They both watched Guta-Nay unburdening himself to the commander until she seemed to tire of it and got up from her cross-legged position. She walked over and looked at both of them uncertainly.

“I’m sorry, Darman,” she said to Niner. Then she gave an embarrassed shrug. “Sorry. Of course—you’re Niner. I got a little detail out of him, but he isn’t the analytical type, I’m afraid. I can tell you that Hokan carries a Verpine shatter gun and a custom KYD-twenty-one blaster. He’s got a lot of Trandoshan equipment, and as far as any of the militia knew, there were no more than a hundred battle droids at the garri­son. Hokan is also apparently something of a game player-he likes to bluff and double-bluff.”

Niner considered the information. “That’s useful, Com­mander. Thank you.”

“I was going to see if I could summon Jinart. She could i probably see what’s happening down there at the villa.”

“Can you do that?” Darman asked.

“I can sense her, when she wants me to. I’ll see if she can sense me.” She stared down at her boots. “And please don’t call me Commander. I haven’t earned the rank. Until I do—if I ever do—I’m Etain. Darman knows that, don’t you, Dar­man?”

He nodded. Niner didn’t feel comfortable with that. He liked to know who stood where in the hierarchy of things. “Whatever you say. Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Why did you say of course you’re Niner?”

She paused. “You feel different. All of you. You might look the same, but you’re not. I don’t normally identify indi­viduals by their effect on the Force, but I can if I concen­trate.”

“We seem different to you?”

“You know you are, surely. You know you’re Niner and he knows he’s Darman. You’re as self-aware as I am, as any other human.”

“Yes, but…”

“All beings are individuals, and their essence in the Force reflects that. The act of living makes us different, and in that way you’re like twins, only more so. Atin’s very different. What happened to him to make him so burdened?”

The answer stunned Niner. He was used to being a prod­uct. His squad and his sergeant had treated him like a man, but the Kaminoans certainly hadn’t. This was the first time that a Jedi, a commander, had confirmed the clone comman­dos’ intensely private suspicion that they were no less than normal men. It was no longer a secret dissent that had to be hidden.

“Atin was the only survivor of his first squad, then he was reassigned and lost all three brothers in action again,” Niner said. “He feels guilty.”

“Poor man,” she said. “Does he talk about it?”

“Not much.”

“Perhaps I could help him see he has nothing to feel guilty about. Just a little encouragement. Nothing like the influence I used on the Weequay, I promise.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“We have to look out for each other.”

Right then Niner didn’t care if she had less idea of guer­rilla warfare than a mott. She possessed one fundamental el­ement of leadership that you couldn’t teach in a lifetime: she cared about those she led.

She had earned her rank on the strength of that alone.

“Contact, five hundred meters,” Fi said.

The squad abandoned their impromptu meal of stewed dried meat and put their helmets back on. Etain was again surprised at how fast they moved. They were lying prone in the undergrowth, rifles trained, in the time it took her to turn and check where the Weequay was.

You’re not going to make a sound, Guta-Nay. You want to be totally silent.

He was. But she felt what was approaching. She scram­bled into the bushes on her hands and knees and leaned close to Darman. “It’s Jinart,” she said. “Relax.”

Darman, Fi, and Atin sat back on their heels. Niner stayed prone, still lined up on his sights, and held his hand away from the trigger in a conspicuous gesture.

“Niner likes to be sure,” Darman said. “No offense.”

The grass shook visibly, and then a living oil slick flowed past the kneeling commandos. It seemed to be carrying something horrific in its black swirls. The slick resolved it­self into Jinart’s natural form, and she had a huge lump of raw meat in her jaws. She laid it on the ground.

“I gave you plenty of warning,” Jinart said, staring at Niner. She sniffed the air and appeared to follow an invisible beacon with her long snout. Her gaze settled on Guta-Nay, dozing against a tree, bound hands in his lap. “What pos­sessed you to collect that souvenir?”

“We thought he might come in handy,” Fi repeated.

“You can’t even eat Weequays,” Jinart said, and metamor­phosed into her human form. “Better not let the creature see me for what I am, just in case. Have you eaten? Would you like some merlie?”

Fi took his helmet off and grinned. “We’ve got time for that, have we?”

“You might as well fight on a full stomach,” Jinart said. “You have a tough job on your hands.”

Fi picked up the leg of merlie and rinsed it with water from his bottle. “Dar, you got any of that dried fruit left?” He ejected the vibroblade from his knuckle plate and began cut­ting the leg into chunks. Etain wondered how he had devel­oped his relentless good humor; she couldn’t imagine him shooting anyone. One thing she had discovered in the last few days was that professional soldiers were neither habitu­ally angry nor violent.

They didn’t even talk tough. They were a mass of contradic­tions. They washed their clothing and they shaved and cooked and generally conducted themselves like well-behaved, well-educated Padawans. Then they went out and blew up instal­lations and killed total strangers and cracked bad jokes. Etain was getting used to it, but slowly.

While Atin kept an eye on Guta-Nay, the rest of them sat listening to Jinart in the shelter.

“I have been observing,” she said. “Hokan has made much of reinforcing the Neimoidian villa under strict security, and he does indeed have most of his hundred droids there. The whole building is packed with explosives, most of them in the wine cellars. But he has also moved Uthan back to the in­stallation.”

“Our fragrant Weequay friend was right about the double bluff, then,” Etain said.

Niner shrugged. “It’s what I’d do. Defend the strongest po­sition.”

“So we go for the installation, then,” she said.

“We’ll have to deal with both targets. They’re only two or three kilometers apart. Once we start on the main facility, the droids from the villa will pop over for a visit in a matter of minutes.”

Etain rubbed her forehead. “If they followed the plans when they built the facility, then the only way in will proba­bly be through the front door.”

Darman shrugged. “We can make our own doors. That’s what frame charges and water cuts are for.”

“Sorry?”

“We blow holes in the walls. But I’d rather avoid that if we’re dealing with hazardous materials. Don’t want to break any bottles, I reckon.”

“There isn’t even a fire exit. One door, no windows, no large ventilation shafts.”

“Doesn’t look like anyone enforces building regulations around here.” Darman shrugged. “Front door, walls, or drains. Walls would be best, but how we can get into position unno­ticed is another matter.”

Niner looked at Darman as if waiting for a suggestion. “A split attack could divert them if it’s noisy enough.”

“Well, if Hokan’s been kind enough to load up the villa with things that go bang, it would be a shame for them to go to waste.” Darman studied the holochart plan of the villa. “They won’t fall for a droid bomb again, but we do have a lot of explosives we could introduce to the mix.”

“You make it sound as if it’s going to be relatively easy,” Etain said.

“No, it’s going to be hard. But that’s what we’re trained for.”

“I’d rather have you effecting rapid entry to the main facil­ity,” Niner said.

“But we should place our own explosives inside the villa, in the cellars if we can,” Darman said. “A high-energy explosion will set off the rest of their charges. If we can place one, it’ll direct the blast upward, and if the droids are on top of the pile, it’ll solve that problem, too.”