield she had instinctively thrown up to protect her face.

Jusik skidded to a halt in front of her, sweat dripping off the end of his nose, a flattened alloy rod clutched in one hand. There was a smear of blood across his cheek, and she wasn't sure if it was his.

“Sorry!” He looked elated. “Look, why don't you sit over there? It's safer.”

Etain indicated the blood. “And why don't you use your Force powers?” she said. “This is a dangerous sport.”

“That's cheating,” Jusik said, lobbing the small plastoid sphere back into the knot of commandos. They pounced on the object like a hunting pack and jostled each other ferociously to whack the thing with rods, trying to drive it hard against the barrack wall.

Etain had no idea what the game was called, if it had a name at all. Nor did it seem to have any rules: the ball, such as it was, was being hit, kicked, and thrown as the whim took the players.

And the teams were Niner, Scorch, Fixer, and Darman against Fi, Atin, Sev, and Boss. Skirata insisted that they played in mixed teams.

Several other commandos had paused while crossing the parade ground to watch. The battle was conducted in grim silence except for the clash of rods, gasping breath, and occasional approving shouts of “Nar dralshy'a!”—Put your back into it! —and “Kandosii!”—which, Jusik had explained, had been appropriated colloquially to mean “classy” rather than “noble.”

They had all become much more ferociously Mando since she had first met them. It was a phenomenon that made sense given the specific nature of their duties, but it still left her feeling that they were becoming strangers again. Working so closely with Skirata appeared to have focused their minds on a people who seemed to have the ultimate freedom.

Even Darman had fallen happily into it. He was utterly engrossed in the game, shoulder-charging Boss out of the way and knocking Jusik flat. There was a shout of “Kandosii!” as the ball thudded against the wall, two meters above the ground.

Then Skirata emerged from the doorway. Etain didn't have to take any hints from the Force as to his state of mind.

“Armor!” he yelled. His voice could fill a parade ground. The commandos froze as one. He did not look amused. “I said wear some armor! No injuries! You hear me?”

He strode across to Jusik with surprising speed for a man with a damaged leg and came to a halt with his face centimeters from the Jedi's. He dropped his voice, but not by much.

“Sir, I regret to have to tell you that you're a dik'ut.”

“Sorry, Sergeant.” Jusik was a contrite scrap of bloody robes and sweaty hair. “My fault. Won't happen again.”

“No injuries. Not now. Okay, sir?”

“Understood, Sergeant.”

Skirata nodded and then grinned, ruffling Jusik's hair just as he did his troops'. “You're definitely ori'atin, Bard'ika. Just don't get yourself killed.”

Jusik beamed, clearly delighted. Skirata had not only told him that he was exceptionally tough, but he had used the most affectionate form of his name: now he was “Little Bardan,” and thus one of Skirata's clan. He jogged off after the commandos and disappeared inside the building.

Skirata ambled across to Etain and sat down next to her on the bench. “He's a gutsy little di'kut, isn't he?”

So it wasn't only a term of abuse, then. “If there wasn't a war on, I suspect that Master Zey would have had a serious word with him by now. Bardan's become very attached.”

“Being a loner might make a warrior, but it won't make a soldier.”

“Where were you educated?”

Skirata was looking straight ahead rather than at her, and his eyes creased at the corners for a brief moment. “On the street, on the battlefield, and by a bunch of very smart little boys.”

Etain smiled. “I wasn't being rude. Just curious.”

“Fair enough. I had to analyze and explain everything I taught my Nulls for eight years. It wasn't enough for me to show them the right way to fight. They wanted me to rationalize it. They shredded me with questions. Then they'd feed it all back to me in a way I'd never seen it before. Amazing.”

“Do we get to meet them all? Are they all like Ordo?”

“Maybe,” Skirata said. “They're deployed in various locations.” It was his noncommittal answer: Don't ask. “And they're all of the same caliber, yes.”

“So out of a strike team of twelve, you have eleven tough men—atin, yes?—and me. I can't help feeling I'm not going to be much use.”

Skirata took out a chunk of something brown and woody and popped it into his mouth. He chewed like a gdan, as if he were gnawing off someone's arm. 'Atin'ade,” he corrected. “Oh, you'll be plenty of use. I suspect you'll have the hardest job of all.”

“Whatever it takes.”

“I know.”

“Sergeant, is this going to become clear at the briefing?”

“It's not a secret. I just want everyone to have the full picture at the same time. Then we ship out and disappear.”

“I hear you've done that before.”

“Cuy'val Dar. Yes, I've been 'those who no longer exist' before. You get used to it. It has its plus points.”

He got up and walked toward the barracks, Etain following. His limp was far less obvious today.

“How did you hurt your leg?” she asked.

“I didn't follow orders. I ended up with a Verpine shatter gun round through my ankle. Sometimes you need to learn the hard way.”