“Did you have to?”

Fi was right next to him. He hadn’t heard him above the noise of his own breathing.

“He got a lock on me,” Niner said, feeling relieved, and then oddly guilty, but not sure why.

“I know. I saw your Deece go up and I thought I’d better get moving or I’d be wearing a speedie.”

“Atin?”

“Can’t hear him.”

That didn’t mean anything. The close-range comm setting was only ten meters; Atin could be anywhere. Niner didn’t know him well enough yet to guess his movements, and it had been enough of a close shave for him not to spend much time contemplating the issue. Now he was worried that he—the sergeant, the man they looked to for leadership—had run for it without thinking of them, and that they knew it.

“This is going to make a nice marker,” Fi said, staring up at the climbing smoke. It would be visible for a long, long way.

“What did you expect me to do? Lie there and take a can­non round?”

“No, Sarge. I thought you’d manage a double tap, though.” He laughed. “Better make sure nobody survived.”

It was a remote chance, but speeders could be surprisingly robust. Niner and Fi walked back through the smoke, rifles ready. Droid parts were scattered across the scene of devas­tation, one scuttle-shaped faceplate staring up at the pall of smoke as if in surprise.

“They don’t bounce much, then,” Fi said, and moved it with his boot. “Atin—Fi here. You there, over?”

Silence. Fi put his left gauntlet against his ear. Niner won­dered if he’d now lost two men in as many days.

“Atin here, over.”

Atin stepped out of the smoke, dragging his extra pack and a scorched hunk of metal that trailed a few wires and plugs. It looked like the speeder’s onboard computer. “The pilot didn’t bounce either,” he said. “Here, help me get this strapped on again.”

It took both Fi and Niner to lift the pack and reattach it to his armor. A few days earlier, either one of them could have managed it single-handed. We’re too exhausted to be safe, Niner thought. Time we got out of here and got some rest.

“I might be able to get something from this,” Atin said, in­dicating the charred metal box in one hand. It was the first time Niner had heard him sound remotely cheerful. Atin seemed to relate to gear better than he did to people. “Worth a try.”

Niner took over the point position and they struggled into denser cover. He glanced back and hoped the flames would burn themselves out; they didn’t have a hope of outrunning a full-scale forest fire. But maybe that was the least of their problems. And if Darman was alive and anywhere near, he’d see their handiwork, and Niner hoped he’d recognize it as such.

The squad had now left a couple of telltale marks of com­bat on the sleepy rural landscape. Whether it wanted it or not, Qiilura was involved in the war.

“You’re a di’kut,” Hokan said.

He took off his helmet. His face was centimeters from the Ubese’s, and he wanted it to look him in the eye. As a species they weren’t prone to trembling, but this one was doing a fine job of being an exception.

“What are you?” he whispered.

“A di’kut, sir.”

“You’ve made me look like a di’kut, too. I don’t like that.”

Hokan had assembled his entire senior staff in the room. He reminded himself that the room was in fact a disused merlie-shearing shed, and that his lieutenants were the twenty least stupid individuals selected from the criminal detritus that had washed down society’s sewer to Qiilura. It disap­pointed him that the Neimoidians would spend so much on secure communications and so little on personnel. A few credits more and he could have bought the small army he needed.

The Ubese—Cailshh—was standing absolutely still in the middle of the room as Hokan circled. It might have been a female, because you never could tell with Ubese, but Hokan suspected it was male. He hadn’t wanted to hire Ubese. They could be unpredictable, even sly. But very few mercenaries wanted to work on Qiilura and those who did were simply unemployable anywhere else, almost always because of a criminal record even a Hutt would balk at. And here he was, paying them what he could because Ankkit wouldn’t fork out for proper support.

Hokan despaired. And when he despaired of professional standards, he suspected extreme coaching was necessary to refocus the team.

“So you torched another farm,” he said.

“It was a warning, sir. In case they got ideas. You know. Hiding people they shouldn’t.”

“No, that’s not how it works.” Hokan propped his backside against the edge of the table and stared into the anonymous masked face, arms folded. He didn’t like people whose eyes he couldn’t see. “You warn them first. If they break the rules, then you punish them. If you punish them before they break the rules, they have nothing to lose, and they hate you, and they will seek revenge, and so will their offspring.”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you understand that?” Hokan looked around at the as­sembled staff, and spread his arms in invitation to join the coaching session. “Does everyone understand that?”

There were some grunts.

“Does everyone understand that?” Hokan snarled. “What do we say when an officer asks you a question?”

“Yes … sir!” It was almost a chorus.

“Good,” Hokan said quietly.

He stood up again. Then he took out Fulier’s lightsaber, activated the beam, and sliced it through the Ubese’s neck, sending the head flying—bloodless, quiet, and clean.

There was sudden and absolute silence. The staff had been quiet before, but they’d been making the marginal noises of people forced to endure a boring lesson. Now there was not the slightest swallow, cough, or sigh. Nobody breathed.

He peered down at the body and then at the legs of his dark gray uniform trousers. Perfectly clean: no blood. He rather liked this lightsaber now. He sat back on the edge of the desk.

“That,” Hokan said, “was punishment for Cailshh. It’s a warning for the rest of you. Now, is the difference clear? It’s very important.”

“Yes sir.” Fewer voices joined in this time, and they wa­vered.

“Then go and find our visitors. And you, Mukit. Clear up this mess. You’re Ubese. You understand the proper way to dispose of the remains.”

The group began filing out, and Mukit edged over to the neatly sundered body of Cailshh. Hokan caught the arm of his senior Weequay lieutenant as he tried to slip through the door.

“Guta-Nay, where’s your brother and his friend?” he asked. “They haven’t shown up for two meals, and they haven’t signed off shift.”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“Are they making a few credits on the side with that Tran­doshan? A bit of freelance slaving?”

“Sir—”

“I need to know. To work out if anything… unusual might have happened to them.”

Guta-Nay, no doubt recalling what Hokan had done to him when he chased that farm girl, moved his lips soundlessly. Then his voice managed to surface above his fear. “I never seen, sir, not at all, not since yesterday. I swear.”

“I chose you as my right-hand… man because you could very nearly express yourself in several syllables.”

“Sir.”

“That makes you an intellectual among your kind. Don’t make me doubt my judgment.”

“Not seen him, sir, honest. Never.”

“Then get out on the route they were patrolling and see what you can find.” Hokan reached across his desk and took out the electroshocker. It was only an agricultural instrument for herding, but it worked fine on most nonanimal species. Guta-Nay eyed it cautiously. “This is why I disapprove of undisciplined acts like thieving and drinking. When I need to be certain of someone’s whereabouts, I can’t be. When I need resources, they’re already committed. When I need compe­tence, my staff is … distracted.” He pushed the shocker up into the Weequay’s armpit. “There is a Republic presence here. We don’t know the size of the force, but we do have a speeder down and a large black crater at Imbraani. The more data I have, the more I can assess the size of the threat and deal with it. Understood?”