“It’s making a noble sacrifice,” Jusik said, suddenly right behind them. He smiled and murmured dirt-crate to himself as if it amused him. Niner wondered for a moment if he’d broken protocol by using the phrase. “Are you certain you can do this? I could ask Master Zey if he would allow me to accompany you.”

Niner wanted to laugh, but you didn’t laugh at a Jedi, es­pecially one who seemed to care what happened to you. “We lost too many officers at Geonosis, sir. They can’t grow you to order.”

The Padawan lowered his eyes for a second. “It’s consider­ate of you to think of me as an officer, Sergeant.”

“You’re a commander now, sir. We won’t let you down. There’s nobody better prepared for this than us.”

“This is your first special operation, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

“No sir. Not at all. The six P’s, sir. Proper Planning Pre­vents Pi… Inadequate Performance, sir.”

Jusik appeared to be counting and then raised his eye­brows. “This is real, Sergeant.”

Ah. For all their skills and wisdom, there were still some things that even Jedi didn’t know. Niner hesitated to lecture Jusik.

Real. Oh yes, Niner knew what real was, all right.

Padawan Bardan Jusik had certainly never seen the Killing House on Kamino. He’d never stormed the building, with its twisting corridors and innumerable flights of stairs; he didn’t know how many commandos died in training when the rounds were live and the terrorists—or whoever the di­recting staff were being that day—aimed to kill, and fre­quently did.

He also had no idea what it was like spending four days lying prone in a scrape in the undergrowth on observation, rifle ready, urinating where you lay because you couldn’t move and give away your position. He had no idea how you learned to judge the amount of charge required for rapid entry to a building the hard way, because if you didn’t get it just right, in a hurry and under fire, it could blow your head clean off. Two-Eight had learned that way.

Jusik didn’t know just how far and how long you could carry a wounded comrade when you had to. He probably didn’t even know how to perform an emergency field tra­cheotomy with a vibroblade and a clean length of fuel line.

It wasn’t Jusik’s fault. He had far bigger issues to worry about. There was no reason for a Jedi commander to concern himself with the details of a clone commando’s life. But Niner thought he probably would, and he admired the Padawan all the more for that.

“We’ll be fine, sir,” Niner said. “The training is quite real­istic.”

Inside the shabby Narsh vessel, the tanks had been stripped out, and the bulkheads lined with securing straps and stealth sheeting that would render the ship’s cargo invisi­ble to any probe or scan.

Niner realized that four men would be pretty cramped in there with packs and weapons. A couple of BlasTech E-Web repeating blasters were already stowed, and, at Atin’s request, two Trandoshan LJ-50 concussion rifles.

Atin’s livid face wound was looking less alarming now, but he’d always have a scar: the bacta spray could fix plenty if you used it soon enough, but it couldn’t reverse scarring. He pulled himself through the open hatch with an APC array blaster in one hand and his DC-17 strapped across his chest, just about keeping his balance under the weight of his pack. Darman, acting as loadmaster, gave him a helpful leg up and eyed the blaster.

“Got a thing for Trandoshan technology?” Darman asked.

“This’ll deal with shields better than our E-Web,” Atin replied. “And the LJ-fifty is a nice backup when we take out the facility. Just in case. Republic doesn’t make all the best gear.”

Niner wondered if Atin ever talked about anything but gear. His squad must have been a miserable bunch, with a miserable instructor. Clones might have looked utterly stan­dardized to outsiders, but every squad was altered slightly by the cumulative effects of its experiences, including the influ­ences of the individual trainers. Every commando battalion had its own nonclone instructor, and seemed to take on some of his—or her—unique characteristics and vocabulary.

We learn, Niner thought. We learn fast, and unfortunately we learn everything. Like dirt-crate.

Every squad developed its own dynamics, as well. It was part of their hardwired human biology. Put four men in a group, and soon you’d have a pecking order defined by the roles and foibles that accompanied them. Niner knew his, and he thought he knew Fi’s, and he was pretty sure he knew where Darman was heading. But Atin wasn’t sliding into place just yet.

Fi had a Geonosian force pike. He hefted it and smiled.

“Where’d you get that?” Atin asked, suddenly interested.

“Souvenir of Geonosis,” Fi said, and winked. “Seemed a shame to waste it.” He flipped it over in his hand and twirled it, arm outstretched, missing Atin by a calculated handspan. He didn’t react. “You wouldn’t even need to use the power setting, would you? This thing’s heavy” He brought it down in a slicing movement. “Wallop. That’ll make their eyes water.”

“I don’t think I need any souvenirs of Geonosis,” Atin said. His tone was distinctly frosty. “Indelibly etched, you might say.”

“Hey—”

Niner cut in. “Chat later,” he said. “Shift it, people.”

Niner already knew he would have his work cut out with Atin and wondered if anything would trigger his natural urge to be one of the squad. He also wondered about his apparent negativity. He’ll shake down, sooner or later. He’ll have to.

Backing up to a convenient ledge on the port bulkhead, Niner unclipped his backpack. Forty-five kilos lighter, he eased between Fi and Atin, and peered into the cockpit.

An R5 droid was at the controls. The unit was still fueling up the vessel from a droid bowser, burbling and whistling to itself. Niner leaned across to plug his datapad into the con­sole to confirm the flight plan and synchronize it with the vessel’s actual path.

The R5 didn’t take any notice. It would fly the route it was given.

Improvising, thinking on his feet, making the most of the resources at hand, were all part of operating as a commando. But so was acquiring adequate intelligence. What they had wasn’t enough to plan a mission, and that meant they would either have to acquire it in the field, or fail. Niner didn’t want to fail Padawan Jusik. He ejected his datapad and edged back to the hatch, trying not to clip Fi or Atin.

“Comm silence from the time you take off,” Jusik said, leaning through the open hatch. “The assault ship the Majes­tic is diverting to Qiilura, and will remain on station a parsec from the planet until she receives your request for extraction. Then gunships will be at your transmitted location within the hour.”

Niner almost asked just how long the Majestic might wait, but he feared it would look as if he doubted his squad’s com­petence. He knew the answer: the ship would wait until Uthan was taken, even if that was several commando missions down the line. It wasn’t waiting for them.

“We won’t keep the Majestic waiting,” Niner said.

“Anything else you need?”

Niner shook his head. “No, Commander.”

Darman stood to one side of the ramp, like an honor guard, waiting for the Jedi to leave.

“Very well,” Jusik said, looking hesitant, as if he wanted to walk away but thought better of it. “I hope to debrief you on your return.”

Niner took that literally, although Jusik was looking at him as if it meant something else. It made sense for the Padawan commander to process whatever intel they might gain. Jusik turned and walked away, and Darman jumped inside. The hatch closed with a slight shudder, sending fine fragments of rusting metal to the deck.

It only has to land, Niner thought.