“What body bags?” Fi said.

“Really?”

“Not the Mando way. Or the Republic's.”

“Kriffing tightwads.” Obrim sighed irritably. Then he indicated Mereel, who was surrounded by a small knot of officers plus Delta Squad, laughing noisily. “I see your brother is teaching our boys some bad Mando'a words. Is it true you don't have a word for 'hero'?”

“Yes, but we've got a dozen for 'stab.'”

Obrim almost laughed. “And how many for frying someone with a blaster?”

“Loads,” said Fi. “We don't know much about art, but we know what we like.”

Ordo was scanning the crowded bar with a faint frown. Fi followed his gaze. He wondered if he was checking where Etain and Jusik were, because Jedi didn't fit easily into the raucous atmosphere of a police social club, but there was Jusik, all smiles, engaged in an intense conversation with two Sullustan forensics officers. Darman was deep in discussion with Corr and a couple of men Fi recognized as CSF bomb disposal experts from the spaceport siege. Niner and Boss seemed to have been drawn into a strange game with some other officers that involved throwing a knife at the fine wooden carvings above the bar, much to the annoyance of the service droid.

And Atin had Laseema on his arm, gazing at him adoringly, even if he did still have a striking black eye from his fight with Vau.

But no Etain, and no Vau. Vau had gone off on another job—unspecified, of course. Darman was still here, though, and that meant Etain was, too, for the time being.

Ordo seemed to be concentrating on the doorway.

“What's your problem, ner vod?”

“Agent Wennen said she would come,” Ordo said. He looked uncharacteristically awkward, seeming for once as if he didn't know what to do next. “I'll have a look around. It's a big bar.”

Obrim watched him go. “Fi,” he said, “do you mind me asking you something personal?”

“I always try to help police with their inquiries, Captain.”

“Seriously, son. Kal talks to me about you all. I never knew how you were … bred for all this. Sorry. I can't find another word for it. You don't seem to resent it at all. I'd be furious. Aren't you angry? Not just a little?”

Fi wished Obrim didn't make him think. In a way it was much, much simpler on Kamino. It was also easier being alone with only your squad for company on some osik'la planet blowing up droids. There was a clean focus in that. Coruscant had indeed been the hardest battlefield of all, as Sergeant Kal had warned him. But that wasn't because it was rife with the dangers of not knowing if the enemy was standing right next to you. It was because it showed him what he could never have.

“I've done a lot of thinking in the past year,” Fi said. “Yes, there's plenty wrong. I know I deserve more than this. I want a nice girl and a life and I don't want to die. And I know I'm being used, thanks. But I'm a soldier, and I'm also Mandalorian, and my strength is always going to be what I carry around inside me, my sense of who and what I am. Even if the rest of the galaxy sinks in its own filth, I'll die without compromising my honor.” He drained his glass and started on the next one that was lined up on the bar. He wasn't that fond of the taste, but he believed in being polite. “That's what keeps me going. That, and my brothers. And that ale you promised me.”

“I had to ask.” Obrim frowned quickly and looked away for a moment. “Did that drink really keep you going?”

He thought of the insertion into Fest months before. “Yeah, Captain. Sometimes it did.”

Fi dreaded where the conversation might take him but he was interrupted by a loud cheer from farther down the bar. Skirata had arrived and was demonstrating his skill in the knife-throwing game. He let fly with his vicious three-sided knife, knocking the other knives out of the woodwork time after time. The bar droid protested.

“He's way too good at that,” Obrim said, and turned to Fi again to resume the conversation. “Now, about this—”

Fi didn't want to discuss it anymore. He straightened up and called across the bar to Skirata. “Sarge? Sarge! Want to show 'em the Dha Werda?”

There was a whoop of “Kandosii!” from the squads. “Yeah, come on, Sarge! Let's show them how it's done!”

“I'm too old,” Skirata said, retrieving his knife.

“Nah,” Fi said, and seized the chance to drag Skirata away from the game. “You taught us this, remember?”

Skirata took the invitation and limped over to join the two squads, who quickly cleared a space in the bar. Ordo, Mereel, and Jusik joined them; Corr stood back, uncertain. Troopers rarely got the chance to see the ritual chant, let alone learn it.

“I haven't had enough to drink yet,” Skirata said, “but I'll give it a go.”

Without his armor, he looked even smaller among his commandos than usual. The chant started up.

Taung—sa—rang—bro-ka!

Je—tii—se-ka—'rta!

Dha—Wer-da—Ver-da—a'den—tratu!

He fell into the rhythm instantly, keeping perfect time, taking rhythmic blows on his leather jacket that normally fell on hard armor. He was a battle-hardened warrior like his lads, just older.

Fi winked at him, careful to allow for their difference in height.

Cor—u—scan—ta—kan—dosii—adu!

Duum—mo—tir—ca—'tra—nau—tracinya!

Skirata kept up the relentless pace for verse after verse. Fi caught sight of white armor in his peripheral vision and ARC Trooper Captain Maze appeared from the crowd of CSF officers who were watching openmouthed with glasses of ale in their hands.

“Mind if I join in?” Maze said.

Fi had no intention of trying to stop an ARC trooper. Maze slipped into the line next to Ordo and smiled at his brother captain in a way Fi didn't quite like.

As Skirata always told outsiders, the Dha Werda took stamina, timing, and total trust in your comrades. Complex rhythms sharpened your brain and taught you to think as one. Turn too fast or too late, and you'd get a nasty smack in the face. It was performed without buy'cese.

Ordo wasn't quite as focused as he should have been. Maybe his mind was still on where lovely Besany Wennen might be. Whatever the reason, as Fi turned right, fists clenched, arms at shoulder height, ready to beat the rhythm on Niner's back plate, he saw and heard Maze's fist connect with Ordo's chin.

Ordo carried on, blood weeping from his lip, refusing to break the rhythm. You didn't stop if you got hit. You carried on.

Gra—'tua—cuun—hett—su—dralshya!

Kom—'rk—tsad—drot-en—t-roch—nyn—ures—adenn!

The line of commandos turned ninety degrees left, hammering the rhythm, and then right again, and Maze hit Ordo neatly and—Fi had to admit it—elegantly in the mouth again without losing the beat. Blood splashed on Ordo's pristine white chest plate. Fi waited for the encounter to erupt in a fight, but the chant finished without incident and Ordo simply wiped his mouth on the palm of his glove.

“Sorry, ner vod,” Maze said, smiling with genuine amusement. “You know how clumsy we ordinary ARC troopers are. We make lousy dancers.”

Fi held his breath. He was ready to back Ordo up against Maze; Ordo was his friend. And Fi also knew that he was utterly unpredictable and totally unafraid of violence.

Ordo merely shrugged, held out his arm, and the two ARC captains shook hands and went to the bar. Skirata watched them carefully and smiled.

All ARCs were crazy. Sometimes Fi was grateful that he'd had the most volatile bits of Jango removed from his genes.

Skirata sat down on a bar stool and wiped sweat from his lined forehead with the palm of his hand.