The two men flew apart as if in a silent explosion. Atin cannoned into the table and Vau was rolled back against the wall. There was a stunned moment of silence.

“This stops now!” Jusik yelled at the top of his voice. “That is an order! I am your general and I will not tolerate brawling, do you hear? Not for any reason. Get up, the two of you!”

Vau obeyed as meekly as any new recruit. The two men struggled to their feet and Atin stood to attention out of long habit. Little Jusik—hair sleep-tousled, wearing just a crumpled tunic and rough pants—stood glaring at the two much bigger men.

Skirata had never seen the Force used to break up a fight before. It was as impressive as ripping open that door.

“I want this feud to stop now,” Jusik continued, voice barely a whisper. “We have to have discipline. And I can't let you harm each other. We have to be united. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” Atin said impassively, blood streaked across his face. “Am I on a charge now, General?”

“No. I'm just asking you to put an end to this for all our sakes.”

Atin was calm reason once again. He didn't even seem out of breath. “Very good, sir.”

Vau looked shaken, or at least as shaken as a man like him could be. “I'm a civilian, General, so I can do as I please, but I apologize to my former trainee for any pain I caused him.”

Skirata winced. It was enough to start the fight again. But it was as good a concession as anyone would ever get out of a man who believed he had done Atin a favor.

“My fault, sir,” Skirata said, doing what a good sergeant should. “I ought to maintain better discipline.”

Jusik gave him a look that said he didn't believe that, but it was fond rather than censorious. Skirata hoped he never had to show the lad that he wouldn't obey him, but he suspected Jusik would never want to test that.

The Jedi glanced over his shoulder at the silent audience that had gathered. “We can all get back to bed now.” The commandos shrugged and disappeared back to their rooms. Corr's expression of total shock was fascinating. There was no sign of Darman. “And you, Fi. It's been a heavy day.”

Jusik grabbed a bacta spray with an expression of weary exasperation and sat Atin down in a chair to clean up his face. He made no attempt to tend to Vau, who walked off to the refreshers, Mird whining at his heels. Ordo and Mereel vanished to the landing platform with bundles of wrapped explosives.

Skirata waited for Jusik to finish and for Atin to return to his room.

“So, no lightsaber and no armor.” Jusik was even shorter than he was. He prodded the kid in the chest. “I told you that it's what's under the armor that makes a man. A few thousand Jedi like you and the Republic wouldn't be in the osik it is now. You're a soldier, sir, and a good officer. And I don't think I've ever said that to anyone in my life.”

Skirata meant it at that moment. It didn't make him love Jedi as a kind any the better, but he was very fond of Bard'ika, and would look after him. Jusik lowered his eyes, a strange blend of embarrassment and delight, and clasped Skirata's arm.

“I want what's best for my men, that's all.”

Skirata waited for him to shut his bedroom doors and went in search of the bottle of tihaar and that rarest of things in Qibbu's Hut, a clean glass. He wrenched the stopper out of the bottle and slopped a little into a chipped goblet.

He couldn't identify which fruit it had been distilled from this time, and it didn't taste that good. It never had, but more often than not it got him to sleep. He let it burn the inside of his mouth before swallowing and sat in the chair, nursing the glass in his cupped hands, eyes closed.

I hope Atin's found some kind of peace from this.

He thought he detected a faint hint of jewel-fruit in the tihaar.

Four million credits.

That was satisfying, far more than any bounty or fee he had invested over the years on Aargau. Nobody had mentioned it. Ordo and Mereel certainly had to be thinking about it: they knew his plans. Vau was a mercenary but would not interfere, because he had been paid. Etain might ask questions, too. But the commando squads had little interest in the realities of economics. Clones didn't get paid. They never coveted possessions because they had been raised with nothing to call their own. Even Fi's desire for Ghez Hokan's fine Mando armor and his lads' general lust for Verpine rifles was a blend of pragmatism and the Mandalorian cultural values that he had taught them himself, not basic civilian greed.

And a copy of a restricted Treasury datapad to play with.

And Perrive's 'pad to pick over I'll have Mereel copy it before I give it to Zey … or give most of it to him, anyway.

He opened his eyes, aware of someone standing over him. Ordo and Mereel stood impatient and excited, looking much more like normal young men having a lark than efficient, disciplined, deadly soldiers.

Mereel grinned, unable to contain his glee. “Want to hear about Ko Sai, Kal'buir? She's turned up again.”

Skirata drained the glass. This was what he wanted most. “I'm all ears, adi'ke.”

A major terrorist network lies in tatters this morning following the end of a massive overnight operation by Coruscant Security Forces. A total of ninety-seven suspects were detained or killed, and what's described as “a significant amount” of explosives seized. Senator Ihu Niopua described it as a magnificent piece of police work and praised officers.

–HNE evening news, 387 days after Geonosis

Coruscant Security Force Staff and Social Club, 2000 hours, 388 days after Geonosis: ATU and OCU reception for men and guests of Arca Company, Special Operations Brigade

CSF didn't know how brave they'd been until they heard it on the HNE bulletin.

Fi decided to treat the coverage as funny rather than as another case of his brothers' efforts going unrecognized. Skirata had warned him that all special forces personnel had to deal with that, clone or not, so it was nothing personal.

Anyway, it didn't matter. He was leaning on a bar—a clean bar, one that didn't leave your elbows soaking wet—surrounded by people who weren't criminals; unless you counted Sergeant Kal, of course, and he was a special case, because extreme bounty hunting wasn't really a crime. And police officers were buying him drinks and shaking his hand, telling him that their buddies would all have been ground nerf if he hadn't thrown himself on that grenade during the spaceport siege. It was amazing how they still remembered that.

Fi didn't have the heart to tell them that he simply did what years of training had made his body do involuntarily, and that he didn't know how to do anything else. He simply grinned and enjoyed the adulation. He liked the comradeship.

Some of them were female officers, too. They were fascinated by his armor. He enjoyed explaining the parts and functions to them, and wondered why they giggled when he told them how easy it was to take off.

Ordo wandered in with Obrim and joined Fi at the bar. Obrim handed them both a glass of a light-colored ale, instantly another brother in uniform with a tacit understanding of how things were.

“I see they've upgraded your armor again,” he said, tapping Fi's breastplate with the knuckle of his forefinger. “Different finish. Classy.”

“Well, they have to try the new kit out on someone, and we're just so stylish.”

“I suppose they can afford to, now that there's fewer of you left to kit out,” Obrim said, falling into the grim cynicism of men used to being at the mercy of accountants. “Because body bags are a lot cheaper.”