Star Wars

Republic Commando : Hard Contact

by Karen Traviss

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Long ago, in a cinema far away, a film critic watched  and  reviewed  a
brand-new movie called Star Wars. If she'd known she was  going  to  end  up
writing this book, she'd have taken more  notes  ...  so  my  thanks  go  to
editors Shelly Shapiro (Del Rey), Keith Clayton (Del Rey), and  Sue  Rostoni
(Lucasfilm) for their wise advice; to the many Star Wars fans  who  made  me
welcome in their world; and especially to  Ryan  Kaufman  at  LucasArts-Star
Wars oracle, polymath, wit, and all-around good bloke, who  gave  generously
of his time and knowledge, and never ran out of patience when  I  asked  for
the umpteenth time, "Yes, but does the armor have to be white?" It  was  the
best of times, folks. Thanks.

PROLOGUE

Okay, this is how it happened.

It's pitch black below and we're fast-roping  into  the  crevasse,  too
fast: I can feel the impact in my back teeth when I land. I'm first down and
I flood the chamber with my helmet spot-lamp.

There's a triple-sealed blast door between us and the Geonosians and  I
haven't got time to calculate the charge needed to blow it. A lot,  then.  P
for plenty, like I was taught. Stick the thermal tape around the  edges  and
push in the detonator. Easier said than done: the alloy door's covered  with
crud.

Delta Squad's CO gets on the helmet comlink. "You having a  party  down
there, Theta?"

"Can't rush an artist..."

"You want to tell that to the spider droids?"

"Patience, Delta." Come on, come on. Stick  to  the  metal,  will  you?
"Nearly there."

"A lot of spider droids ..."

"I hear you, Delta."

"In your own time. No pressure. None at all..."

"Clear!"

We flatten ourselves against the cavern walls. It's all white light and
painful noise and flying dust for a fraction of a second. When  we  can  see
again, the doors are blown inward, ripped  apart,  billowing  smoke.  "Delta
Squads-clear to enter. Take take take."

"I thought you'd never ask." Delta Squad hits the  ground  and  they're
straight in, firing, while we stand back and cover their six. It's a  warren
of tunnels down here. If we're not careful, something could jump us from any
direction.

My helmet's supposed to protect against high decibels,  but  war  is
noisy.  Really  noisy.  I  can't  hear  my  helmet   comlink   through   the
omph-omph-omph of the Geonosians' sonic rounds and our  own  blasterfire.  I
can hear anti-armor going off, too. Fierfek, I can feel it through my boots.

Movement catches my eye up ahead, and then it's gone. I'm looking up
through the DC-17's scope, checking that it was  just  my  imagination,  and
Taler gestures toward another of the five tunnels facing us.

"Darman, take that E-Web and hold this position." He beckons Vin and
Jay and they move almost  back-to-back  toward  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel,
checking to all sides.

And then I look up, overhead.

There's more Geonosians around than we thought. A lot more.  I  take
down two above me and then more come out of the tunnel to the left so I open
fire with the repeating blaster, nice and early, because if I let  them  get
too close the blast will fry me as well.

Even so, it's knocking me back like a trip-hammer.

"Taler, Darman here, over." I can't see him.  I  can't  see  any  of
them, but I can hear rapid fire. "Taler,  Darman  here,  you  receiving  me,
over?"

Not so much silence as an absence of  a  familiar  voice.  Then  a  few
fragmented, crackling shouts of"... down! Man down here!"

Who? Who's down? "Taler? Vin? Jay? You receiving, over?"

I've lost contact with my squad.

It's the last time I see them.

1

SCRAMBLE LINE ENCRYPTED

STAND BY STAND BY

GEONOSIS FORWARD CONTROL TO FLEET SUPPORT, ORD MANTELL.

PREPARE TO RECEIVE CASEVAC TRANSPORT. MED TRIAGE TEAM ESTIMATE  SERIOUS
INJURIES, TWELVE THOUSAND, REPEAT TWELVE  THOUSAND.  WALKING  WOUNDED  EIGHT
THOUSAND, REPEAT EIGHT THOUSAND. ETA TEN HOURS. LOGISTICS PRIORITY FOR BACTA
TANK SUPPORT TEAMS.

PREP FOR SEVENTY-TWO THOUSAND  COMBAT-FIT  TROOPS,  REPEAT  SEVENTY-TWO
THOUSAND, PENDING REDEPLOYMENT. PRIORITY WEAPONS SUPPORT FOR COMMANDO UNITS.

THAT IS ALL. OUT.

Republic assault ship Implacable: inbound for extraction from Geonosis.
Stand by.

Republic Commando 1136 studied every face in line waiting to board  the
gunships.

Some were helmeted, and some were not, but-one way or another-they  all
had his face. And they were all strangers.

"Move it," the loadmaster  shouted,  gesturing  side-to-side  with  one
outstretched arm. "Come on, shift it, people-fast as you can." The  gunships
dropped down in clouds of dust and troopers embarked, some turning  to  pull
comrades inboard so the ships could lift again quickly. There was no  reason
to scramble for it. They'd done it a thousand times in training;  extraction
from a real battle was what they'd prepared  for.  This  wasn't  a  retreat.
They'd grabbed their first victory.

The gunships' downdraft kicked the red Geonosian  soil  into  the  air.
RC-1136-Darman-took off his helmet and ran his gauntlet carefully across the
pale gray dome, wiping away the dust and  noting  a  few  scrapes  and  burn
marks.

The loadmaster turned to  him.  He  was  one  of  the  very,  very  few
outsiders whom Darman had ever seen working with the Grand  Army,  a  short,
wrinkled Duros with a temper to match. "Are you embarking or what?"

Darman continued wiping his helmet. "I'm  waiting  for  my  mates,"  he
said.

"You shift  your  shiny  silver  backside  now,"  the  loadmaster  said
irritably. "I got a schedule."

Darman  carefully  brought  up  his  knuckle  plate  just   under   the
loadmasters's chin,  and  held  it  there.  He  didn't  need  to  eject  the
vibroblade and he didn't need to say a word. He'd made his point.

"Well, whenever you're ready, sir," the Duros said,  stepping  back  to
chivy clone troopers instead. It wasn't a great idea to  upset  a  commando,
especially not one coming down from the adrenaline high of combat.

But there was still no sign of the rest of his squad. Darman knew  that
there was no point in waiting any longer. They hadn't called in. Maybe  they
had comlink failures. Maybe they had made it onto another gunship.

It was the first time in his artificially short life that Darman hadn't
been able to reach out and touch the men he had been raised with.

He waited half a standard hour more anyway, until the  gunships  became
less frequent and the lines of troopers became shorter. Eventually there was
nobody standing on the desert plain but him, the Duros loadmaster, and  half
a dozen clone troopers. It was the last lift of the day.

"You better come  now,  sir,"  the  loadmaster  said.  "There's  nobody
unaccounted for. Nobody alive, anyway."

Darman looked around the horizon one last time, still feeling as if  he
were turning his back on someone reaching out to him.

"I'm coming," he said, and brought up the rear  of  the  line.  As  the
gunship lifted, he watched the swirling dust, dwindling rock formations, and
scattered shrinking patches of scrub until Geonosis became a  blur  of  dull
red.

He could still search the Implacable. It wasn't over yet.

The gunship slipped into the Implacable's giant docking bay, and Darman
looked down into the cavern, onto a sea of white armor and orderly movement.
The first thing that struck him when the gunship killed  its  thrusters  and
locked down on its pad was how quiet everyone seemed.

In the crowded bay full of troopers, the air stank of sweat  and  stale
fear and the throat-rasping smell of discharged blaster rifles. But  it  was
so silent that if Darman hadn't seen the evidence of exhausted  and  injured
men, he'd have believed that nothing significant had happened  in  the  last
thirty hours.

The deck vibrated under the soles of his boots. He  was  still  staring
down at them, studying the random patterns of Geonosian dust that  clung  to
them, when an identical pair came into view.

"Number?" said a voice that was also his own. The commander  swept  him
with a tally sensor: he didn't need  Darman  to  tell  him  his  number,  or
anything else for that matter, because the sensors in  the  enhanced  Katarn
armor reported his status silently, electronically. No  significant  injury.
The triage team on  Geonosis  had  waved  him  past,  concentrating  on  the
injured, ignoring both those too badly hurt to help and those who could help
themselves. "Are you listening to me? Come on. Talk to me, son."

"I'm okay, sir," he said. "Sir, RC-one-one-three-six. I'm not in shock.
I'm fine." He paused. Nobody else  was  going  to  call  him  by  his  squad
nickname-Darman-again. They were all dead, he knew it. Jay, Vin,  Taler.  He
just knew. "Sir, any news of RC-one-one-three-five-"

"No," said the commander, who had  obviously  heard  similar  questions
every time he stopped to check. He gestured with the small bar in his  hand.
"If they're not in casevac or listed on this sweep, then  they  didn't  make
it."

It  was  stupid  to  ask.  Darman  should  have  known  better.   Clone
troopers-and especially Republic commandos-just got on with  the  job.  That
was their sole purpose. And they were lucky,  their  training  sergeant  had
told them; outside, in the ordinary world, every being from every species in
the galaxy fretted about their purpose in life,  searching  for  meaning.  A
clone didn't need to. Clones knew. They had been perfected for  their  role,
and doubt need never trouble them.

Darman had never known what doubt was until now. No amount of  training
had prepared him for this. He found a space against a bulkhead and sat down.

A clone trooper settled down next to him, squeezing into  the  gap  and
briefly clunking a shoulder plate against his. They glanced at  each  other.
Darman rarely had any contact with the other clones: commandos trained apart
from everyone, including  ARC  troopers.  The  trooper's  armor  was  white,
lighter, less resistant; commandos enjoyed upgraded protection.  And  Darman
displayed no rank colors.

But they both knew exactly who and what they were.

"Nice Deece," the trooper said enviously. He was looking at the  DC-17:
troopers were issued the heavier, lower-spec rifle, the  DC-15.  "Ion  pulse
blaster, RPG anti-armor, and sniper?"

"Yeah." Every item of his gear was manufactured to  a  higher  spec.  A
trooper's life was less valuable than a commando's. It was  the  way  things
were, and Darman had never questioned it-not for long, anyway. "Full house."

"Tidy." The trooper nodded approval. "Job done, eh?"

"Yeah," Darman said quietly. "Job done."

The trooper didn't say anything else. Maybe he was wary of conversation
with commandos. Darman knew what troopers thought about him  and  his  kind.
They don't train like us and they don't fight like us. They don't even  talk
like us. A bunch of prima donnas.

Darman didn't think he was arrogant. It was just that he could do every
job a soldier could be called upon to do,  and  then  some:  siege  assault,
counterinsurgency,   hostage   extraction,    demolitions,    assassination,
surveillance, and every kind of infantry activity on any terrain and in  any
environment, at any time. He knew he could, because he'd done it. He'd  done
it in training, first with simunition and then with live rounds.  He'd  done
it with his squad, the three brothers with whom he'd spent every  moment  of
his conscious life. They'd competed against  other  squads,  thousands  just
like them, but not like them, because they were squad brothers, and that was
special.

He had never been taught how to live apart from the squad, though.  Now
he would learn the hardest way of all.

Darman had absolute confidence that he was one of the best special  ops
soldiers ever created. He was  undistracted  by  the  everyday  concerns  of
raising a family and making a living, things that his  instructors  said  he
was lucky never to know.

But now he was alone. Very, very alone. It was very distracting indeed.

He considered this for a long time in silence. Surviving when the  rest
of your squad had been killed was no cause for pride. It felt  instead  like
something his training sergeant had described as shame. That  was  what  you
felt when you lost a battle, apparently.

But they had won. It was their first battle, and they had won.

The landing ramp of the Implacable eased down, and the bright  sunlight
of Ord Mantell streamed in. Darman replaced his helmet without thinking  and
stood in an orderly line, waiting to disembark and  be  reassigned.  He  was
going to be chilled down, kept in  suspended  animation  until  duty  called
again.

So this was the aftermath of victory. He wondered how much worse defeat
might feel.

Imbraani, Qiilura: 40 light-years from Ord Mantetl,Tingel Arm

The field of barq flowed from silver to  ruby  as  the  wind  from  the
southwest bent the ripening grain in waves. It could  have  been  a  perfect
late-summer day; instead it was turning into one of the worst days of  Etain
Tur-Mukan's life.

Etain had run and run and she  had  nothing  left  in  her.  She  flung
herself flat between the furrows, not caring where she fell. Etain held  her
breath as something stinking and wet squelched under her.

The pursuing Weequay couldn't hear her above the wind,  she  knew,  but
she held her breath anyway.

"Hey girlie!" His boots crunched closer. He was panting. "Where you go?
Don't be shy."

Don't breathe.

"I got bottle of urrqal. You want to have party?" He had  a  remarkably
large vocabulary for a Weequay, all of it centered on his  baser  needs.  "I
fun when you get to know me."

I should have waited for it to get dark. I could  influence  his  mind,
try to make him leave.

But she hadn't. And she couldn't, try as she might to concentrate.  She
was too full of adrenaline and uncontrolled panic.

"Come on, you scrag-end, where are you? I find you..."

He sounded as if he was kicking his way through the crop,  and  getting
closer. If she got up and ran for it, she was dead. If she stayed where  she
was, he'd find her-eventually. He wasn't going to get bored, and  he  wasn't
going to give up.

"Girlie..."

The Weequay's voice was close, to her right, about twenty meters  away.
She sipped a strangled breath and clamped her lips shut again, lungs aching,
eyes streaming with the effort.

"Girlie  .  .  ."  Closer.  He  was  going  to  step  right   on   her.
"Gir-leeeeee..."

She knew what he'd do when he found her. If she was  lucky,  he'd  kill
her afterward.

"Gir-"

The Weequay was interrupted by a loud, wet thwack. He let out  a  grunt
and then there was a second thwack-shorter, sharper, harder. Etain  heard  a
squeal of pain.

"How many times have I got to tell you, di 'kut?" It  was  a  different
voice, human, with an hard edge of authority. Thwack. "Don't-waste-my-time."
Another thwack: another squeal. Etain kept her face  pressed  in  the  dirt.
"You get drunk one more time, you go chasing females one more time, and  I'm
going to slit you from here to-here."

The Weequay shrieked. It was the sort of incoherent animal  sound  that
beings made when pain overwhelmed them. Etain had heard  too  much  of  that
sound in her short time on Qiilura. Then there was silence.

She hadn't heard the voice before, but she didn't  need  to.  She  knew
exactly who it belonged to.

Etain strained to listen, half expecting a heavy boot to suddenly stamp
on her back, but all she could hear was the swish and crunch of two pairs of
feet wading through the crop. Away from her.  She  caught  snatches  of  the
fading conversation as the  wind  took  it:  the  Weequay  was  still  being
berated.

"... more important..."

What was?

"... later, but right now, di 'kut, I need  you  to...  okay?  Or  I'll
cut..."

Etain waited. Eventually all she could hear was the breath of the wind,
the rustling grain, and the occasional fluting call of a ground-eel  seeking
a mate. She allowed herself to breathe normally again, but still she waited,
facedown in ripe manure, until dusk started to fall. She had  to  move  now.
The gdans would be out hunting, combing the fields in packs. On top of that,
the smell that hadn't bothered her while  she  was  gripped  by  terror  was
starting to really bother her now.

She eased herself up on her elbows, then her knees, and looked around.

Why did they have to manure barq so late  in  the  season  anyway?  She
fumbled in the pockets of her cloak for a cloth. Now if only she could  find
a stream, she could clean herself  up.  She  pulled  a  handful  of  stalks,
crushed them into a ball, and tried to scrape off the worst of the dung  and
debris stuck to her.

"That's a pretty expensive crop to be using for that," a voice said.

Etain gulped in a breath and spun around to find a local  in  a  grubby
smock scowling at her. He looked thin, worn out, and annoyed; he was holding
a threshing tool. "Do you know how much that stuff's worth?"

"I'm sorry," she said. Sliding her hand carefully inside her cloak, she
felt for the familiar cylinder. She hadn't wanted the Weequay to  know  that
she was a Jedi, but if this farmer was considering turning her in for a  few
loaves or a bottle of urrqal, she'd need her lightsaber handy. "It was  your
barq or my life, I'm afraid."

The farmer stared at the crushed stalks  and  the  scattered  bead-like
grains, tight-lipped. Yes, barq fetched a huge price in the  restaurants  of
Coruscant: it was a luxury, and the people who grew it for  export  couldn't
afford it. That didn't seem to bother the  Neimoidians  who  controlled  the
trade. It never did.

"I'll pay for the damage," Etain said, her hand still inside the cloak.

"What were they after you for?" the farmer asked, ignoring her offer.

"The usual," she said.

"Oh-ah, you're not that good looking."

"Charming."

"I know who you are."

Oh no. Her grip closed. "You do?"

"I reckon."

A little more food for his  family.  A  few  hours'  drunken  oblivion,
courtesy of urrqal. That was all she was to him.  He  made  as  if  to  step
closer and she drew her arm clear of her cloak, because she was fed up  with
running and she didn't like the look of that threshing tool.

Vzzzzzmmmm.

"Oh, great," the farmer sighed, eyeing the shaft of  pure  blue  light.
"Not one of you lot. That's all we need."

"Yes," she said, and held the lightsaber steady in front of  her  face.
Her stomach had knotted, but she kept her voice under control. "I am Padawan
Etain Tur-Mukan. You can try to turn me in, if you want to  test  my  skill,
but I'd prefer that you help me instead. Your call, sir."

The farmer stared at the lightsaber as if he was trying to work  out  a
price for it. "Didn't help your Master much, that thing, did it?"

"Master  Fulier  was  unfortunate.  And  betrayed."  She  lowered   the
lightsaber but didn't cut the beam. "Are you going to help me?"

"We're going to have Ghez Hokan's thugs all over us if I-"

"I think they're busy," Etain said.

"What do you want from us?"

"Shelter, for the moment."

The farmer sucked his teeth thoughtfully. "Okay. Come on, Padawan-"

"Get used to calling me Etain, please." She thumbed off the lightsaber:
the light died with a ffumm sound, and she slipped the hilt back inside  her
cloak. "Just to be on the safe side."

Etain trailed after him, trying not to smell herself, but it was  hard,
nauseatingly hard. Even a scent-hunting gdan wouldn't  recognize  her  as  a
human. It was getting dark now,  and  the  farmer  kept  glancing  over  his
shoulder at her.

"Oh-ah." He shook his head, engaged in some internal conversation. "I'm
Birhan, and this is my land. And I thought you lot were supposed to be  able
to use some sort of mind control tricks."

"How do you know I haven't?" Etain lied.

"Oh-ah," he said, and nothing more.

She wasn't going to volunteer the obvious if he hadn't spotted  it  for
himself. A disappointment to her Master, she was clearly not the best of the
bunch. She struggled with the Force and she grappled  with  self-discipline,
and she was here because she and Master Fulier happened to be nearby when  a
job needed doing. Fulier never could resist a challenge and long  odds,  and
it looked as if he'd paid the price. They hadn't found  his  body  yet,  but
there had been no word from him, either.

Yes, Etain was a Padawan, technically speaking.

She just happened to be  one  who  was  a  breath  away  from  building
permadomes in refugee camps. She reasoned that part of a  Jedi's  skill  was
the simple use of psychology. And if Birhan wanted to think  the  Force  was
strong in her, and that there was a lot more behind the external shell of  a
gawky, plain girl covered in stinking dung, then that was fine by her.

It would keep her alive a little longer while she worked out what to do
next.

Fleet Support, Ord Mantell, barrack block 5 Epsilon

It was a waste, a rotten waste.

RC-1309 busied himself  maintaining  his  boots.  He  cleaned  out  the
clamps, blowing the red dust clear with a squirt of air  from  the  pressure
gun. He rinsed the liners and shook them dry. There was no point being  idle
while he was waiting to be chilled down.

"Sergeant?"

He looked up. The commando who had walked in placed his survival  pack,
armor, and black bodysuit on the bunk opposite and stared back. His  readout
panel identified him as RC-8015.

"I'm Fi," he said, and held out his hand for shaking. "So you lost your
squad, too."

"Niner," RC-1309 said without  taking  the  proffered  hand.  "So,  ner
vod-my brother-you're the sole survivor?"

"Yes."

"Did you hold back while your brothers pressed on?  Or  were  you  just
lucky?"

Fi stood there with his hands on his hips, identical to Niner in  every
way except that he was... different.  He  spoke  a  little  differently.  He
smelled subtly different. He moved his hands ... not like Niner's squad did,
not at all.

"I did my job," Fi said carefully. "And I'd rather be  with  them  than
here . . . ner vod."

Niner considered him for a while, and went back to cleaning his  boots.
Fi put his kit in the locker beside the bunks, then swung  himself  up  into
the top rack in one smooth motion. He folded his arms under  his  head  very
precisely and lay staring up at the bulkhead as if he were meditating.

If he had been Sev, Niner would have known exactly what he  was  doing,
even without looking. But Sev was gone.

Clone troopers  lost  brothers  in  training.  So  did  commandos.  But
troopers were socialized with  whole  sections,  platoons,  companies,  even
regiments, and that meant that even after the inevitable deaths and removals
during live exercises, there were still plenty of people around you whom you
knew well. Commandos worked solely with each other.

Niner had lost everyone he had grown up with, and so had Fi.

He'd lost a brother before-Two-Eight-on exercise. The  three  survivors
had welcomed the replacement, although they had always felt he was  slightly
different-a little distant-as if he  had  never  quite  believed  he'd  been
accepted.

But they performed to expected levels  of  excellence  together-and  as
long as they did, their  Kaminoan  technicians  and  motley  band  of  alien
instructors didn't seem to care how they felt about it.

But the commandos cared. They just kept it to themselves.

"It was a waste," Niner said.

"What was?" Fi said.

"Deploying us in an operation like Geonosis. It was  an  infantry  job.
Not special ops."

"That sounds like criticism of-"

"I'm just  making  the  point  that  we  couldn't  perform  to  maximum
effectiveness."

"Understood. Maybe when we're revived we'll be able to  do  what  we're
really trained for."

Niner wanted to say that he missed his squad, but that wasn't something
to confide in a stranger. He inspected his boots and was satisfied. Then  he
stood up and spread his bodysuit flat on the mattress  and  checked  it  for
vacuum integrity with the sweep-sensor in his glove.  It  was  a  ritual  so
ingrained in him that he hardly thought about it: maintain boots, suit,  and
armor plates, recalibrate helmet systems, check heads-up display, strip down
and reassemble DC-17, empty and repack survival  pack.  Done.  It  took  him
twenty-six  minutes  and  twenty  seconds,  give  or   take   two   seconds.
Well-maintained gear was often the difference between life and death. So was
two seconds.

He closed the top of his pack with a clack and secured the  seal.  Then
he checked the catches that held the separate ordnance pack to see that they
were moving freely. That mattered  when  he  needed  to  jettison  explosive
materials fast. When he glanced up, Fi was propped  on  one  elbow,  looking
down at him from the bunk.

"Dry rations go on the fifth layer," he said.

Niner always packed them farther down,  between  his  spare  rappelling
line and his hygiene kit. "In your squad, maybe," he said, and carried on.

Fi took the hint and rolled  over  on  his  back  again,  no  doubt  to
meditate on how differently things might be done in the future.

After a while he started singing very quietly, almost under his breath:
Kom 'rk tsad droten troch nyn ures adenn, Dha Werda Verda a 'den tratu. They
were the wrath of the warrior's shadow and the  gauntlet  of  the  Republic;
Niner knew the song. It was a traditional Mandalorian war chant, designed to
boost the morale of normal men who needed a bit  of  psyching  up  before  a
fight. The words had been altered a little to have meaning for the armies of
clone warriors.

We don't need all that, Niner thought. We were born to  fight,  nothing
else.

But he found himself joining in anyway. It was a comfort. He placed his
gear in the locker,  rolled  onto  his  bunk,  and  matched  note  and  beat
perfectly with Fi, two identical voices in the deserted barrack room.

Niner would have traded every remaining moment of his life for a chance
to rerun the previous day's engagement. He would have held Sev and DD  back;
he would have sent O-Four west with the E-Web cannon.

But he hadn't.

Gra'tua cuun hett su dralshy'a. Our vengeance burns brighter still.

Fi's voice trailed off into silence the merest fraction  of  a  section
before Niner's. He heard him swallow hard.

"I was up there with them, Sarge," he  said  quietly.  "I  didn't  hang
back. Not at all."

Niner closed his eyes. He regretted hinting that  Fi  might  have  done
anything less.

"I know, brother," he said. "I know."

[Image001]

Clone personnel have free will, even if they do follow orders. If  they
couldn't think for themselves, we'd be better off with droids-and they 're a
lot cheaper, too. They have to be able to respond  to  situations  we  can't
imagine. Will that change them in ways we can't predict? Perhaps.  But  they
have to be mentally equipped to win wars. Now thaw those

men out. They have a job to do. -Jedi Master Arligan Zey,  intelligence
officer

Secure briefing room, Fleet Support, Ord Mantell, three standard months
after Geonosis

Fleet Support Base hadn't been built to accommodate tens  of  thousands
of troops, and it showed. The briefing room was a cold store, and  it  still
smelled of food and spices. Darman could see the loading rails that  spanned
the ceiling, but he kept his focus on the holoscreen in front of him.

It didn't feel so bad to be  revived  after  stasis.  He  was  still  a
commando. They  hadn't  reconditioned  him.  That  meant-  that  meant  he'd
performed to expected  standards  at  Geonosis.  He'd  done  well.  He  felt
positive.

But his helmet felt different. There was a lot more data  on  the  HUD,
the heads-up display. He flicked between modes for a while, controlling each
command with rapid blinks, noting the extra systems and  hardware  that  had
been installed since Geonosis.

Sitting to his left was his  new  sergeant,  who  preferred  to  be
called Niner when superior officers weren't around, and  RC-8015,  nicknamed
Fi. They, too, were the sole survivors of their squads. At least  they  knew
what he was going through.

There was a fourth makeshift seat  in  the  row-a  blue  alloy  packing
crate-and it was unoccupied. Jedi Master Arligan Zey, hands  clasped  behind
his back, paced up and down in front of the screen, cloak flapping, breaking
the holoprojection each time. Another Jedi, who had not been identified, was
splitting his attention between Zey and the three helmeted commandos sitting
absolutely still on the row of crates.

The reflective surfaces of the spray-clean alloy walls  enabled  Darman
to discreetly observe an unusual alien-one he had never seen before. He  had
been trained to take in every detail of his surroundings,  although  it  was
very difficult not to notice the creature.

The alien was about a meter and a half long, and it was slinking around
the walls, sniffing. Black-furred and glossy, it prowled  on  long  delicate
legs, thrusting a narrow muzzle into crevices and exhaling sharply each time
it did. Earlier, Darman had heard Zey address it as Valaqil: he also said it
was a Gurlanin, a shapeshifter.

Darman had heard about shapeshifters in training,  but  this  wasn't  a
Clawdite. He was watching  its  reflection  in  his  right-field  peripheral
vision when the door swung open and another commando entered, helmet  tucked
rigidly under his right arm, and saluted smartly.

"RC-three-two-two-two, sir," he said. "Apologies for keeping you,  sir.
The medics didn't want to discharge me."

No wonder: there was a stripe of raw flesh across his face that started
just under his right eye, ran clean across his mouth, and finally  ended  at
the left side of his jaw. He certainly didn't look like  any  of  the  other
clones now. Darman wondered what level of persuasion it had taken to get the
medical staff to skip a course of bacta.

"Are you fit, soldier?" Zey said.

"Fit to fight, sir." He sat down next to Darman and  assumed  the  same
ramrod posture, glancing at him briefly in acknowledgment. So this was their
fourth man. They were a squad again-numerically, anyway. Omega Squad.

The other Jedi was staring at the newcomer with an expression of barely
concealed astonishment. Zey seemed  to  notice  and  nudged  his  colleague.
"Padawan  Jusik  is  new  to  clone  armies,  as  are  we  all."  That   was
understandable: Darman had never seen Jedi before the  Battle  of  Geonosis,
and he was equally fascinated. "You'll excuse his curiosity."

Zey gestured at the holoscreen.

"This is your objective, gentlemen-Qiilura." He glanced at his datapad,
reading  intently.  "This  data  has  been   obtained   from   high-altitude
reconnaissance, so it has its limitations."

Zey went  on,  "Qiilura  is  technically  neutral.  Unfortunately,  its
neutral status is likely due to end very soon."

He had referred to them as gentlemen. Maybe Zey  didn't  know  what  to
call commandos. It was still early days for all of them.

The image on the screen began as a blue-and-white disc, zooming  in  to
views of chains of islands, deep river inlets, and rolling  plains  peppered
with patches of woodland  and  gameboard  fields.  It  looked  pleasant  and
peaceful, and hence utterly alien to Darman, whose entire life beyond Tipoca
City had been spent on battlefields, real or virtual.

"You're looking at farming communities, almost all of them located here
in this region because it's the most fertile land," Zey said. "They  produce
barq, kushayan, and fifty percent of the luxury foodstuffs and beverages  in
the galaxy. There's also gem mining. The population is  nevertheless  living
at subsistence level, and there is no  government  other  than  the  law  of
commerce and profit-Neimoidian traders effectively own  the  planet,  or  at
least the productive areas that are of  use  to  them.  They  enforce  their
stewardship through a militia controlled  by  Ghez  Hokan-a  Mandalorian  so
unpleasantly violent that he was actually asked to leave the Death Squad for
enjoying his work too much."

Jusik looked up from his datapad.  He  appeared  to  be  following  the
presentation. "Scum," he  said.  "One  of  our  sources   calls  them  scum,
indicating ... a very disagreeable group of people."

Zey paused for breath  as  if  to  ensure  that  the  last  snippet  of
information had made its point. "Given how thinly  stretched  our  resources
are, we are unfortunately unable to justify intervening  to  deal  with  any
injustice on Qiilura at this time. But we have excellent  intelligence  that
indicates a significant military asset located there."

Darman was listening, and still watching the Gurlanin peripherally.  It
had moved around the room to sit upright beside Jusik, with its  front  paws
neatly clasped before its chest. He was also observing  Jusik.  The  Padawan
still  appeared  riveted  by  the  commandos.  Darman  was  careful  not  to
stare-even though any eye movement was disguised by his helmet- because Jedi
knew things without having to see. His instructors had  told  him  so.  Jedi
were omniscient, omnipotent, and to be obeyed at all times.

Darman hung on Zey's every word.

"Qiilura isn't on the main lane, so to speak,"  Zey  said.  "Ideal  for
hiding, if that's your intention. And there are things hidden there. We need
you to apprehend one, and destroy the other-a Separatist  scientist,  Ovolot
Qail Uthan, and her most recent project, a  nanovirus.  We  have  reason  to
believe both are at a research facility on Qiilura."

Zey paused, and Jusik filled the space. "We have a Jedi  there,  Master
Kast Fulier, but we haven't heard from him or his Padawan in some weeks."

Zey picked up again. "And let me assure you that we've  been  searching
diligently for them. We have a location for our targets, but no plans of the
buildings. The lack of plans will make your retrieval and sabotage task more
challenging, as will the communications situation. Questions?"

Niner raised a gloved hand  from  his  lap.  "Sir,  what  is  the  comm
situation, exactly?"

"Neimoidians."

"Not quite with you, sir."

Zey looked  blank  for  a  moment,  and  then  his  face  lit  up  with
revelation. "The Neimoidians own  and  control  all  the  infrastructure-the
native population scarcely have pits for  refreshers,  but  their  overlords
enjoy the finest comlink net and air traffic control that credits  can  buy.
They like to ensure that nobody does business without  their  knowledge.  So
they monitor everything, and very little intelligence comes out- you'll have
to avoid using the long-range comlink. Do you understand me, soldier?"

"Sir, yes sir, General Zey."

There was a pause, a long pause, and Zey looked along the row of  three
helmets and a damaged face as if waiting for something. The Jedi had said he
hadn't worked with clones before; maybe he  was  expecting  a  dialogue.  He
stopped at Darman. The potential embarrassment to the Master prompted Darman
to fill the silent void.

It was an obvious question to ask, really.

"What's the nature of the nanovirus, sir?"

Zey's head moved back just a fraction. "An intelligent and  significant
question," he said.

"Thank you, sir."

"The answer, then, should be of great interest to  you  personally.  It
appears to be specifically aimed at clone personnel."

The sleek black Gurlanin drew itself up to a greater height. "They fear
you, and with good reason," it said in a deep, liquid voice. "So  they  wish
to kill, as all ignorant beings do when they encounter something  they  fear
and misunderstand."

It continued elongating and now appeared to be standing. It had changed
shape.

"Yes," Zey said slowly, dragging the word into two  syllables,  and  he
looked away from the spectacle of molecular rearrangement. "At this time you
still have an advantage-the Separatists almost  certainly  aren't  aware  of
your potential as clone commandos. They have no idea what you  can  achieve,
and perhaps we  have  no  idea,  either.  But  you  have  been  created  for
excellence, and trained to realize that potential by  the  most  experienced
instructors in the galaxy. We have very high expectations." Zey slipped  his
hands into his cloak, head lowered slightly. "If you happen to  find  Master
Fulier safe, we would be relieved, but Uthan and the facility are your  main
priorities. Do you understand everything I have said?"

"Yes sir." Darman nodded once and so did  the  others,  but  it  wasn't
quite a synchronized movement. We'll get it right, he thought. A  couple  of
days' training, that'll sort it. Train hard, fight easy.

"I'll leave you to my Padawan, then," Zey said, and swept out,  pausing
briefly at the door to look back at the commandos, tilting his head as if he
was either amazed or amused.

Jusik swallowed hard. The Gurlanin flowed from a  column  back  into  a
four-limbed thing, and moved to sit beside RC-3222, gazing up  at  him.  The
commando didn't react.

"Ahhh," it sighed. It had a  voice  like  running  water.  "My,  that's
indeed Fett's face. Fascinating."

Jusik gestured to the exit. "I'm your armorer," he said.  "Weapons  and
data. Follow me and I'll show you what you'll have at your disposal."

The commandos rose as one-more or less-and  followed  him  through  the
door and down a passage still strewn with victualing containers.  The  place
smelled of stewed nerf even through Darman's filtration mask.  The  Gurlanin
flowed before them, now  a  sinuous  predator,  now  a  trotting  quadruped,
shifting shape as it went.

Jusik stopped at a door at the end of the passage and turned to them."I
wonder if I could ask the rest of you to remove your helmets."

Nobody asked why, and they all obeyed, even though it wasn't phrased as
the unequivocal order they were expecting. The helmet seals made faint  ssss
sounds as they opened.

"Oh," Jusik said, and stared for a second. Then he opened the door  and
they stepped into a makeshift armory.

It was a cache of treasures. There  were  upgrades  and  bolt-ons  that
Darman knew might fit  his  existing  gear,  and  ordnance  that  he  didn't
recognize but looked like Republic issue,  and  there  were  .  ..  exotics.
Weapons he recalled from his database as  belonging  to  a  dozen  different
species-and

quite a few that he couldn't place  at  all-were  laid  out  neatly  on
trestle tables. It was inviting, almost as inviting as a meal.

"That all looks rather useful, sir," Niner said.

"Delta Squad has been collecting a few things here  and  there,"  Jusik
said. The commandos were focused on the weaponry, but Darman was also noting
Jusik's behavior with growing interest. The Padawan stood back  to  let  the
men get a closer look at the armaments but he was watching  them  carefully.
"You're nothing like droids at all, are you?"

"No sir," Fi said. "We're flesh and blood. Bred to be the best."

"Like Advanced Recon Commandos?"

"Not quite ARCs, sir. Not like clone troopers, either.  We  don't  work
alone and we don't work in formations. We just look the same."

"This is your unit of four, then? A squad?" He seemed to be recalling a
hurried lesson. "Almost like a family?"

Niner cut in. "It is  now,  sir."  He  picked  up  a  portable  missile
launcher that  looked  slightly  different  from  the  standard-issue  plex.
"Light. Very light."

"Merr-Sonn prototype," Jusik  said.  "Novel  alloy,  heavier  payloads,
extra range. It has a microrepulsorlift stabilizing unit, but  they  haven't
resolved all the more challenging  technical  issues  yet.  So  consider  it
shoulder-launching." He peered at 3222's face. "Is that painful?"

"Not too bad, sir," the commando said. But the wound had to  hurt  like
fire. The abraded skin was still weeping. "I'll see to it later."

It didn't seem to be the answer Jusik was  expecting,  judging  by  the
slight uh sound he made. Maybe he thought  clones  didn't  feel  pain,  like
droids. "Do you have names? I don't mean numbers. Names."

Now, that was a very private thing. You kept  your  name  to  yourself,
your squad, and your training sergeant. Darman was embarrassed for him.

"My squad called me Atin," the wounded commando said.

Niner glanced  at  Fi  but  said  nothing.  Atin  was  Mandalorian  for
"stubborn."

Jusik held up two reels of line that  looked  like  matte  ribbon,  one
black, one white. He took a ribbon of each color, twisted two short  lengths
together, and held up the braid in one hand and a  bead-sized  detonator  in
the other. "One meter is the equivalent yield of a  thermal  detonator,  but
it's directional. Ideal for making a frame charge. But be cautious with  the
quantity if you want to enter a building, rather than destroy it completely.
You have some special implosion ordnance for that purpose."

"Any useful hand-thrown stuff?" Darman asked. "Stun grenades?"

"We have a few Geonosian sonic  detonators,  and  a  box  of  EMPs  for
anti-droid use."

"That'll do me fine. I'll take the lot."

Niner was watching Darman intently. "You're obviously  our  demolitions
man," he said. Then the sergeant turned back to  the  Padawan.  "We've  been
thoroughly trained, sir. You can have complete confidence in us."

That was true, Darman thought. They had been very  thoroughly  trained,
day in, day out, for ten years, and the only time they weren't training  was
when they were sleeping. Even if they were  untested  as  a  special  forces
unit-apart from playing infantry three months ago-Darman had no  doubt  that
they would  perform  to  expected  standards.  He  was  happy  to  have  the
demolition role. He was proud of his skill in what was delicately  known  as
rapid entry.

"What do you think happened to Master Fulier, sir?"  Darman  asked.  He
wouldn't normally have posed unnecessary  questions,  but  Arligan  Zey  had
seemed to approve of  his  curiosity,  and  Darman  was  conditioned  to  do
whatever Jedi generals wished.

Jusik opened a case of Kamino saberdarts and held it out as if offering
a tray of uj cakes. "Valaqil believes he was betrayed by a native," he said.
"They've been known to do anything to earn food or a few credits."

Darman wondered how a Jedi could be taken  by  anything  less  than  an
army. He'd seen them fight at Geonosis. His warfare was  a  science;  theirs
appeared to be an art. "Didn't he have his lightsaber?"

"He did," the Gurlanin said. "But  Master  Fulier  has,  or  had,  some
discipline issues."

Darman-a soldier able to withstand every privation in  the  field,  and
whose greatest fear was to wither from age rather than  die  in  combat-felt
inexplicably uncomfortable at the idea of a Jedi having failings.

"Master Fulier was-is a courageous Jedi," Jusik said, almost losing his
composed manner for a moment. "He is simply passionate about justice."

Niner defused the moment.  Darman  felt  reassured  by  his  effortless
authority. "Sir, how long have we got to plan the mission and attempt a  few
dry runs?" he said.

"Eight standard hours,"  Jusik  replied,  almost  apologetic.  "Because
that's how long the journey to Qiilura will take. You're embarking now."

Etain emptied her bag on the straw mattress in the drying barn.

Despite appearances, this was the guest suite. Livestock wasn't allowed
in the barn at this time of year because animals had a tendency to  eat  the
barq grain, and that was an awfully expensive way to fatten merlies for  the
table. The animals were allowed in the main house, and in  the  winter  they
even slept there, partly to keep the place warm and partly to  protect  them
from prowling gdans.

The house had smelled like it, too. Nothing of the  merlies-  not  even
their body heat or their pungent odor-was  ever  wasted.  "Keeps  them  bugs
away," Birhan had told her. "It's a good stink."

Etain knelt beside the mattress and tried to think her way out  of  her
predicament. Master Fulier was probably dead: if he weren't, he  would  have
returned for her. He was-had been-brilliant, magnificently skilled  when  he
was focused on being so. But he was also impatient, and inclined not to walk
away from matters that weren't his concern, and those were two factors  that
didn't mix well with a covert mission.

He'd decided one of Hokan's thugs needed to learn a lesson  in  how  to
respect the local population. All it took was for one of  the  Mandalorian's
lieutenants to offer the same locals more than the  price  of  a  bottle  of
urrqal to say where and when Fulier was in town.

Town. That was a joke.

Imbraani wasn't Coruscant, not at all. The only infrastructure  in  the
rambling collection of farmsteads was devoted  to  what  it  took  to  grow,
harvest, and export its cash crops, and to the  comfort  of  its  commercial
overlords. Etain had grown up in a world where you could travel at will  and
send messages easily, and neither of those taken-for-granted facilities  was
readily available here.

Etain needed one of two things right now: to get passage  off  Qiilura,
or to get a data transmission out in her stead. She still had a  mission  to
complete, if only to justify Master Fulier's sacrifice.  She  took  a  small
sphere from the scattering of possessions on the mattress and opened  it  in
two halves like a shef'na fruit.

A holochart blossomed into three dimensions in her cupped  hands,  then
another, then another. She had  layouts  of  half  a  dozen  Neimoidian  and
Separatist buildings in the surrounding region, because Fulier  hadn't  been
the only one who was careless. After a few  bottles  of  urrqal,  the  local
construction workers dropped their guard.

Etain was neither a natural warrior nor a great charmer,  but  she  was
aware of her talent for spotting opportunities. It made up for a lot.

She wasn't sure if her Master's fate was tied in to the holoschematics,
or if he'd been seen as a direct threat to Uthan. She suspected  Ghez  Hokan
might even have done something simply because he didn't much care for  Jedi.
Play warriors, he called them. He despised anyone who didn't fight with hard
metal or their fists. Mandalorians were  tough;  but  Hokan  operated  at  a
totally different level of brutality. Etain had realized that the moment she
and Fulier had walked through what was left of  a  four-house  village  that
must have displeased him in some way.

She would never erase those images from her mind.  She  meditated  hard
twice a day. It still wasn't helping. Settling down on her knees, she  tried
again, slowing her breathing, calming her heart.

The gravel outside the barn crunched.

Etain picked up her lightsaber from the mattress  as  she  stuffed  the
holochart sphere in her tunic. Her thumb hovered over the  controls  set  in
the hilt. She should have sensed someone coming, but  she  had  allowed  her
fatigue and despair to get the better of her. I  didn't  check  for  another
exit, she thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I might have to use this...

As the plank door swung open, she flicked the button and the blue light
pierced the dusty air. The merlie that wandered in didn't appear  impressed.
Nor did the small elderly woman who followed it.

"You're jumpy," she said. She had a  covered  tray  in  her  hands  and
something bundled under one arm. The merlie nuzzled Etain's  knees,  seeking
attention. They were distressingly intelligent animals, nearly a meter  high
at the shoulder and covered with long brown ringlets of wool;  their  round,
green eyes were too disturbingly human for Etain's peace  of  mind.  "Here's
your dinner."

"Thank you," Etain said, watching as the woman put the tray down on the
mattress and placed the bundle of brown fabric beside it.

"Quite a job getting that dung off your cloak," the woman said,  eyeing
the lightsaber the way Birhan had. "Still a bit damp. But clean."

"Thank you," Etain repeated. She turned off the blade  and  peeled  the
cloth back from the tray. Two rough clay plates held a couple of thin-breads
and a mush of stew, on top of which whole  barq  grains  were  visible.  She
could smell their cloying musky scent.

That quantity of barq was a week's  earnings  for  these  people.  "You
shouldn't have gone to that trouble for me," Etain said, embarrassed.

"You're a guest," the woman said. "Besides, once I'd scraped  the  dung
off, shame to waste the grains stuck to it, eh? Oh-ah."

Etain's stomach rolled but she kept a  steady  expression.  Coruscant's
food hygiene regulations certainly didn't apply here.

"Very kind of you," she said, and forced a smile.

"They're coming, you know," the woman said.

"I'll be ready," Etain lied, and indicated the lightsaber.

"No, not them Hokan thugs. Not them at all."

Etain wondered whether to press her, but decided  against  it  for  the
time being. She had no idea who she'd be asking for answers.

The woman sighed and shooed the merlie  out  the  door  with  impatient
hands. "They're coming, all right," she said, and smiled, closing  the  door
behind her.

[Image002]

CLASSIFIED, HIGHEST: ENCRYPTION ONLY

You 're the best in your field-the best soldiers, tacticians,

sappers, communicators, survival experts. I picked you

personally because I want you to train the best commandos

in the galaxy. You'll have everything you need, whatever

you want, except one thing-home. This is a top-secret

project. You'll not tell anyone where you 're going and you'll

not leave Kamino, ever. As far as your friends and family

are concerned, you're already dead.

-Jango Fett, recruiting his handpicked commando

instructors, the Cuy'vul Dar-in the Mandalorian tongue,

"those who no longer exist"

The Neimoidians had a taste  for  elaborate  and  wholly  inappropriate
grandeur, and Ghez Hokan despised them for it.

Lik Ankkit's huge villa was set on top of a hill overlooking a kushayan
plantation-a foolish choice given the prevailing winds,  but  it  seemed  to
satisfy the Neimoidian's need to show he was boss. The location  might  have
made sense from a military perspective, but-as Ankkit  was  a  bean-counting
coward like all of his kind-he didn't need defensibility, either.

No, the Neimoidian was a di'kut. A complete and utter di'kut.

Hokan ran up the hedge-flanked steps of the veranda spanning the entire
front of the building, headdress tucked under  one  arm,  his  shatter  gun,
knives, and rope-spike provocatively visible in his belt.

He wasn't rushing to see his paymaster, oh no. He was just in  a  hurry
to get the meeting over with. He ignored the servants and minions and  swept
into Ankkit's spacious office with its panoramic view  of  the  countryside.
Qiilura's  commercial  overlord  was  watering  pots  of  flowers   on   the
windowsill. He paused to flick one with his  fingertip,  and  it  sprayed  a
powerful, sickly scent into the air. He inhaled with parted lips.

"I do wish you would knock, Hokan," Ankkit said without turning around.
"It's really most discourteous."

"You summoned me," Hokan said flatly.

"Merely checking on the progress of your conversations with the Jedi."

"Had there been any, I would have called you."

"You haven't killed him, have you? Do tell me you haven't.  I  need  to
know if his activities will affect market prices."

"I'm not an amateur."

"But one has to do the best with the staff one has, yes?"

"I do my own dirty work, thanks. No, he isn't talking.  He's  rather...
resistant for a Jedi."

If Ankkit had had a nose, he would have been looking down it at  Hokan.
Hokan controlled an impulsive urge to cut this  glorified  shopkeeper,  this
grocer, down to size. For all his height, the Neimoidian was soft and  weak,
his only strength  contained  within  his  bank  account.  He  blinked  with
passionless,  liquid  red  eyes.   Hokan   almost-almost-reached   for   his
rope-spike.

"Jedi do not visit worlds like this to  take  the  therapeutic  waters,
Hokan. Have you confirmed that he has an associate?"

"He's a Jedi Master. He was seen with a Padawan."

"Not a very discreet Jedi Master, it seems."

Fulier couldn't have been good at calculating odds or he'd  never  have
started on Gar-Ul in the tavern. But at least he was prepared  to  stand  up
for himself, despite all that  soft  mystical  nonsense  he  spouted.  Hokan
admired guts, even if he rarely tolerated them. They were  always  in  short
supply.

"We'll find the Padawan, and we'll find out  what  intelligence  Fulier
has, if any."

"Make sure you do. I have a lucrative contract resting on this."

Hokan had become practiced at controlling his urge to lash out, but  he
saw no reason to subject his mouth to the same discipline.  "If  I  succeed,
it'll be because I take pride in my work."

"You need the credits."

"For the time being. But one day, Ankkit, I won't need you at all."

Ankkit gathered his robes a little closer and drew himself  up  to  his
full height, which had no effect on Hokan at all.

"You must learn to accept your reduced station in the  galactic  order,
Hokan," Ankkit said. "This is no longer the  hierarchy  of  brute  force  in
which your warrior ancestors thrived.  Today  we  need  to  be  soldiers  of
intellect  and  commerce,  and  no  amount  of  strutting  around  in   that
museum-piece uniform will revive your . . . glorious past.  Alas,  even  the
great Jango Fett succumbed to a Jedi in the end."

News traveled fast. Fett was a source  of  pride  among  the  remaining
handful of Mandalorians in diaspora. Even if he fought for money, he was the
best. Ankkit must have known perfectly well  how  much  that  comment  would
sting.

Hokan was determined that the Neimoidian would see no evidence  on  his
face to prove it. He'd certainly tried to keep that out of his mind when  he
was interrogating Fulier, much as he  wanted  to  blame  all  Jedi  for  the
humiliation of a cultural hero. He had to be clear why he was  smashing  the
Jedi's bones. Revenge was unprofessional.

He took a careful breath. "Do you keep gdans as pets,  Ankkit?  I  hear
some offworlders do try."

"Gdans? No. Filthy little creatures. Most savage."

"But if you did keep one,  and  didn't  feed  it  well,  would  you  be
surprised if it bit you?"

"I suppose not."

"Then feed me well."

Hokan turned and  walked  out  without  being  dismissed,  deliberately
unbidden, and deliberately fast so that Ankkit couldn't have the last  word.
He replaced his helmet and ran down the steps of the ludicrously extravagant
villa.

He didn't care if Ankkit rented the  whole  planet  out  to  Separatist
scientists. They weren't  honorable  enough  to  fight  with  real  weapons,
either: they got bugs to do their work for them. It was a disgrace.  It  was
unnatural.

Hokan felt in his blood-red jacket for the  Jedi's  weapon.  It  didn't
look like much at all. And it was surprisingly easy to activate, even though
he suspected that fully mastering it might be another matter. A humming blue
shaft of light, vivid as day,  shot  out  from  the  hilt.  Hokan  swept  it
scythe-style along a neatly clipped tarmul  hedge,  cutting  its  height  in
half.

The lightsaber wasn't bad for a soft Jedi weapon.

Hokan suspected the lightsaber looked  at  odds  with  his  traditional
Mandalorian helmet and its distinctive T-shaped eye slit. But a warrior  had
to adapt.

And Fulier had questions to answer.

Docking Bay D-768, Fleet Support Air Station, Ord Mantell

The Nar Shaddaa agri-utility crop sprayer on the pad looked as if  only
its   rust   was   holding   it   together.   It   was,   to   use   Jusik's
uncharacteristically colorful description, an old clunker.

And-somehow-it was taking them to Qiilura.  It  wouldn't  attract  much
attention flying over farming country, unless, of course,  it  broke  up  in
flight. This didn't seem out of the question.

"Well, they don't build them like that anymore," Fi said.

"That's because not even the Hutt Aviation Authority would certify this
Narsh dirt-crate airworthy," Niner said, straining to prevent his pack  from
bending  him  over  backward.  He  was  laden   with   nearly   double   the
twenty-five-kilo weight he was  used  to  carrying,  along  with  a  powered
emergency chute. Niner had never actually come  across  the  HAA,  but  he'd
absorbed every scrap of intel read, seen, or heard in his life. "Anyway, all
it has to do is get us down there."

"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.

He switched on the  holoprojection  in  his  datapad  and  studied  the
three-dimensional flight path over fields, lakes, and forest.  It  was  part
real image, part simulation. Projected onto an  existing  chart,  they  were
looking at an area thirty klicks north of a small town called Imbraani.

A single-story building with shabby sheet-metal roofing- ringed  by  an
incongruously well-cut expanse of grass-nestled in a  plantation  of  kuvara
trees. Some of the image was blurred, but it was the best resolution that  a
surveillance  remote  could  manage  at  that  distance  above  the  planet.
Specks-people- wandered around an encircling path.

"It's the capture alive bit that  complicates  matters,"  Darman  said,
gazing at the image over Niner's shoulder. "Or else we could  just  bomb  it
back into Hurt space."

"That's why they created us," Niner said. "For the complicated jobs."

He closed his eyes for a few moments to visualize the insertion: he saw
it from takeoff to landing, smooth and planned, every  detail,  or  as  many
details as their incomplete intel could furnish and his own experience of  a
hundred exercises could confirm.

In this detached state, something occurred to him. He pictured  Jusik's
face and his awkward, nervous shrugs. He realized what the Padawan had meant
when he said he was hoping to debrief them personally on their return.

He meant Good luck. He wanted them to survive.

Niner, who had known for as long as he could remember  that  he  was  a
soldier bred to die, found that intriguing.

Gdans were about thirty centimeters long, fully grown, and  it  took  a
whole pack of them to bring down even a merlie calf. But at night-when  they
emerged from their warrens and hunted-the farmers  locked  their  doors  and
stayed clear of the fields.

It wasn't so much their teeth that the locals feared. It was the deadly
bacteria the animals carried; a minor scratch or a bite  was  almost  always
fatal. And Master Fulier had used their entire  supply  of  bacta  spray  in
administering first aid to villagers, so Etain was as housebound at night as
any of her hosts.

She could hear the little predators outside, squabbling and scrabbling.
She sat cross-legged on the mattress and chewed on the  thin-breads,  almost
hungry enough to gulp down the stew, but not that hungry. A few bacteria are
good for your immune  system,  she  thought.  You've  probably  eaten  worse
without knowing.

But she knew this time.

Leaving the bowl where it stood, she rolled the holochart  sphere  over
and over in her palms, running through all the possibilities for getting the
information to the Jedi Council. Stow away in a transport-possible. Transmit
the data from ground? No, all transmissions were tightly controlled  by  the
Neimoidians; any other message traffic from Qiilura to Coruscant would  draw
instant attention. There was always the possibility  of  finding  the  right
droid courier, but that was a long shot, and it might take so much  time  as
to be useless.

Perhaps she'd have to do the job herself.

Lightsabers were superb weapons, but right now she needed an army.  The
realization that she had beaten the odds to obtain valuable information  but
was now unable to get it to those who needed it almost crushed her.

"I'm not done yet," she said aloud. But she feared  that  she  was,  at
least for the night. Her eyelids felt heavy and she braced her elbows on her
knees, letting her head rest in her hands.

A good night's sleep. She might have a better idea in the morning.  Her
eyes closed. Images of Coruscant, her clan  practicing  passing  a  ball  by
thought alone, a nice hot bath, food she trusted to be clean ...

Then, suddenly, every fiber in her body leapt at once. Heart  pounding,
Etain thought at first that she'd had one of those half  dreams  of  falling
that sometimes came when she was dozing off. But now she was fully awake and
knew that she hadn't.

Something had changed. Something in the Force  had  been  altered,  and
forever. She jumped to her feet, suddenly clear what it was; she  needed  no
training or education to understand it. Every instinct coded  in  her  genes
cried out.

Something-someone-was gone from the Force.

"Master," she said.

She had suspected he was dead. Now she knew he was, and she knew it had
happened right then. It was impossible not to wonder how and where, but  she
knew enough about the Neimoidians' hired  muscle  and  their  techniques  to
guess.

Ignoring the ever-present gdans, she went to the barn door and swung it
open. It was an act of helplessness. There was nothing she could do, now  or
ever.

Something rustled in the grass. It was a  solitary  something,  and  it
sounded larger than a gdan. She noticed for the first time that the constant
snuffling and squabbling of the gdan packs had stopped. They'd gone.

Etain felt for her lightsaber, just in case.

Loud squawking and a flurry of wings made her start. A disturbed  flock
of leatherbacks rose into the air and scattered in  the  darkness,  trailing
sparks of light from their scales. Through  the  Force,  she  detected  only
small creatures with simple desires, and a male merlie wandering  along  the
fence, armed with such  fearsome  tusks  that  not  even  gdans  would  risk
approaching him.

She looked up at the night sky. It appeared unchanging,  constant:  but
she knew it never was.

They 're coming.

She thought she heard the old woman's voice. Putting it down  to  grief
and lack of sleep, Etain stumbled back inside and barred the door.

It was just another crop sprayer hired to dress the  fields  after  the
barq harvest, laden with bug killers and soil enhancers  and  piloted  by  a
droid. At least, that was what the Narsh crate's transponder  had  told  the
Qiilura traffic controller, and judging by the absence of a missile  up  the
tailpipe, he had believed it.

Darman was still exploring the enhancements to his helmet and suit.  "I
used to think I wore this armor," he said. "Now I think it's wearing me."

"Yeah, they spent some credits upgrading  this  since  last  time,"  Fi
said. "Wow. Walking weapons system, eh?"

"Two hundred klicks," Atin said, without looking up from  his  datapad.
He'd propped his helmet beside him with the  tactical  beam  pointed  up  to
provide some light in the closed bay. Darman  couldn't  hear  him  over  the
noise of the vessel's atmosphere  engines,  but  he  could  lip-read  easily
enough. "Let's hope everything works."

It was helmets on at one hundred klicks. The squad  was  prepared  both
for a controlled landing and an early bailout and free  fall  if  they  were
picked up by Separatist ground units. Darman hoped their  luck  would  hold.
They were landing heavy, with more gear than they'd ever used  in  training,
and they'd have to hit the drop zone accurately to avoid an impossible  trek
across country. Accurate, if they had to jump for  it,  meant  high-altitude
low-opening procedure. They could drift for fifty klicks if they  opted  for
the safer, slower high-opening technique.

Darman didn't relish being defenseless in the air for that long.

Niner was studying his datapad, balancing it  on  his  right  thigh.  A
three-dimensional shimmering holo of their flight path played out a handspan
above it. He glanced up at Darman and gave him a silent thumbs-up: On course
and on target. Darman returned the gesture.

There was an art  to  loading  up  for  a  mission  when  carrying  the
firepower of a small army among four men. Darman  had  loaded  his  pack  to
capacity. The rest of his weapons and ordnance was in  a  second  shockproof
container that stood  knee-high.  The  bowcaster-he  loved  that  weapon-was
strapped across his chest plate with jury-rigged webbing, to leave his hands
free for the DC-17. He had an assortment of detonators, kept safely separate
from the charges and other ordnance in the lower  section.  He  was  now  so
heavy even without the extra equipment that he had to bounce to get  upright
from a sitting position. He rehearsed standing a few times.  It  was  tough.
Fortunately, the squad would be inserted close to the target. He didn't have
to haul it far.

"One hundred  klicks,"  Atin  said.  He  switched  off  his  spot-lamp.
"Helmets."

The compartment was suddenly dark, and there was a collective  hiss  of
helmet seals purging and reengaging. They could only talk to each  other  at
very short range now: on Qiilura,  anything  more  than  ten  meters  risked
detection. The only visible light was the faint blue glow from the  heads-up
display in their visors, a group of  ghostly  disembodied  T-shapes  in  the
gloom, and the shimmering landscape playing out from  Niner's  datapad.  His
head was tilted down slightly, watching the actual position of  the  utility
vessel in the simulated landscape.

The sprayer started to lose height, exactly on course. In a  matter  of
minutes, they would be-

Bang.

A shudder ran through the airframe, and then there was no engine  noise
at all.

For a second Darman thought they'd  been  hit  by  anti-aircraft  fire.
Niner was on his feet instantly, moving forward to the cockpit, accidentally
whacking Atin  with  his  pack  as  he  turned.  Darman,  without  conscious
decision, grabbed the emergency hatch handle and prepared to activate it for
a bailout.

Darman could see the droid clicking and flashing, apparently engaged in
a dialogue of some kind with the vessel. The ship wasn't listening.

"AA, Sarge?"

"Birdstrike," Niner said, deceptively quiet. "Atmos engine's fried."

"Can the R5 glide this thing down?"

"It's trying."

The deck tilted, and Darman grabbed at the bulkhead  to  stay  upright.
"No, that isn't gliding. That's crashing."

"Bang out," Niner said. "Bang out now."

The Narsh dirt-crate hadn't let them down. It  had  just  succumbed  to
being in the wrong airspace at the wrong  time,  and  met  the  local  avian
species the hard way. Now they were plummeting toward the  kind  of  landing
not even the latest Katarn armor could help them survive.

Darman blew the hatch, and the inrush  of  air  sent  dirt  and  debris
whirling through the cargo bay. The door fell away through the  opening.  It
was pitch black outside, a challenge  for  a  free-faller  even  with  night
vision. Darman was starting to experience serious doubt for the second  time
in his life. He wondered if he was becoming one of those despised  creatures
that his training sergeant had called cowards.

"Go go go," Niner shouted. Fi and Atin  eased  through  the  hatch  and
stepped out. Don't try to jump, just let yourself fall. Darman stood back to
make way for Niner: he wanted to salvage as much  gear  as  he  could.  They
needed the repeating blasters. He grabbed some of the dismantled sections.

"Now," Niner said. "You first."

"We need the gear." Darman thrust two sections  at  him.  "Take  these.
I'll-"

"I said jump."

Darman wasn't a rash man. None  of  them  were.  They  took  calculated
risks, though, and he calculated that Niner wouldn't leave him. His sergeant
was standing at the open hatch, arm held out imperiously, a  clear  sign  to
get on with it and jump. No, Darman had made up his mind. He lunged  forward
and shoulder-charged Niner out of the hatch, grabbing the door frame just in
time to stop from plunging after him.  It  was  clear  from  the  stream  of
expletives that Niner was not expecting this, nor was he happy about it. The
extra pack jerked out after  him  on  its  tether.  Darman  heard  one  last
profanity and then Niner was out of range.

Darman grabbed a strap  and  peered  down,  but  he  couldn't  see  his
sergeant falling, and that probably meant nobody else could, either. He  now
had a minute, more or less, to salvage what he could and get out before  the
utility hit the ground.

He switched on his helmet lamp. He couldn't  afford  the  time  to
listen to the rushing wind and the complete  absence  of  reassuring  engine
noise, but he heard it anyway. He dropped the bowcaster  and  began  lashing
the blaster sections together with a line. It was  a  shame.  He  loved  the
bowcaster, but they needed those cannons more.

Knotting lines was hard enough with gloves on, but was even harder when
you were seconds from crashing. Darman fumbled a knot. He cursed. He  looped
the line again and this time it held. He let out a sob  of  relief,  dropped
the weapon, and dragged the gear down to the hatch. Nobody could hear him at
this range, and he didn't care what the droid thought.

Then he stepped out into black void. The wind took him.

There was no rushing landscape beneath him yet to  take  his  attention
from the heads-up  display.  He  was  free-falling  at  nearly  two  hundred
kilometers an hour, trailing sections of heavy, heavy cannon. He  maneuvered
into tracking position, pack square across his back, rifle  tight  into  his
side, the remainder of his gear on the container that rested on the backs of
his legs. When he deployed the canopy at  eight  hundred  meters,  he  would
release the container. And he'd use the powered-descent option, because that
might save him from the unsupported, potentially  lethal  weight  of  cannon
that was falling with him.

Yes, he knew exactly what he was doing. And yes, he was scared.

He'd never jumped with so much unsecured load in training.

The canopy deployed, and it felt like he'd slammed  into  a  wall.  The
power pack kicked in, heating up the air around him. He could steer now.  He
counted down fifteen seconds.

Something flared into brilliant white flame beneath  him,  off  to  his
right-the Narsh vessel crashing some thirty klicks short of the target zone.

Darman realized he had thought nothing of leaving the R5 on  board  the
stricken utility. It was expendable.

And that was how he was seen, he supposed. It was surprisingly easy  to
think that way

He could see the ground now. His night vision could pick out  the  tops
of trees, right beneath.

No, no, no.

He tried to miss. He failed.

He hit something very, very hard in the air. Then he hit the ground and
didn't feel anything at all.

.

[Image003]

This is the true art of genetic selection and manipulation.

A human is naturally a learning creature, but it is also

violent, selfish, lustful, and undisciplined. So we must walk

the knife-edge between suppressing the factors that lead to

disobedience and destroying that prized capacity for

applying intelligence and aggression.

-Hali Ke, senior research geneticist of Kamino

Niner was hauling in his canopy when the explosion jerked him  upright.
A column of white roiling fire shot into the night sky above the tops of the
trees. He knew it was hot and  bright  because  his  helmet  visor's  filter
kicked in to stop it from overwhelming his night vision.

Even though he knew it was coming,  his  heart  sank.  Darman  probably
hadn't made it. He'd disobeyed his order. He hadn't jumped when he told  him
to.

So maybe you've lost a brother. Maybe not. Either way, you'll lose  two
more if you don't get your act together fast.

Niner triangulated the position of the blast and then went on  bundling
up the free-fall canopy, cutting away the lengths of cord before burying it.
With a breaking strength of five hundred kilos, the cord was bound  to  come
in handy. He wound each length  in  a  figure-eight  around  his  thumb  and
smallest finger and slipped the skeins into  a  belt  pouch,  then  went  in
search of his extra pack.

It hadn't fallen far from him. The low-opening technique worked well if
you needed accuracy. Niner found the pack at the edge of a field, covered in
small dark-furred animals that seemed fascinated by it and were  gnawing  at
the soft padding strip on one side. He  flashed  his  spot-lamp  to  scatter
them, but they stared back up the beam, burst into angry chatter,  and  then
turned toward him.

It was unnerving, nothing more. Their little teeth  snapped  impotently
on his armor. He stood still, assessing them, his  data  bank  scrolling  in
front of his eyes and telling him  that  they  were  gdans,  and  that  they
weren't logged as a hostile alien species. All the nonhuman life  Niner  had
ever seen for real, other than Kaminoans and various instructors,  had  been
on Geonosis and through a blaster sight. He was  utterly  dependent  on  the
intelligence loaded into  his  database-that,  or  finding  things  out  for
himself.

All but one of the gdans gave him up as inedible within  a  minute  and
disappeared into the waist-high crop. The remaining creature worried away at
his left boot, a tribute to its tenacity, if  not  its  intelligence.  Those
boots were specced to withstand every assault from hard vacuum to  acid  and
molten metal. The little animal clearly believed in aiming high.

Darman would have found it fascinating, he was sure. It was a  pity  to
lose him. He had all the makings of a good comrade.

"Come on," Niner said, nudging the animal with the butt of his  blaster
rifle. "I've got to get to work. Shove off."

The gdan, teeth locked around a clamp, looked up and met his  eyes,  or
at least it seemed like it. It could only have  really  seen  a  faint  blue
light. Then it let go and trotted back toward the  field,  pausing  once  to
stare back at him before disappearing into a hole in the ground with all the
ease of a diver.

Niner took out his datapad and calculated his position.  There  was  no
GPS he could lock in to without the Neimoidians detecting him, but he  could
at least use dead reckoning based on the sprayer's last  position,  matching
features on the landscape to his chart. It was old-fashioned soldiering.  He
liked it. He had to be able to do the business when the tech  wasn't  there,
even if that meant using nothing but a Trandoshan blade.

If you stab someone in the heart, they can still run. I once saw a  man
run a hundred meters like that, screaming as well. Go  for  the  neck,  like
this. Sergeant Skirata had taught them a lot about  knives.  Put  a  bit  of
weight behind it, son.

Still, tech had its place.  A  speeder  bike  would  have  been  handy,
although they hadn't thought they'd need them. The insert was supposed to be
five klicks from the target.

Never mind, he thought. It would make me look  pretty  conspicuous  out
here anyway. The gear would slow him on his way to the pre-agreed rendezvous
point, but he'd get there. If Fi and  Atin  had  landed  safely,  they'd  be
heading for RV Alpha, too.

He started tabbing, trying to make ten klicks an hour, avoiding  tracks
and open ground. In the end he had to drag the  extra  pack  behind  him  on
straps like a sled. Tactical advance into battle-tabbing, as Skirata  called
it-meant walking at six to ten klicks an hour with a twenty-five-kilo  pack.
"But that's for ordinary men," the instructor would  say,  as  if  nonclones
were subhuman. "You are clone commandos. You will do better because you  are
better."

Niner was lugging nearly three times that  load  now.  He  didn't  feel
better at all right then. He decided to add a portable repulsorlift  to  his
new list of gear to request upon return.

Qiilura's moon was in its new phase, and he was grateful for  that.  In
his light gray armor, he would have stood out like a beacon. Hadn't the  top
brass thought of that, either? He stifled the uncharacteristically  critical
opinion about his superiors and decided there had to be something he  didn't
know but they did. He had his orders.

Even so, he diverted to a narrow  river  shown  on  the  holochart  and
stopped long enough to smear mud over his armor and gear. There was no point
chancing his luck.

At four hundred meters from RV point Alpha, he  slowed  down,  and  not
because he was struggling under the weight. A silent approach was necessary.
He hid the pack he was dragging deep in the  undergrowth  and  recorded  its
location to collect later. Fi and Atin might have been tracked.  They  might
not have made it at all. There was always the possibility of ambush. No,  he
definitely wasn't taking chances.

For the last two hundred meters, he got down in the grass and crawled.

But they were there, and alone.

Niner found himself staring up into the beam from Fi's  helmet  and  he
knew that the infrared targeting was  centered  at  the  point  between  his
filtration mask and the top of his chest plate. It was a  vulnerable  point,
provided one got close enough and used the right caliber  rounds.  Not  many
hostiles could get that close, of course.

"You gave me a start, Sarge," Fi said, holding his  blaster  clear  and
looking him over. He killed the light and indicated his chest plate.  "Great
minds, eh?"

Fi's armor was no longer pristine, either. Niner wasn't sure what  he'd
smeared over it, but it disrupted his outline well enough. The  thought  had
obviously occurred to all of them. Atin was daubed with something  dark  and
matte as well.

"Shape, shine, shadow, silhouette, smell, sound, and  movement,"  Niner
said, repeating the rules  of  basic  camouflage.  If  it  hadn't  been  for
Darman's absence, he would have found the situation funny. He tried.  "Shame
they couldn't find something beginning with S to complete the set."

"I could," Atin said. "Any contact from Darman?"

They were forty kilometers from the point where Niner  had  landed.  "I
saw the blast. He was last off."

"You saw him jump, then."

"No. He was grabbing as much gear and ordnance as  he  could  salvage."
Niner felt he needed to explain. "He  shoved  me  out  the  hatch  first.  I
shouldn't have let that happen. But I didn't abandon him."

Atin shrugged. "So what have we got, then?"

"We've got a brother missing."

"I meant by way of resources. He had most of the demolition ordnance."

"I know you meant that, and I don't want to hear it." If he could  feel
concern-even sorrow-for Darman, then why couldn't Atin? But it was  no  time
to start a fight. They had to stick together now. A  four-man  mission  with
three men: their chances of succeeding had plummeted already. "We're a squad
now. Get used to it."

Fi interrupted. He seemed to have a knack for defusing situations. "All
our gear's intact, anyway. We can still put quite a dent in them if we  have
to."

And  what  did  they  have  to  put  a  dent  in,  exactly?  They   had
high-altitude drone recces of the target building, but no idea  yet  if  the
walls were just plastered blocks or if they were lined with  shock-absorbing
alloy plates. There could be just the thirty or so guards seen  walking  the
perimeter, or hundreds more holed up in underground barracks. Without better
intelligence, they had no way of knowing just how much gear was  enough  for
the job.

It was a case of adding P for plenty, just to be sure. Niner  liked  to
be sure.

"How much time are we going to spend  looking  for  him?"  Atin  asked.
"They know they've got company now. It wasn't exactly a silent insert."

"SOPs," Niner said. Standard operating procedures: that was how  things
should be done; how commandos expected them to be done. "We get to  each  RV
point for the time we agreed upon, and if he doesn't show we'll  go  to  the
position of the blast and see what's left. Then we'll decide if we're  going
to consider him MIA or not."

"You'd want us to search if it was you missing," Fi said to  Atin.  "He
can't call in. Not at this range. Too risky."

"I wouldn't expect you to compromise the mission for  me,"  Atin  said,
distinctly acid.

"He's alone, for fierfek's sake. Alone."

"Just  shut  it,  will  you?"  Niner  said.  The   good   thing   about
ultra-short-range comlinks was that  you  could  stand  around  and  have  a
blazing argument inside those helmets, and nobody outside  could  hear  you.
"Finding him isn't only the right thing to do, it's the  sensible  thing  to
do. Locate him and we find his gear. Okay?"

"Yes Sarge," Fi said.

"Got it," Atin said. "But there has to be a point where we consider him
dead."

"Without a body, that'll be when Geonosis freezes  over,"  Niner  said,
still angry and not knowing why. "Until then, we're going to sweat our  guts
out to find him, provided it doesn't blow the mission. Now let's see  if  we
can sling this gear between some poles or something. We'll never  keep  this
pace up for tens of kilometers unless we find a better way  of  transporting
it."

Niner set his helmet comlink to receive long-range anyway. There was no
harm in listening. If  Darman  was  out  there,  Niner  wasn't  planning  on
abandoning him.

The clearing hadn't been there yesterday.

Etain picked her way through  flattened  kuvara  saplings  and  into  a
circle of blackened stubble, following Birhan's steps. The  air  smelled  of
smoke and roasted barq.

He was swearing fluently. She didn't know much Qiiluran, but she knew a
curse when she heard one.

"This is your lot again," Birhan said. He surveyed the field, hands  to
his brow to block out the sun breaking over the horizon.  Now  that  it  was
daylight, they could  see  the  extent  of  the  damage  from  last  night's
explosion. "What am I going to do? What's going to happen to our contract?"

It wasn't phrased like a question. The Neimoidians weren't known to  be
sympathetic about the host of natural disasters constantly  threatening  the
farming communities' precarious existence. But this was no natural disaster.

The blast area spanned around five hundred meters, and  the  crater  at
the center was twelve, maybe fifteen meters wide. Etain didn't know how deep
it was, but a Trandoshan and an Ubese were  standing  at  the  edge  of  it,
peering down, blasters in hand, looking as if they  were  searching  in  the
soil. They didn't take the slightest notice of her or Birhan. She must  have
looked suitably starved and dowdy, rough enough to pass for a farm girl.

It was probably too late to convince them the crater was  caused  by  a
meteor fragment. But at this point Etain didn't know any more than they did.

"Why do you think it's my lot?" she asked.

"Obvious," Birhan said sourly. "I seen loads of speeders and freighters
and sprayers come down hard. They don't leave craters. They falls apart  and
burns, yes, but they don't blow up half the countryside. This is off-planet.
It's soldiers." He kicked around some of the charred and  blackened  stalks.
"Can't you have your fight on someone else's planet? Don't you think  I  got
enough problems?"

She wondered for a moment if he  was  considering  turning  her  in  to
Hokan's men for a few credits to make up for the loss of the precious  barq.
She was already an extra mouth to feed at a time when money he was  counting
on had just gone up in a fireball with much of his crop. It was time to find
somewhere else to hide, and some other plan for getting that information off
Qiilura.

Etain was still considering the scorched land when the  Ubese  and  the
Trandoshan jerked upright and turned to  jog  away  toward  the  dirt  track
beside the field. The Ubese had one hand pressed to the side of  his  helmet
as if he was listening to  something:  a  comlink,  probably.  Whatever  the
summons had been, it had been urgent enough to get  them  running.  It  also
confirmed that this wasn't just a Narsh sprayer making  an  all-too-frequent
crash landing.

Etain waited a moment longer, then walked forward to peer into the  pit
to see what had so engrossed them.

It had been a monstrous blast. The sides of the blackened  crater  were
blown almost smooth, and there was debris everywhere.  It  was  an  enormous
blast area for a small craft.

She left Birhan and walked around inspecting the ground as Hokan's  men
had done, not sure what she was  seeking.  She  was  almost  at  the  kuvara
orchard before she saw it.

The early sunlight caught a scraped metal edge of something embedded in
the ground, rammed deep by the explosion. Etain crouched down,  as  casually
as she could, and worked the soil loose from it with her  fingers.  It  took
her a few minutes to expose enough to understand the shape, and a  few  more
to work out why the scorched colors were so familiar. It was distorted,  the
metal frozen in a moment of being torn apart by enormous force, but she  was
pretty sure she'd seen one intact before.

It was a plate  from  an  R5  astromech  droid-a  plate  with  Republic
markings.

They're coming.

Whoever they were, she hoped they'd made it alive.

Darman knew it was risky moving around by day, and the  fact  that  his
right leg seemed to scream every time he put his weight on  it  didn't  help
matters.

He'd spent two painful hours scooping out a  shallow  depression  in  a
thicket about a hundred meters from what passed for a road. Roots and stones
had slowed him down. So had the pounding he'd taken hitting the canopies  of
trees during his landing. But he'd dug in now, and he lay under a lattice of
branches and leaves on his belly, watching the road, sometimes  through  his
rifle sight, sometimes with the electrobinocular panel that flipped down  in
his visor.

At least the little animals that had swarmed over him in the night  had
disappeared. He'd given up trying to fend them off. They  had  explored  his
armor for a while and then moved on to watch him from distance. Now that  it
was daylight, there were no  more  glittering  eyes  staring  out  from  the
undergrowth.

He still wasn't sure of his position, either. There was no GPS  network
he could use without being picked up. He needed to get out and about and  do
a recce if he was going to have any chance of  aligning  landscape  features
with the holochart.

He knew he was facing north: the arc of  small  stones  around  a  thin
branch he'd stuck in the soil charted the sun's progress, and gave  him  his
east-west line. If his datapad had calculated speed and distance  correctly,
he was between forty and fifty klicks northeast of the first RV point.  He'd
never cover that distance on foot in time, not with the extra gear  and  not
with his leg in this state. If  he  dragged  the  pack,  he'd  draw  a  neat
follow-me line through the vegetation.

Darman eased himself over on his back,  removed  his  leg  plates,  and
unsealed his undersuit at the knee. It felt as if he'd torn a  muscle  or  a
tendon above the joint. He soaked the makeshift bandage with bacta again and
replaced the legging and plates before rolling back into position.

It was high time he ate something, but he decided that he could wait  a
little longer.

He checked  the  dirt  road  through  the  crosswires  of  the  DC-17's
electromag scope. The first time he had worn the helmet  with  the  built-in
display shimmering before his eyes, he had been overwhelmed and  disoriented
by the flurry of symbols in his field of vision. The  rifle  scope  made  it
seem even more chaotic. Lights, lights, lights: it was like looking from the
windows of Tipoca City at night with the lamps and  reflective  surfaces  of
the refectory behind you-so many competing images that you couldn't focus on
what lay beyond the stormproof glass.

But in time-that time being the short, desperate morning when the whole
of Kilo and Delta squads  first  wore  the  HUD  display  while  using  live
ordnance-he got used to it. Those who didn't get  used  to  it  fast  didn't
return from the exercise. He learned  to  see,  and  yet  not  see.  He  was
constantly aware of all the status displays that told him when  his  weapons
were charging, and if his suit  was  compromised,  and  what  was  happening
around him.

Now he was focused solely on looking down  a  clear  tunnel  framed  by
interlocking segments of soothing blue, with a highlighted area to show when
he had an optimum firing solution for his target. The information on  range,
environment, and the score of other options was still there. He  could  take
them in without consciously seeing them. He saw only his target.

A faint rumbling sound made him stiffen. Voices: they were  approaching
from his right. Then they stopped.

He waited. Eventually the voices started again and  two  Weequays  came
into his field of view, too slowly for his liking. They were looking at  the
road's shoulders with unusual diligence. One stopped suddenly and peered  at
the ground, apparently excited, if his arm gestures were any indication.

Then he looked up and started walking almost directly  toward  Darman's
position. He took out a blaster pistol.

He can't possibly see me, Darman thought. I've done this by  the  book.
No reflection, no movement, no smells, nothing.

But the Weequay kept coming, right into the bushes.  He  stopped  about
ten meters from Darman and was casting around as if he'd followed  something
and lost the trail. Then he moved forward again.

Darman had almost stopped breathing. His helmet masked all  sound,  but
it certainly didn't feel that way. The Weequay was so close now that  Darman
could smell his distinctive sweat  and  see  the  detailed  tooling  on  his
sidearm-a KYD-21 with a hadrium barrel-and that there was  a  vibroblade  in
his other hand. Right at that moment Darman couldn't even swallow.

It's okay to be scared.

The Weequay stepped sideways, looking at waist height  as  if  browsing
for discs on a library shelf.

It's okay to be scared as long as you...

The Weequay was right on him now, squatting over his  position.  Darman
felt boots depress branches that  were  touching  his  back,  and  then  the
creature looked down and said something that sounded like gah.

... as long as you use it.

Darman brought his fist up hard under the Weequay's  jaw,  ramming  his
own vibroblade up into the throat and twisting his fist off to one  side  to
sever blood vessels. He supported the deadweight of the impaled  Weequay  on
one arm, until it stopped moving. Then Darman lowered his arm, shaking  with
the effort, and let the body roll to the ground as quietly as he could.

"What you find?" the other Weequay yelled. "Gar-Ul? Gar?"

No answer. Well, here we go. Darman aimed his DC-17 and waited.

The second Weequay began running in a straight line toward the  bushes,
and that was a stupid thing for him to do when  he  had  no  idea  what  had
happened to his comrade. They'd been lording it over farmers for  too  long;
they were sloppy. He also made the mistake of pulling out his blaster.

Darman had a clear head shot and he took it  almost  without  thinking.
The Weequay dropped, cleanly and silently, and lay crumpled, with  wisps  of
smoke rising from his head.

"Oh, clever," Darman sighed, as much to hear the reassurance of his own
voice as anything. Now he'd have to break cover and retrieve  the  body.  He
couldn't leave it there like a  calling  card.  He  waited  a  few  minutes,
listening, and then eased himself onto his injured leg to limp out into open
ground.

He dragged the Weequay into the bushes,  noting  the  smell  of  cooked
meat. Now he could see what the first Weequay had been  following:  a  broad
path of tiny animal footprints. The curious gdans had  given  him  away.  He
limped out again, checking carefully, and obliterated the drag marks with  a
branch.

Waste not, want not. The Weequays wouldn't be needing the  blasters  or
vibroblades now. Darman, pulse slowing to normal, searched  the  bodies  for
anything else of use, pocketing data cards and  valuables.  He  didn't  feel
that he was a thief; he had no personal possessions that weren't  the  Grand
Army's property, and he felt no need to acquire any. But there was a  chance
the cards contained information that would help him achieve  his  objective,
and the beads and coins would come in handy if he needed  to  buy  or  bribe
something or someone.

He found a suitable spot to hide the bodies. He  didn't  have  time  to
bury them, but was suddenly aware of movement  in  the  undergrowth,  animal
movement, and gradually small heads appeared, sniffing the air.

"You again, eh?" Darman said, although the gdans couldn't possibly hear
him beyond the helmet. "Way past your bedtime." They edged forward and  then
swarmed across the

Weequay with the shattered head, taking tiny bites as they  settled  on
him in a dark-furred blanket of snapping motion.

Darman wouldn't have to worry about burying anyone.

The faintest of liquid  sounds  made  him  look  around  at  the  other
Weequay. Darman had his rifle aimed instantly. The Weequay wasn't dead,  not
quite. For some reason, that upset Darman  more  than  he  could  have  ever
imagined.

He'd killed plenty of times at Geonosis, smashing droids  with  grenade
launchers and cannons at a distance, hyped up on fear and  the  instinct  to
live. Survive to fight.

But this was different. It wasn't distant, and the debris of  the  kill
wasn't metal. The Weequay's blood had dried in a stream down his  glove  and
right forearm plate. And he hadn't managed a clean kill. It was wrong.

They had drilled him to kill,  and  kill,  and  kill,  but  nobody  had
thought to teach him what he was supposed to feel  afterward.  He  did  feel
something, and he wasn't certain what it was.

He'd think about it later.

Aiming his rifle, he corrected his mistake before  the  small  army  of
carnivores could move on to their next meal.

[Image004]

Think of yourselves as a hand. Each of you is a finger, and without the
others you 're useless. Alone, a finger can't grasp, or control, or  form  a
fist. You are nothing  on  your  own,  and  everything  together.  -Commando
instructor Sergeant Kal Skirata

Darman moved on fast, up a tree-covered slope  a  kilometer  south.  He
planned  on  spending  the  rest  of  the  daylight  hours  in  a  carefully
constructed hide at the highest vantage point he could find, slightly  below
the skyline.

He concentrated on making a crude net out of the canopy  cords  he  had
salvaged. The activity kept him occupied  and  alert.  He  hadn't  slept  in
nearly forty standard hours; fatigue made you more careless and  dangerously
unfocused than alcohol. When he had finished tying the cord into squares, he
wove grass, leaves, and twigs into the knots. On inspection, he  decided  it
was a pretty good camouflage net.

He also continued observation. Qiilura was astonishing.  It  was  alive
and different, a riot of scent and color and texture and  sounds.  Now  that
his initial pounding fear had subsided into a general edginess, he began  to
take it all in.

It was the little living noises that concerned him  most.  Around  him,
creatures crawled, flew, and buzzed. Occasionally things squealed  and  fell
silent. Twice now he'd heard something larger prowling in the bushes.

Apart from the brief intensity of Geonosis, Darman's only environmental
experience had been the elegant but enclosed stilt cities of Kamino, and the
endless churning seas around them.  The  cleanly  efficient  classrooms  and
barracks where he had spent ten years turning from instant child to  perfect
soldier were unremarkable, designed to get  a  job  done.  His  training  in
desert and mountain and jungle had been entirely artificial, holoprojection,
simulation.

The red desert plains of Geonosis had been far more  arid  and  starkly
magnificent than his instructors' imaginations; and now Qiilura's fields and
woods held so much more than three-dimensional charts could offer.

It was still open country, though-a terrain that made it hard  for  him
to move around unnoticed.

Concentrate, he told himself. Gather  intel.  Make  the  most  of  your
enforced idleness.

Lunch would have been welcome about now. A decent lunch. He chewed on a
concentrated dry ration cube and reminded himself that his  constant  hunger
wasn't real. He was just tired.  He  had  consumed  the  correct  amount  of
nutrients for his needs, and if he gave in to eating more, he would run  out
of supplies. There was exactly enough for a week's operations  in  his  pack
and two days' worth in his emergency belt. The belt was the  only  thing  he
would grab, apart from his rifle, if he ever had to make  a  last-ditch  run
for it without his forty-kilo pack.

Beneath him, farm transports passed along a narrow track,  all  heading
in the same direction, carrying square tanks  with  security  seals  on  the
hatches. Barq. Darman had never tasted it, but he could smell it  even  from
here. The nauseatingly musky, almost fungal scent  took  the  edge  off  his
appetite for a while.  If  he  had  his  holochart  aligned  correctly,  the
transports were all heading for the regional depot at Teklet. He twisted the
image this way and that in his hands and held it up to map onto  the  actual
landscape.

Yes, he was sure enough now where he was. He was ten klicks east of the
small town called Imbraani, about forty klicks northeast of  RV  point  Beta
and forty klicks almost due east of RV point Gamma. They'd picked RV  points
along the flight path because the Separatists would expect dispersal,

not a retracing of their steps.  Between  RVs  Alpha  and  Beta  was  a
stretch of woodland, ideal for moving undetected by day. If the rest of  his
squad had landed safely and were on schedule, they would be making their way
to Beta.

Things could be looking up again. All he had to do was get to RV  Gamma
and wait for his squad. And if they  hadn't  made  it,  then  he'd  need  to
rethink the mission.

The idea produced a feeling of desolation. You are nothing on your own,
and everything together. He'd been raised to think, function,  even  breathe
as one of a group of four. He could do nothing else.

But ARCs always operate alone, don't they?

He pondered that, fighting  off  drowsiness.  Leaves  rustled  suddenly
behind him, and he turned to scan with the infrared filter of his visor.  He
caught a blur of moving animal. It fled. His database  said  there  were  no
large predators on Qiilura, so whatever it was could be no more  troublesome
than the gdans-not as long as he was wearing his armor, anyway.

Darman waited motionless for a few moments, but the animal was gone. He
turned back and refocused on the road and the surrounding fields, struggling
to stay awake. Lay off the stims. No, he wasn't going to  touch  his  medpac
for a quick boost. Not yet. He'd save his limited supply for later, for when
things got really tough, as he knew they would.

Then something changed in his field of vision. The frozen  tableau  had
come to life. He flipped down the binoc filter for a closer look,  and  what
he saw made him snap it back and gaze through the sniperscope of his rifle.

A thin wisp of smoke rose from a group  of  wooden  buildings.  It  was
quickly becoming a pall. It wasn't the smoke of domestic fires; he could see
flames, flaring tongues of yellow and red. The structures-barns, judging  by
their construction-were on fire. A group of  people  in  drab  clothing  was
scrambling  around,  trying  to  drag   objects   clear   of   the   flames,
uncoordinated,   panicking.   Another   group-Ubese,   Trandoshan,    mainly
Weequay-was stopping them, standing in a line around the barn.

One of the farmers broke the line and disappeared into a  building.  He
didn't come out again, not as long as Darman watched.

Nothing in his training corresponded to what he was  witnessing.  There
was not a memory, a pattern, a maneuver, or a lesson  that  flashed  in  his
mind and told him how this should be played out.  Civilian  situations  were
outside his experience. Nor  were  these  citizens  of  the  Republic:  they
weren't anyone's citizens.

His training taught him not to be distracted by outside issues, however
compelling.

But there was still some urge in him that said Do something. What?  His
mission, his reason for staying alive, was to rejoin his  squad  and  thwart
the nanovirus project. Breaking cover to aid civilians  cut  across  all  of
that.

The Separatists-or whoever controlled this band of assorted  thugs-knew
he was here.

It didn't take a genius to work it out. The  sprayer  had  exploded  on
landing, detonating any demolition ordnance that Darman hadn't been able  to
cram into his packs. The Weequay patrol hadn't called in when their  masters
had expected. Now the humans-farmers-were being punished and threatened, and
it was all to do with him. The Separatists were looking for him.

Escape and evasion procedure.

No, not yet. Darman inhaled and leveled his  rifle  carefully,  picking
out an Ubese in the crosswires. Then he lined up the rest of the group,  one
at a time. Eight hostiles, forty rounds: he knew he could  slot  every  one,
first time.

He held his breath, forefinger resting on the trigger.

Just a touch.

How many more targets were there that he couldn't see? He'd  give  away
his position.

This isn't your business.

He exhaled and relaxed his grip on the rifle, sliding his forefinger in
front of the trigger guard. What would happen to his mission if they  caught
him?

In the next two minutes, reluctant to move,  he  targeted  each  Ubese,
Weequay, and Trandoshan several times, but didn't squeeze  the  trigger.  He
wanted to more than he could  have  imagined.  It  wasn't  the  hard-drilled
trained response of a sniper, but a helpless, impotent anger whose origin he
couldn't begin to identify.

Don't reveal your position. Don't fire unless  you  can  take  out  the
target. Keep firing until the target is down and stays down.

And then there were times when a soldier just had to take a chance.

They could be Republic citizens, one day.

They could be allies now.

Darman wasn't tired anymore, or even hungry.  His  pulse  was  pounding
loud in his ears and he could feel the constriction in his  throat  muscles,
the fundamental human reflex to flee or fight. Fleeing wasn't an option.  He
could only fight.

He targeted the first Weequay, a clean  head  shot,  and  squeezed  the
trigger. The creature dropped, and for a moment his comrades stared  at  the
body, unsure of what had happened. Darman had nothing against  Weequays.  It
was only coincidence that this was the third one he'd killed in a few hours.

And, suddenly unfrozen, the band of thugs all turned to  stare  in  the
direction of the shot, drawing their weapons.

The first bolt hit the bushes to Darman's left; the second  went  three
meters over his head. They'd worked out where  he  was,  all  right.  Darman
snapped on the DC-17's grenade attachment and watched through the  scope  as
the civilians scattered. The grenade sent a shower  of  soil  and  shattered
wood into the air, along with four of the eight militia.

He'd certainly pinpointed his position now.

When he sprang to his feet and began the run down the slope,  the  four
remaining enemy stood and stared for a couple of seconds.  He  had  no  idea
why, but they were transfixed long enough for him to gain the  advantage.  A
couple of plasma bolts hit him, but his armor simply took it like a punch in
the chest and he ran on, laying down a hail of particle  rounds.  The  bolts
came toward him like horizontal luminous rain.  One  Trandoshan  turned  and
ran; Darman took him down with a bolt in the back that blew him a few meters
farther as he fell.

Then the white-hot rain stopped and he was running over bodies.  Darman
slowed and pulled up, suddenly deafened by the  sound  of  his  own  panting
breath.

Maybe they'd managed to report his presence via their comlinks in time,
and maybe they hadn't. The information wouldn't have been much  use  on  its
own anyway. He ran from barn to barn, checking for  more  hostiles,  walking
through the flames unscathed because his armor  and  bodysuit  could  easily
withstand the heat of a wood fire. Even with the visor, he couldn't see much
through the thick smoke, and he moved quickly outside again. He  glanced  at
his arm; smoke curled off the soot-blackened plates.

Then he almost walked straight  into  a  youth  in  a  farmer's  smock,
staring at him. The boy bolted.

Darman couldn't find any more of Hokan's troops. He came  to  the  last
barn and booted the door open. His spot-lamp illuminated  the  dim  interior
and picked out four terrified human faces-two men, a woman, and the boy he'd
just seen-huddling in a corner next to a threshing  machine.  His  automatic
response was to train the rifle on them  until  he  was  sure  they  weren't
hostiles. Not every soldier wears a uniform. But his  instincts  said  these
were just terrified civilians.

He was still trailing smoke from his armor. He realized how frightening
he looked.

A thin, wavering wail began. He thought it was the woman, but it seemed
to be coming from one of the men, a man just as old as Sergeant Skirata  who
was staring at him in horror. Darman had never seen  civilians  that  close,
and he'd never seen anyone that scared.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Is this your farm?"

Silence, except  for  that  noise  the  man  was  making;  he  couldn't
understand it. He'd rescued them from their attackers, hadn't he?  What  was
there to fear?

"How many troops has Hokan got? Can you tell me?"

The woman found her voice, but it was shaky. "What are you?"

"I'm a soldier of the Republic. I need information, ma'am."

"You're not him?"

"Who?"

"Hokan."

"No. Do you know where he is?"

She pointed south in the direction of Imbraani. "They're  down  at  the
farm the Kirmay clan used to own before  Hokan  sold  them  to  Trandoshans.
About fifty, maybe sixty of them. What are you going to do to us?"

"Nothing, ma'am. Nothing at all."

It didn't seem to be the answer they were expecting. The  woman  didn't
move.

"He brought them here  looking  for  him,"  said  the  man  who  wasn't
whining, pointing at Darman. "We've got nothing to thank him for.  Tell  him
to-"

"Shut up," the woman said, glaring at  the  man.  She  turned  back  to
Darman. "We won't say a word. We won't say we saw you. Just go. Get out.  We
don't want your help."

Darman was totally unprepared for the reaction. He'd been  taught  many
things, but none of his accelerated learning had  mentioned  anything  about
ungrateful civilians, rescues thereof. He backed away  and  checked  outside
the barn door before darting from barn to bush to fence and up the slope  to
where he'd left his gear. It was time to move on. He  was  leaving  a  trail
behind him now, a trail of engagements and bodies. He wondered if  he'd  see
civvies, as Skirata called them, in quite the same benign way in the future.

He checked the chrono readout in his visor. It had  been  only  minutes
since he had run down the slope, firing. It always felt  like  hours,  hours
when he couldn't see anything but the target in front of him.  Don't  worry,
Skirata had said. It's your forebrain shutting down,  just  a  fear  reflex.
You're bred from sodopathic stock. You'll fight just fine. You'll  carry  on
fighting when normal men have turned into basket cases.

Darman was never sure if that was good or not, but it was what he  was,
and he was fine with that. He loaded his extra pack on his  back  and  began
working his way to the RV point. Maybe he shouldn't have  expended  so  many
rounds. Maybe he should have just left the farmers to their fate. He'd never
know.

Then it struck him why both the militia and the  civilians  had  frozen
when they first spotted him.  The  helmet.  The  armor.  He  looked  like  a
Mandalorian warrior.

Everyone must be terrified of Ghez Hokan. The similarity  would  either
work to his advantage or get him killed.

"Down!" Atin yelled.

Niner flung himself flat and heard Fi grunt as he did the same, the air
knocked from his lungs.

An airspeeder flew  overhead  with  a  deceptively  gentle  hum.  Atin,
squatting in the cover of a fallen tree, followed it with his rifle scope.

"Two up, camo and custom armament," he said. "Somehow I don't think the
locals drive those. Not with mounted cannons, anyway."

The hum of engines faded. Niner struggled to his feet and regained  his
balance, wishing for the speeder bikes and an absence of  armor.  The  squad
was too heavily laden and the armor wasn't designed for  blending  into  the
landscape, although it was the difference between life and death in  hostile
territory: protection against  blasterfire,  nerve  agents,  and  even  hard
vacuum. And when they got to their target it would come into  its  own.  The
armor was designed for FIBUA ops, fighting  in  built-up  areas  and  inside
buildings, urban warfare of the kind the galaxy now had plenty to offer. For
now, they'd just have to make the best of the scenic part of the mission.

He was tired. They all were. Not even the animal panic  brought  on  by
the risk of discovery could shake that off. They needed to sleep.

Niner checked his datapad. They were still ten klicks from RV Beta  and
it was midday. It was much easier to move by night, so he wanted to press on
and make the RV point by midafternoon,  then  lie  up  until  nightfall.  If
Darman had made it-and maybe he hadn't, but Niner's mind  was  made  up-they
would wait for him.

"He's back," Atin said. "Everyone down."

The quiet  drone  of  engines  interrupted  Niner's  calculations.  The
airspeeder was heading south toward them  again.  They  froze,  mud-smeared,
invisible from that altitude-or so they hoped.

It wasn't entirely training that produced the reaction.

Aerial surveillance was  especially  threatening.  Niner  recalled  the
Kaminoan KE-8 Enforcer craft cruising above the training grounds  of  Tipoca
City, ready to pluck out and  discipline  any  defective  clone  who  didn't
conform. They were equipped with electroshock devices.

He'd seen a KE-8 in action, just once. After that he worked extra  hard
to conform.

"He's on a square search," Atin said. He was turning into an  excellent
point man; for some reason he was slightly more attuned to his  surroundings
than Fi or even Niner himself. "He must be working out from the center."

"Center of what, though?" Fi asked.

Niner forgot his fatigue. You never leave your  mates  behind.  "If  he
hasn't seen us, he's seen Darman."

"Or what's left of him."

"Shut it, Atin. What's your problem?"

"I've been Darman," Atin said.

He said nothing more. Niner didn't think it was a good time to ask  for
an explanation. The engines were overhead. Then the sound faded a little and
dropped in pitch, but soon resumed full volume.

"He's circling," Atin said.

"Fierfek," Niner said, and all three men reached for  their  anti-armor
grenade attachments at the same time. "What's he seen?"

"Maybe nothing," Fi said. "Maybe us."

They fell silent. The airspeeder  was  indeed  circling.  It  had  also
dropped lower and was now about level with the  tops  of  the  trees.  Niner
could see its twin cannons. His helmet

wasn't telling him it had locked on, but that didn't mean it [  hadn't.
You could never count on tech.

Best piece of gear is the eyeball. It was the  first  piece  of  advice
Skirata had ever given him. Accelerated  learning  was  fine,  but  anything
direct from the mouths of men who had fought real engagements left a  bigger
impression.

Niner leveled his rifle and  peered  through  the  scope,  trusting  to
BlasTech Industries that the sight really wasn't reflective. He'd  find  out
the hard way if it was.

He could see the sun glinting off the human pilot's goggles. The gunner
was a droid. He wondered if they felt vulnerable without any armored canopy,
heads conveniently skylined for a shot. He  suspected  that  anyone  looking
down from that height with a cannon or two didn't feel vulnerable at all.

The fuselage banked above him and turned slowly, rising well above  the
trees as if the pilot was trying to  get  a  visual  fix  again.  It  wasn't
coincidence. Niner kept the DC-17 trained on the central propulsion unit.

Then a red flashing symbol went off in his visor.

The thing had a lock on him.

He squeezed the trigger. The white-hot  blast  kicked  his  visor  into
blackness for an instant, and the detonation was so  close  that  the  shock
wave hit him like a body blow.

He scrambled to his feet and ran. How he ran with more than fifty kilos
of deadweight on his back he would  never  know,  but  adrenaline  could  do
remarkable things. His instinct was to get clear before debris  rained  down
on him. Armor and bodysuits could withstand a lot, but  the  human  instinct
buried deep inside him screamed get clear.

When he stopped he had covered a hundred meters  even  in  the  tangled
undergrowth of the coppice. He was panting like a  mott  and  the  suit  was
struggling to cool him down.

Behind him, a fire burned, with smaller flames scattered around it like
seedlings around a tree. He turned to  look  for  Fi  and  Atin.  His  first
thought was that he had brought the speeder crashing down on them.

"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?"

"Yes sir."

Hokan lowered the shocker and  the  Weequay  shot  out  the  door,  his
enthusiasm for his career refreshed. Hokan prided  himself  on  motivational
skills.

It's started, he thought. He shut himself in his room and  switched  on
all the comlink screens. They 're coming to take Qiilura.

Hokan had  some  idea  of  what  kind  of  deal  Ankkit  had  with  the
Separatists. There had  been  a  significant  amount  of  construction  work
carried out to convert a grain store into the  kind  of  building  that  had
triple-sealed doors, and the type of walls that  could  be  sterilized  with
extreme heat. Then he'd had to try to make credible bodyguards  out  of  the
rabble he employed because important Separatist scientists  came  and  went,
and the Neimoidians saw conspiracy  everywhere  they  looked.  They  weren't
always wrong about that.

Then the Jedi came to Imbraani, and it all fell into place,  as  neatly
as the arrival of the Republic  forces  now  on  the  planet.  There  was  a
military target here.

I'm my father's son, though. I'm  a  warrior.  Hokan  wondered  if  all
cultures separated from their heritage were unable to  move  on,  doomed  to
relive  old  glories.  I'd  rather  be  fighting  a  worthy  opponent   than
terrorizing farmers who haven't got the guts to stand up for themselves.

Fighting soldiers also commanded a higher fee, of course.

And the greater the fee, the quicker he would be off  this  planet  and
heading ... somewhere.

There was no longer a home for him, and  few  of  his  kind  left.  But
things could change. Yes, they very well might one day.

Hokan leaned back in the chair and let the  chatter  of  comlinks  wash
over him.

[Image005]

You want to know how clones tell each other apart? Who

cares? They're here to fight, not to socialize.

-Sergeant Kal Skirata

"Get out," Birhan yelled. "Get out and don't come back! You've  brought
all this on us. Go on, clear off."

The farmer shied a clod of dirt at Etain, and she  sidestepped  it.  It
broke into dust behind her. The old woman- who wasn't Birhan's  wife,  she'd
discovered-came up from behind and grabbed his arm.

"Don't be a fool," she said. "If we take care of the Jedi, then they'll
take care of us when the Republic comes."

Birhan was still staring at Etain as if he was debating whether  to  go
and grab his pitchfork. "Republic my rump," he said. "Them's no different to
Neimies when it comes to it. We'll still be bottom of the pile whoever  runs
the show."

Etain stood with her arms folded, wondering how the old woman,  Jinart,
had managed to attach herself to  Birhan's  sprawling  family.  She  was  an
appalling cook and couldn't have been much help with heavy farm labor. Etain
imagined she earned her keep spinning merlie  wool  like  the  rest  of  the
elderly Qiilurans she'd met.

But right now, Etain doubted even Jinart's powers  of  persuasion.  She
decided to try her own again.

"Birhan, you want me to stay," she  said  carefully,  concentrating  as
Master Fulier had taught her. "You want to cooperate with me."

"I rotten well don't want to cooperate with you, missy," he said.  "And
say please."

She'd  never  quite  mastered  Jedi  persuasion  when   under   stress.
Unfortunately, that was always the time when she needed it.

Jinart nudged Birhan roughly, no mean feat for such a short woman.  "If
them Jedi have landed, fool, then she'll bring them around here to sort  you
out," she said.  "This  is  no  time  to  make  new  enemies.  And  if  they
haven't-well, it'll all blow over and then you'll have someone who can  make
things grow. That's right, innit, girl? Jedi can make crops grow?"

Etain watched the display of rustic logic with growing respect. "We can
harness the Force to nurture plants, yes."

That was all too true: she had heard the stories  of  Padawans  joining
the agri corps when they didn't perform well during training. That  was  all
she needed-life on a backwater planet, talking to fields of grain. It wasn't
just the intelligence data she had hidden in her cloak that made her want to
get off the planet as fast as she could. Agriculture  spelled  failure.  She
didn't need further reminding of her inadequacy.

"Yah," Birhan spat, and trudged off, muttering profanities.

"We all get nervous when  Hokan's  thugs  start  burning  down  farms,"
Jinart said. She took Etain's arm and steered her back to the barn that  had
become her home. No, it wasn't home. There could never be home for  her.  No
loves, no attachments, no commitments except the Force. Well,  at  least  it
wouldn't be hard to tear herself away from here. "And  killing  farmers,  of
course."

"So why aren't you nervous?" Etain asked.

"You're a cautious child."

"I have a dead Master. It encourages you somewhat."

"I have a broader view of  life,"  Jinart  said,  not  at  all  like  a
wool-spinning old woman. "Now you keep yourself safe and don't go  wandering
about."

Etain was developing a Neimoidian level of  paranoia  and  wondered  if
even her own instincts were deceiving her. She

had  at  least  always  been  able  to  sense  another's  emotions  and
condition. "So they know where to find me?" she said quietly, testing.

Jinart stiffened visibly. "Depends on who they  might  be,"  she  said,
wafting the pungent scent of merlie as she walked. "I don't care for  urrqal
much, and at my time of life there's little left to covet."

"You said they were coming."

"I did indeed."

"I have no patience for riddles."

"Then you should have,  and  you  should  also  be  reassured,  because
they're here and they'll help you. But you also need to help them."

Etain's mind raced ahead. Her stomach knotted. No, she was falling  for
carnival fortune-teller's tricks. She  was  adding  her  own  knowledge  and
senses to vague generalities and seeing meaning where  there  was  none.  Of
course Jinart knew strangers had arrived. The whole of  Imbraani  had  known
about Master Fulier, and it was very hard not to know something had happened
when vessels crash-landed on your farm, and when every hiding  hole  in  the
area was being searched by Hokan's militia.  For  some  reason  or  another,
Jinart was playing a guessing game.

"When you specify something, I'll take you seriously," Etain said.

"You should be less suspicious," Jinart said slowly,  "and  you  should
look at what you think you see much more carefully."

Etain opened the barn door and the scent of straw and barq tumbled out,
almost solid. She felt suddenly calmer, and even hopeful. She  had  no  idea
why.  Perhaps  Jinart  was  naturally  reassuring,  as   comforting   as   a
grandmother, despite all her odd talk.

Etain  couldn't  actually  remember  a  grandmother,  or  any  of   her
biological family, of course. Family wasn't familiar or soothing because she
had grown up in a commune of Jedi novices, educated and raised and cared for
by her own kind, and by that she never meant human.

But family, even from what she had seen briefly of squabbling  farmers'
clans, suddenly seemed desirable. It was difficult to be alone right then.

"I wish I had time to educate you in survival," Jinart said. "That task
will have to fall to someone else. Be ready to come with  me  when  it  gets
dark."

Jinart was becoming  much  more  articulate.  She  was  more  than  she
appeared to be. Etain decided to trust the old woman  because  she  was  the
nearest she had to an ally.

She still had her lightsaber, after all.

Darman came to the edge of the wood and found himself  facing  an  open
field the size of Kamino's oceans.

It seemed like it, anyway. He couldn't see the boundary on either  side
of him, just straight across where  the  trees  began  again.  The  rows  of
grain-steel gray, shining, sighing in the wind-were only waist-high. He  was
thirty klicks east of RV Gamma, desperate to reach it  and  get  some  sleep
while waiting for the rest of the squad.

Following the cover of the hedge-wherever  that  might  take  him-would
cost him a lot of time. He opted to take the direct route. He removed one of
the three micro-remotes from his  belt  pack  and  activated  it.  The  tiny
viewing device was about the size of a pygmy hummer, small enough  to  grasp
in his palm, and he set it to scout the area for five kilometers around him.
He didn't like using them unless he absolutely had  to.  On  a  planet  like
this, their shiny metallic coating was hardly geared  toward  stealth.  They
also had a tendency to go missing. And because  they  recorded  as  well  as
transmitted, they were one of the last things he wanted to let fall into the
enemy's hands.

But he wasn't exactly invisible, either. He glanced down at his  filthy
armor, streaked with dried mud, wet green moss, and far, far worse, and knew
he was still a big plastoid-alloy industrial  object  in  a  gentle  organic
environment.

He lowered himself onto all fours, adjusting his balance  carefully  so
the packs sat squarely down the length of his back.  His  knee  still  hurt.
Crawling through a field wasn't going to help it. The sooner you get  there,
the sooner you rest.

The remote soared vertically into  the  air,  playing  back  a  rapidly
shrinking view of the field, then the wider landscape of farmland and woods,
all within Darman's visor display. There were no  buildings  as  far  as  he
could see. That didn't necessarily mean the area was deserted.

Crawling with his packs generated a  lot  of  heat,  but  the  bodysuit
regulated  it  obediently.  The  armor   system   had   more   pluses   than
disadvantages. He didn't have to  worry  about  wildlife  waiting  to  bite,
sting, poison, infect, or otherwise ruin his entire day.

But it was slow going. He had to loop wide if he was going to avoid the
little town, Imbraani. In fact, the whole day had been one of slow progress,
although the only timetable he could  latch  on  to  now  was  that  of  his
comrades, and how long it would take them to make RV Gamma. Then they'd move
on if he didn't show by the appointed time. After that-well, after that they
were off the chart, so to speak. It would be  a  matter  of  regrouping  and
gathering enough intel to take the target.

Darman suspected it would take longer than a few days. A lot longer. He
had started making notes of what local flora and fauna might be edible,  and
the positions of springs and  watercourses  that  hadn't  shown  up  on  the
high-altitude recce. He  wondered  if  the  gdans  made  decent  eating.  He
reckoned it might not be worth trying.

Every so often he paused to kneel and sip some water from  his  bottle.
His stomach's fantasies were no longer of sizzling nerf strips but of sweet,
filling, sticky, amber uj cake. It was a rare treat. His  training  sergeant
had allowed his squad-his original squad-to try it,  breaking  the  Kaminoan
rules on feeding clones carefully balanced nutritional mixes. "You're  still
just boys," he'd told them. "Fill yer boots." And they had. Good old Kal.

The flavor was still achingly vivid in Darman's mind. He wondered  what
other normal civilian indulgences he might enjoy if he had access to them.

He slapped the thought down hard. His discipline was  his  self-esteem.
He was a professional.

He still thought about that uj cake, though.

"Come on, get moving," he said, very tired of the absence of  comrades'
voices and seeking comfort in his own. He would be his  commanding  officer,
just to stay sharp. "Shift it."

The remote continued to relay predictable images of bucolic peace, neat
patchworks of fields punctuated by the wild tangled woods, reminders  of  an
unsettled and untamed world. There were no giant harvester droids  out  yet.
At one point, he thought he saw a dark form moving through  the  field  some
way to his left, but when he focused on it there was simply a gap opened  by
the wind.

Then there was a sudden patch of darkness in his visor.

Darman stopped  dead.  The  thing  had  malfunctioned.  But  the  image
returned, glowing, red, and wet, and he realized he  was  looking  into  the
digestive tract of a living creature.

Something had swallowed the remote.

A few moments later a large bird, slowly flapping  four  wings,  sailed
overhead and cast an alarming shadow before  him.  He  glanced  up.  It  was
probably the same kind that had been sucked into the Narsh  sprayer's  atmos
engine.

"I hope it gives you gutache, you scumbag," he said, and waited for  it
to dwindle to a black speck before moving on.

It took more than half an hour to reach the other side  of  the  field,
and he still had twenty-five klicks to go to the RV point. He'd  decided  to
go north of the town, although he shouldn't have risked  moving  by  day  at
all. Get there early. Wait for them, just in case they decide I'm  dead  and
they don't hang about. He eased into the bushes, scattering small  creatures
that he could hear but not see, and considered taking off his packs just for
a moment's relief.

But he knew that would make it much harder to move when he slotted them
back into place again. Exhausted, he fumbled in his belt for a  ration  cube
and chewed, willing the nutrients to hit his bloodstream  as  fast  as  they
could, before he slumped into sleep and didn't get up again.  Lights  danced
in front of his eyes. Fatigue was giving him a heads-up display of its own.

The last of the cube dissolved in his mouth. "Come on, soldier, haul it
up," he said. Playing mind games could keep him  going.  The  trick  was  to
remember where the game ended and then snap back to reality. Right  then  he
decided to let his commander-self shout him into action.

"Sir!" he said, and sprang up from a kneeling position in one move.  He
tottered slightly when his knees locked  out,  but  he  stayed  upright  and
leaned against a tree. He made a mental note that he needed to  keep  better
hydrated.

It was so dark in the wood that his night vision kicked in from time to
time, superimposing ghostly green images on the trunks  and  branches.  He'd
grown used to the range of animal sounds,  and  the  occasional  whisper  of
leaves or snap of twigs blended into the  pattern  of  what  his  brain  was
cataloging as NFQ-normal for Qiilura. From time to time a slightly  abnormal
snap or rustle would make him drop to a squat and turn, rifle ready; but  he
was clear.

He followed the river on his holochart for part of the way, although it
was actually more of a stream. The faint trickle of liquid  over  rocks  was
reassuring in the way that the sound of water could be, and after an hour he
came upon a break in the tree canopy that allowed sunlight to filter down on
the stream in slanted shafts. Brilliantly colored insects circled and danced
above the surface.

Darman had never seen anything quite like it. Yes, he  knew  all  about
geological formations and what they foretold for soldiers: sources of water,
treacherous scree, risk of landslide, caverns to shelter in, high ground for
defense, passes to block. Accelerated learning packaged  the  natural  world
for him and explained how he could use it to military advantage.

But nobody told him it looked so ... nice. He had no words for it. Like
the uj cake, it was a glimpse of another world that wasn't his.

Sit down  and  rest.  You're  too  tired.  You'll  start  making  fatal
mistakes.

It was weakness talking. He shook his head  rapidly  to  clear  it.  No
stims, no, not yet. He had to press on.  The  insects  kept  up  a  constant
circuit of the stream like recce aircraft, circling, seeking.

You're hours ahead. Stop. No sleep makes you careless. You can't afford
to be careless.

It did sound like common sense. It wasn't the game-voice, his imaginary
commander, giving him orders: it felt deep within him, instinct. And it  was
right. He was making slower and slower progress and he had to concentrate on
putting one foot in front of the other.

He stopped and unclipped one pack, then the other. It was a good enough
place to camp. He filled his water bottle and hauled a few half-decayed logs
into place to build a defensive sanger, just  as  Sergeant  Kal  had  taught
them. It was only a low defensive circle of rocks-or whatever came to  hand-
but it made a difference on a battlefield when you couldn't dig in.  He  sat
in the walled hollow he had created, staring at the water.

Then he cracked the seal on his helmet and breathed unfiltered air  for
the first time in many hours.

It smelled complex. It wasn't the air-conditioning of Tipoca  City  and
it wasn't the dry dead air of Geonosis. It was alive.  Darman  released  all
the gription panels on his armor and stacked the plates inside the circle of
the sanger, set his helmet to detect movement, and left it on the  makeshift
wall. Then he peeled off his bodysuit section by section and  rinsed  it  in
the flowing water.

The day was surprisingly warm; he'd had no way of telling what it  felt
like while he was sealed in the suit, just the ambient environment  data  on
his display.

But the water was  shockingly  cold  when  he  stepped  in.  He  washed
quickly, sat in the pool of sunlight to  dry  off,  and  then  replaced  the
panels of bodysuit. They'd dried a lot more quickly than he had.

Before he let himself nod off he put his armor back on.

There was no sense in getting used to the  pleasant  sensation  of  not
wearing it. It was drilled so thoroughly into him that he was surprised he'd
thought otherwise even for a second: in enemy territory, you slept  in  full
gear with your blaster ready. He cradled his rifle in his arms, leaned  back
on his pack, and watched the insects dancing on the sunlit water.

They were hypnotically beautiful. Their wings were electric  blues  and
bright vermilion and they wove  a  figure-eight.  Then,  one  by  one,  they
dropped down and floated on the surface, drifting with  the  current,  still
wonderfully vivid, but now apparently dead.

Darman reacted. Airborne toxin. He shut his eyes tight, puffed out  the
air in his lungs, and snapped his helmet back  into  place,  drawing  breath
again only when the seal was secure and his filtration mask could take over.
But there was no data on his visor to indicate a contaminant.  The  air  was
still clean.

He leaned out and scooped up a couple of the insects caught in an eddy.
One kicked a leg a few times and then was still. When he  looked  up,  there
were none left flying. It seemed sad. What bothered him  more  was  that  it
seemed inexplicable.

Curious, he fumbled for an empty ration cube container and dropped  the
insects into it to consider them later. Then he closed his eyes and tried to
doze, rifle ready.

But sleep eluded him. His helmet detected movement and woke  him  every
few minutes at the intrusion of small creatures no threat to  him.  Once  or
twice it picked up a gdan, and he opened his eyes to see  glittering  points
of reflected light staring back at him.

The system picked up something larger once, but it wasn't as  large  as
any humanoid in his database, and kept its distance before disappearing.

Get some sleep. You 're going to need it, son.

Darman wasn't sure if it was his own voice or  that  of  his  imaginary
commander. Either way, it was an order he was only too willing to obey.

Ghez Hokan never took kindly to being summoned, but Ovolot  Qail  Uthan
had the gift of being charming about it. She invited him to meet her in  the
research complex. She even sent one of her staff with a speeder  to  collect
him from his offices.

Hokan appreciated the gesture. The woman understood how  to  use  power
and influence. The Neimoidian grocer had yet to learn.

Uthan was not particularly  pretty  but  she  did  have  the  knack  of
dressing well-in plain dark robes-and carrying herself like an empress. That
balanced the scales. What Hokan liked most about  her  was  that  while  she
seemed to know that feminine charm wouldn't override his common  sense,  she
never dropped her seductively reasonable facade. She was a professional, and
mutual respect went a long way with him. The fact that she was  a  scientist
with subtle political skills impressed him further still.  He  could  almost
forgive the unnatural act of fighting without real weapons.

The decaying exterior of farm buildings gave way  to  reinforced  alloy
doors and lengthy corridors with what appeared to  be  emergency  bulkheads.
Hokan carried his helmet  under  one  arm,  unwilling  to  leave  it-or  his
weapons-with the servant. The wizened man looked local. The locals were  all
thieves.

"Expecting some grain silo fires,  then?"  he  said,  and  prodded  the
recessed blast bulkheads with his forefinger.

Uthan laughed a low, tinkling laugh that he knew could just  as  easily
switch to a commanding voice and freeze a  parade  ground  of  troops.  "I'm
grateful you could make the time to see me, General Hokan," she said. "Under
normal circumstances, I would  never  bypass  someone  with  whom  I  had  a
contract and speak directly to his... subcontractor. It's very  rude,  don't
you think? But I'm a little concerned."

Ah, Ankkit wasn't part of this conversation. Hokan began to understand.
And she was laying on the flattery with  a  trowel.  "I'm  merely  Hokan,  a
citizen. Let me address your  concerns  .  .  .  madam?"  He  felt  suddenly
foolish. He had no idea what to call her. "Mistress Uthan?"

"Doctor will be fine, thank you."

"How can I reassure you, then, Doctor?"

She steered him into a side room and indicated three  shimmering  beige
brocade upholstered chairs, clearly imported from Coruscant. He hesitated to
sit on such a conspicuously decadent seat, but he did because he  would  not
stand before her like a servant. Uthan took the chair nearest him.

"You have some idea of the importance of the work I carry out  here,  I
think."

"Not in any detail. Viruses. From the building specification,  anyway."
He'd policed the construction crews, who were also all  thieves.  "Hazardous
materials."

If Uthan was surprised, she gave no indication  whatsoever.  "Exactly,"
she said. "And I confess I'm somewhat disturbed  by  the  events  of  recent
days. Lik Ankkit assures me my security is guaranteed, but  I  would  really
welcome your  assessment  of  the  situation."  Her  tone  hardened  just  a
fraction: still syrup, but now with gritty, sharp crystals in it.  "Is  this
project under any threat? And can you maintain its security?"

Hokan didn't hesitate. "Yes, I believe your facility is vulnerable." He
was a master of his trade. He saw no reason to lose his  reputation  over  a
restriction not of his making. "And no, I can't guarantee anything with  the
level and quality of staff that I have."

Uthan sat back with controlled slowness. "Last matter first. Do you not
have the resources to employ them? Ankkit's contract is quite generous."

"That generosity has not filtered down to my operation."

"Ah. Perhaps we should shorten the supply chain  in  the  interests  of
efficiency."

"I have no opinion on that. Ankkit's welcome to his cut as  long  as  I
have the tools to do the job."

"That wasn't quite the cut I had in mind for Lik Ankkit."  She  smiled.
There was no warmth in it.  "And  you  believe  the  recent  incursions  are
related to this facility?"

"Circumstantial evidence. Yes." Hokan returned the smile and  suspected
his was a few degrees cooler. If she'd do this to Ankkit,  she'd  do  it  to
him. "It's a big planet. Why the Imbraani region? Why send Jedi agents?"

"Have you located any forces?"

"No. I've identified at least two points of hard contact and one downed
vessel, though."

"Hard contact?"

"Situations when soldiers actually engage each  other."  Not  that  his
rabble of mercenaries rated the distinction  of  soldiers.  "I  can't  gauge
numbers."

"If I were to arrange for you to have command of Separatist droids  and
their officers from our nearby garrison, would that make your task easier?"

"I take no sides. I won't lie  to  you  and  pretend  to  support  your
cause."

"You have military experience, of course. There's no disgrace in  being
a mercenary."

"I'm Mandalorian. It's in my soul as well as part of my education.  No,
there's no shame in it as long as you give of your best."

Uthan suddenly melted into what seemed to be a thoroughly  genuine  and
sympathetic half smile. "I think I should share something with you. It might
be distressing." There were still hard edges  in  her  unctuous  tone.  "The
Republic has created an army of cloned troops. Millions. They have been bred
to fight and serve Jedi generals  without  question,  altered  to  be  their
willing servants. They have had no normal life and they age very  rapidly-if
they survive being wasted in foolish battles.  Do  you  know  whose  genetic
material was used to create these unfortunate slaves?"

"No, I don't." Hokan was never embarrassed to admit ignorance. That was
for small men. "Tell me."

"Jango Fett."

"What?"

"Yes. The finest Mandalorian warrior of his day has been used to  churn
out cannon fodder for the aggrandizement of the Jedi."

If she had spat in his face, he couldn't have been  more  appalled.  He
knew she was aware of what would enrage him; she  used  the  emotional  term
warrior, not bounty hunter. She knew how much the  revelation  would  offend
his cultural pride. But she was right to tell him. It was a matter of honor,
and more than his own. He would not see his heritage used in  this  travesty
of honest war.

"I'd take the contract even if you didn't pay me," he said.

Uthan seemed to relax. "We can give you up to a hundred droids to start
with. Ask if you need more. It's a small garrison because we didn't want  to
attract attention, but now  that  we  have  that  attention  anyway  we  can
reinforce if necessary. What about your existing militia?"

"I think layoff notices might be in order. Perhaps  your  troops  might
start by helping me with the administration of that."

Uthan blinked for a second, and Hokan realized  she  had  taken  longer
than usual to understand what he meant. She'd grasped the meaning: I can  be
as ruthless as you. She'd think twice before  undermining  him  as  she  was
undermining Ankkit.

"That might be a sensible start," she said.

Hokan stood up and held his helmet in both hands. He  had  always  been
proud of that tradition, proud that it hadn't changed in thousands of  years
except for a technical enhancement here and there. What really mattered  was
what lay under Mandalorian armor-a warrior's heart.

"Would you like to know what virus we're developing here, Major Hokan?"
Uthan asked.

So he had a real rank now, not the  flatteringly  extravagant  General.
"Do I need to?"

"I think so. You see, it's specifically for the clones."

"Let me see. To make them proper men again?"

"Nothing can do that. This is to kill them."

Hokan replaced his helmet carefully.

"The kindest solution," he said, and meant it.

[Image006]

Bal kote, darasuum kote, Jorso 'ran kando a tome. Sa kyr 'am Nau tracyn
kad, Vode an.

(And glory, eternal glory, We shall bear its  weight  together.  Forged
like  the  saber  in  the  fires  of  death,  Brothers  all.)   -Traditional
Mandalorian war chant

It  would  have  been  much,  much  easier  to  fight  in  a  different
environment.

Niner decided that when he got back to  base  he'd  ask  to  amend  the
training manual on nonurban warfare, to  reflect  the  fact  that  SOPs  for
temperate rural terrain were  definitely  not  interchangeable  with  jungle
tactics.

It was the fields. There was too much  open  ground  between  areas  of
cover. Niner had been sitting in the fork of a tree for  so  long  that  one
buttock was numb and the other was catching up fast. And still the group  of
militia was sprawled in the grass at the edge  of  a  recently  mown  field,
passing around bottles of urrqal.

Niner didn't stir under his camouflage of leaves. It was nearly autumn,
so it was a trick they wouldn't be able to rely on much  longer,  as  almost
all the woodland was deciduous. They planned to pull out long before then.

"Anything happening, Sarge?" Fi's voice was a whisper in

his helmet, even though the sound wouldn't carry. It was a smart habit,
just in case. If one precaution was good, two was better. "Still swigging?"

"Yeah. We could always wait until they die of liver failure.  Save  the
ammo."

"You okay?"

"My bladder's a bit full, but fine otherwise."

"Atin's shredding that speedie's onboard computer."

"I hope he's doing it quietly."

"He's moved into the wood  a  bit.  He  reckons  he's  downloaded  some
high-res charts, but the rest are probably fried.  He's  on  the  encryption
files now."

"As long as he's happy."

Fi made a stifled snort of laughter. "Yeah, he's happy."

I've been Darman. Niner still had no idea what Atin had meant by  that.
He'd remember to ask him at a more appropriate moment. All he  wanted  right
then was for Hokan's men to get up and move on so they could cross  over  to
RV Beta, just four klicks ahead. It would have been easy to  pick  them  off
from here, but that would leave a nice pile of calling cards and  the  squad
had left too many already. Niner wanted to avoid all the hard  contact  that
he could.

They have to run out of urrqal soon.

And they can't be taking Ghez Hokan very seriously.

Niner was watching the group through his  rifle  scope,  wondering  why
there was a preponderance of Weequays, when they all looked up, but  not  at
him. They were looking to his right.

"Five more targets approaching," Fi said.

Niner tracked right very gently. "Got 'em."

They didn't look like militia. There was an Umbaran, very  smart  in  a
pale gray uniform that matched his skin, and  four  battle  droids  marching
behind him. Some of the militia  boys  got  to  their  feet.  One  of  them,
reclining on  the  ground,  held  his  bottle  out  in  offering,  muttering
something about curing rust.

The only words of conversation  that  Niner  could  pick  up  from  the
Umbaran were "... Hokan asks... any contact..."

The breeze took the rest. They've got  reinforcements,  he  thought.
They look like a different problem altogether.

And they were, but not for him  this  time.  The  reinforcement  droids
raised their integral blasters without warning and simply opened  fire  into
the group of militia. They fired a few bolts in an orderly manner  and  then
waited,   looking   down   at   their   victims   as   if   checking.    The
Umbaran-commissioned officer or sergeant?-stepped forward and fired  another
blast at close range into a Weequay. Apparently satisfied that their job was
done, they gathered up the group's  assortment  of  blasters  and  sidearms,
searched the bodies for something- ID, Niner  suspected-and  marched  calmly
away, back down their approach route.

Niner heard Fi exhale at the same time he did.

"Well," Fi said. "You can empty your bladder now, I suppose."

Niner slid down from the fork of the tree, and his  leg  buckled  under
him. He removed the plates and rubbed  his  thigh  to  get  the  circulation
going. "What do you reckon that was all about, then?"

"Hokan doesn't like them drinking on duty?"

Atin appeared, a jumble of circuitry and wires in one hand. "Looks like
the tinnies have shown up to take over. But why shoot them?"

"Tinnies?" Fi said.

"What did your squad call them?"

"Droids."

Niner nudged Fi. "General Zey said Hokan was violent and unpredictable.
He executes his own people in cold blood. Let's remember that."

They gathered up their gear and this time it was the turn of  Atin  and
Niner to carry the load they'd rigged underslung on a pole. Fi walked  ahead
on point.

"I haven't fired a shot yet," he said.

"On this sort of mission, the fewer the better," Atin said.

Niner took it as a sign that Atin was joining in. His  tone  wasn't  as
defensive. Regular people said they couldn't tell the difference between one
clone and another, did they? That

was what came of spending too much time looking at faces and not enough
wondering what shaped people and went on inside their heads.

"Save 'em for later," Niner said. "I think we're going  to  need  every
single round."

I must be out of my mind.

Etain watched the ramshackle farmhouse buildings through a gap  in  the
barn's  planked  walls.  The  roofs  were  outlined  against  the  deepening
turquoise of the dusk sky: two lamps stood by the porch of the main building
to keep the gdans away from the path to the outside refresher. There were so
many of the little predators nesting around  the  farm  that  one  of  their
warrens had subsided, leaving a gaping hole in the  farmyard  that  was  now
filling up every time it rained. Birhan wasn't big on maintenance.

That did make some tasks easier,  though.  Satisfied  that  nobody  was
approaching, she went back to working boards loose from the barn's frame  at
the rear of the building. There was no other exit if she were  ambushed,  so
she was making one.

She concentrated on the boards, fixing their shape and position in  her
mind. Then she visualized them separating and moving aside, creating a  gap.
Move, she thought. Just part, swing aside . . . and the  boards  did  indeed
move. She rehearsed shifting them with the Force a few times,  letting  them
fall back into place quietly.

Yes, she could use the Force. When she felt confident  and  controlled,
she could master everything Fulier had taught her; but those days  could  be
few and far between. She wrestled with a  temper  unbefitting  a  Jedi.  She
watched  those  with  serene  acceptance  of  the  Force  and  envied  their
certainty. She wondered why Jedi blood had bothered to  manifest  itself  in
someone who was so fallible.

Etain hoped she could manage to use the  Force  to  do  something  more
momentous than moving planks if the situation demanded it. She  was  certain
that the next few days would test her beyond her limits.

Jinart arrived just after it grew  completely  dark.  Despite  watching
intently through the crack in the wall, lightsaber ready, Etain  didn't  see
her approach, or even hear her until the door swung open.

But she felt her. And she wondered why she hadn't felt her before.

"Ready, girl?" Jinart asked. She was wrapped in  a  filthy  shawl  that
seemed about to walk of its own accord. It was a pretty convincing disguise.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Etain asked.

"Tell you what?" Jinart asked.

"I might be less than the ideal Padawan, but I can always sense another
Jedi. I want to know why."

"You're wrong. I'm not that at all. But we are serving the same cause."

Jinart cast around and picked up the remnants  of  a  loaf  that  Etain
hadn't finished. She shoved it under her shawl.

"That wasn't an explanation," Etain said,  and  followed  her  out  the
door. There were no gdans to be seen. If this woman was strong in the  Force
and not a Jedi, she had to know why. "I need to know what you are."

"No, you don't."

"How do I know you're not someone who has turned to the dark side?"

Jinart stopped abruptly and  spun  around,  suddenly  faster  and  more
upright than an old woman should have been. "I can choose when I am detected
and not detected. And given your competence, I'm the one who's most at risk.
Now, silence."

It wasn't quite the answer Etain  was  expecting.  She  felt  the  same
authority as she had in the presence of Fulier,  except  that  he  exhibited
peaks  and  troughs  of  the  Force,  while  Jinart  projected  an  infinite
steadiness.

She was certainty. Etain envied certainty.

Jinart led her into the woodland that skirted Imbraani to the east. She
was keeping up a punishing pace, and Etain  decided  not  to  ask  any  more
questions for the time being.  At  various  points  along  the  way,  Jinart
deviated: "Mind the warrens," she said,  and  Etain  sidestepped  holes  and
depressions that told her colonies  of  gdans  had  been  busy  beneath  the
ground.

They finally paused half an hour later,  having  covered  an  arc  that
brought them north to the edge of the Braan River. As rivers  went,  it  was
more of a large stream. Jinart stood still, apparently looking at the  water
but not appearing to focus. Then she jerked her head around and stared west,
taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.

"Walk upstream," she said. "Follow the riverbank  and  keep  your  wits
about you. Your soldier is still there, and he needs those plans."

"A soldier. One?"

"That's what I said. Come on. He won't be there much longer."

"Not a group, then. Not even a few."

"Correct. There are others, but they're a little  way  from  here.  Now
go."

"What makes you think I have plans?"

"If you hadn't, I wouldn't be risking myself to direct you toward  your
contact," Jinart said. "I have other work to do  now.  When  you  find  your
soldier, I'll try to persuade Birhan to take him in for a while. He'll  need
somewhere to hide. Get on with it. He won't hang around."

Etain watched Jinart start away toward  the  town,  looking  back  just
once. The Padawan slipped out her lightsaber and tried to  get  a  sense  of
what might lie west along the river-bank, and when she  glanced  back  again
Jinart was nowhere to be seen. She was aware  of  the  scrabbling  of  small
clawed feet around her. Whatever influence had kept the gdans at  bay  while
Jinart was with her was gone. She kicked  out  occasionally  and  hoped  her
boots were thick enough.

If she went back to the farm, nothing would have changed and she  would
be no nearer to delivering the information. She had no choice but to go on.

The bank was overgrown in  places  and  she  stepped  into  the  river,
knowing it would be shallow. The knowledge didn't make it any more  pleasant
to wade in sodden boots. But it

was a reliable route, and it kept the gdans from trying their luck with
her.

They were wary of Jinart. Etain wondered why  the  Force  didn't  deter
them from stalking her as well. It was more confirmation, if she ever needed
it, that she really wasn't much of a Jedi when  it  came  to  utilizing  the
Force. She had to concentrate. She had to find that single-minded  sense  of
both purpose and acceptance that had so long eluded her.

Although Etain had clearly not yet come close to mastering  control  of
the Force, she could see and feel beyond the immediate world. She could feel
the nocturnal  creatures  around  her;  she  even  felt  the  little  silver
weed-eels parting to avoid her before they brushed  her  boots  on  the  way
downstream.

Then she became aware of something she wasn't expecting to encounter in
the wilds of the Imbraani woods.

A child.

She could feel a child nearby. There was something  unusual  about  the
child, but it was definitely a youngster, and there was a  feeling  of  loss
about it. She couldn't imagine any of the townspeople letting a child out at
night with gdans about.

Ignore it. This isn't your problem now.

But it was a child. It wasn't afraid. It was anxious, but not scared as
any sensible child should have been, wandering around alone at night.

Suddenly there was something touching her forehead.  She  put  out  her
hand instinctively as if shooing away  an  insect,  but  there  was  nothing
there. And still she felt something right between her brows.

It dipped briefly to her chest, exactly on her sternum, and back up  to
her forehead. Then she was suddenly blinded by a light of painful  intensity
that shot out of the darkness and overwhelmed her.

She had nothing to lose. She drew her lightsaber, prepared  to  die  on
her feet if nothing else. She didn't need to see her opponent.

There was a slight ah sound. The light snapped  off.  She  could  still
sense a child right in front of her.

"Sorry, ma'am," a man's voice said. "I didn't recognize you."

And still she detected only a child, so close that it had to be next to
the man. For some reason she couldn't sense him in the Force at all.

Red  ghost-images  of  the  light  still  blinded  her.  She  held  her
lightsaber steady. When her vision cleared, she knew  exactly  who  she  was
staring at, and she also knew Jinart had betrayed her.

She'd probably betrayed Fulier, too.

Etain could see the distinctive full-face Mandalorian  helmet  of  Ghez
Hokan.

The sinister T-shaped slit told her all she needed to know. She  raised
the lightsaber. Both his hands  were  resting  on  his  rifle.  Perhaps  the
child-the unseen child-had been a lure, a distraction projected by Jinart.

"Ma'am? Put the weapon down, ma'am-"

"Hokan, this is for Master Fulier," she hissed, and swung at him.

Hokan leapt back with astonishing reflexes. She  didn't  recognize  his
voice: it was younger, almost accentless. He didn't even  raise  his  rifle.
The monster was playing with her. She spun on the ball of her foot and  very
nearly took his arm off. Sudden rage constricted  her  throat.  She  slashed
again but found only air.

"Ma'am, please don't make me disarm you."

"Try it," she said. She beckoned him forward with one hand,  lightsaber
steady in the other. "You want this? Try me."

He launched himself at  her,  hitting  her  square  in  the  chest  and
knocking her backward into the river. The child was still there. Where? How?
And then Hokan was on top of her, holding her under the water with one hand,
and she dropped the lightsaber. She fought and choked and  thought  she  was
going to drown and she had no idea why she couldn't fight  off  an  ordinary
man with both her fists. She should have been able to muster  more  physical
strength than this human.

He hauled her up out of the water one-handed and dumped

her on the riverbank flat on her back, holding both her arms down.

"Ma'am, steady now-"

But she wasn't finished yet. With an animal grunt she drove her knee up
hard between his thighs, as hard as she could, and when she  was  frightened
and desperate and angry that was very hard indeed. She hadn't known it until
now.

Etain gasped as her knee went crack. It hurt. But  it  didn't  seem  to
hurt him.

"Ma'am, with respect, please shut up.  You're  going  to  get  us  both
killed." The sinister mask loomed over her. "I'm not Hokan. I'm not him.  If
you just calm down I'll show you." He loosened his  grip  slightly  and  she
almost struggled free. Now his  tone  was  bewildered.  "Ma'am,  stop  this,
please. I'm going to let go and you're going to listen to me explain  who  I
am."

Her breath was coming in gasps and she coughed water. The  ever-present
child so disoriented her that she stopped trying to dislodge him and let him
struggle to his feet.

Etain could see him-it-clearly now. She could see well in the darkness,
better than a normal human. She was staring at a  huge  droid-like  creature
clad in pale gray armor plates with no face and no markings. And  it  had  a
blaster rifle. It- he-held out a hand as if to pull her to her feet.

Well, it wasn't Ghez Hokan. That was all she could tell. She  took  his
armored hand and got to her feet.

"What in creation's name are you?" she managed to ask.

"Ma'am, my apologies. I didn't recognize you at first. This is entirely
my fault for failing to identify myself correctly." He touched  black-gloved
fingers briefly to bis temple, and she noticed the knuckle plate on the back
of the gauntlets. "Commando of the Grand Army CC-one-one-three-six, ma'am. I
await your orders, General."

"General?" Voices coming from things that  appeared  to  have  no  lips
reminded her too much of droids.

He tilted his head slightly. "My apologies. I didn't see  the  braid...
Commander."

"And what's the Grand Army?"

"The Republic's army, ma'am. Sorry. I should have realized that  you've
been out of contact with Coruscant for a while now, and ..."

"Since when did we acquire a Grand Army?"

"About ten years ago." He gestured to the bushes along the bank. "Shall
we discuss this somewhere less public?  You're  presenting  something  of  a
target to anyone with a night scope. I think  even  the  local  militia  can
manage one of those between them."

"I dropped my lightsaber in the river."

"Let me get it, ma'am," he said. He stepped into the shallow water, and
the light on his helmet  flicked  on.  He  bent  down  and  fumbled  in  the
illuminated water, then stood up with the hilt in his  hand.  "Please  don't
use it on me again, will you?"

Etain raked her soaking hair back from her face with  chilled  fingers.
She took the lightsaber carefully. "I don't think I'd have much luck anyway.
Look, why are you calling me Commander?"

"Ma'am, Jedi are all officers now. You are a Jedi, aren't you?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"No offense, ma'am-"

"I'd ask the same question if I were you." Commander.  Commander?  "I'm
Padawan Etain Tur-Mukan. Master Kast Fulier is dead.  It  seems  you're  the
soldier I have to help." She looked up at him. "What's your name?"

"Ma'am, Commando CC-"

"Your name. Your real name."

He hesitated. "Darman," he said, sounding as if he were embarrassed  by
it. "We need to get out of here. They're looking for me."

"They won't have much trouble finding you in  that  outfit,"  she  said
sarcastically.

"The dirt's rinsed off." He stood silent for a  moment.  "Do  you  have
orders for me, ma'am? I have to make RV point Gamma and find the rest of  my
squad. "

He was talking army gibberish. "When do you have to do that? Now?"

He paused. "Within twelve standard hours."

"Then we've got time. I have plans to show you. Come back with  me  and
let's work out what we have to do next." She took the  lightsaber  from  him
and gestured with both arms. "I'll help you carry what I can."

"It's heavy, ma'am."

"I'm a Jedi. I might not be a very competent Jedi, but I am  physically
strong. Even if you did take me down."

"A bit of training will fix that, ma'am," he said,  and  he  eased  off
that terrible Mandalorian helmet with a faint pop of  its  seal.  "You're  a
commander."

He was a young man, probably in his early twenties, with  close-cropped
black hair and dark eyes. And despite the hard planes of his face he  had  a
trusting and innocent expression that was so  full  of  confidence  that  it
surprised her. He wasn't just confident in himself; he exuded confidence  in
her. "You're probably just a bit rusty, ma'am. We'll get you back on form in
no time."

"Are you on form, Darman?" He had overpowered her. It  wasn't  supposed
to be like that. "How good are you?"

"I'm a commando, ma'am. Bred to be the best. Bred to serve you."

He wasn't joking. "How old are you, Darman?"

He didn't even blink. She could see the hard muscle in his neck.  There
wasn't even a hint of fat on his  face.  He  looked  extremely  fit  indeed,
upright, a model soldier.

"I'm ten years old, ma'am," Darman said.

Droids didn't drink or chase women, and they had no interest in  making
money on the side. They weren't  real  warriors,  soldiers  with  pride  and
honor, but at least Ghez Hokan could trust that they wouldn't be found lying
in the gutter with an empty bottle the next morning.

And they did look truly magnificent when they marched.

They were marching now, along the wide gravel path that led up  to  Lik
Ankkit's villa. Hokan walked beside them, then behind them, moving  position
because he was so fascinated by the absolute precision of their  steps,  and
the complete unvarying conformity of their height and profile.  They  looked
like bricks in a perfect wall, a wall that could never be breached.

Machines could be made to be identical, and that was good. But  it  was
anathema to do that to men-especially Mandalorian men.

The Umbaran lieutenant raised his arm and brought the droid platoon  to
a halt ten meters from the veranda steps. Lik Ankkit was already standing on
the top stair, gazing down at them in his fancy headdress and that  di'kutla
robe like the weak, decadent grocer he was.

Hokan walked forward, helmet under his arm, and nodded politely.

"Good morning, Hokan," Ankkit said. "I see  you've  finally  made  some
friends."

"I'd like to introduce you to them," Hokan said. "Because you're  going
to be seeing a great deal of each  other."  He  turned  to  the  lieutenant.
"Proceed, Cuvin."

The Umbaran saluted. "Platoon-advance."

It was all vulgar theatrics, but Hokan had waited a long time for this.
It was also necessary. He had to billet some troops  near  Uthan's  facility
for rapid deployment. They would be little use in the base thirty kilometers
away.

Ankkit stepped forward as the droids reached the  steps.  "This  is  an
outrage," he said. "The Trade Federation will not tolerate-"

The Neimoidian stood aside just as the  first  rank  of  paired  droids
reached the intricately inlaid kuvara door,  with  its  marquetry  image  of
entwined vines.

Hokan wasn't expecting a display of heroics, and  he  didn't  get  one.
"It's very good of you to allow me to billet my troops here,"  he  said.  "A
noble use of all that wasted space. The Separatists  are  grateful  for  the
personal sacrifice you've made to ensure  the  security  of  Doctor  Uthan's
project."

Ankkit walked down the steps as fast as his towering headdress and long
robe would allow.  Even  by  Neimoidian  standards  of  anxiety,  he  looked
terribly upset. He shook. He stood almost a  head  taller  than  Hokan  even
without the headdress, which was rustling as if some creature had landed  in
it and was struggling to escape. "I have a contract with  Doctor  Uthan  and
her government."

"And you failed to honor the clause that guaranteed adequate resourcing
for security. Doctor Uthan's notice of penalty should be on its way to  your
office."

"I do not take kindly to betrayal."

"That's no way to address a  commissioned  officer  of  the  Separatist
forces."

"An officer!"

"Field commission." Hokan smiled because he  was  genuinely  happy.  "I
have no need of you now, Ankkit. Just be grateful you're alive. By the  way,
Doctor Uthan's government has paid a bonus directly to the Trade  Federation
to ensure I'm allowed to work unhindered. Enemy troops have landed, and this
region is now under martial law."

Ankkit's slit of a mouth was clamped tight in anger. At least he wasn't
pleading for his life. Hokan would have had to kill him if he had begged. He
couldn't bear whining.

"And I suppose that means you, Hokan," Ankkit said.

"Major Hokan, please. If you see any of my former  employees  wandering
around, don't shelter them, will you? Some of them have failed to show up to
collect their severance payment.  I'd  like  to  handle  their  outplacement
package personally."

"You're the paradigm of efficient management for us all," Ankkit said.

Hokan enjoyed  the  moment  of  revenge,  then  put  it  aside  as  the
distracting bauble that it was. Ankkit was no threat now; you couldn't bribe
droids. The  Umbaran  and  Aqualish  officers  now  knew  what  happened  to
negligent soldiers because they'd carried out his  execution  orders.  Hokan
was careful to ensure that everyone was clear on what happened if they  left
his employment under a cloud.

"And where do I live?" Ankkit asked.

"Oh, plenty of room here," Hokan  replied.  There  was  a  loud  crash,
followed by the tinkle of fragile glass hitting a hard floor.  Droids  could
be so careless. "I'm sure you won't get in their way."

He touched his fingers to his helmet and strode off.

There were still a few of  his  former  troops  missing.  One  was  his
Weequay lieutenant Guta-Nay. He wanted to  locate  him  very  badly,  as  he
needed to demonstrate to the new officers that he would happily do  his  own
disciplinary work. It was an image he wanted planted in their  heads  should
Ankkit ever attempt to bribe them.

He walked down the path to the waiting speeder bike. A farmer had found
scraps of circuitry on his land and wanted to know if it was worth a  bottle
of urrqal to reveal the location.

Hokan set off to visit him personally, to show that the information was
worth more than that. It was worth a farmer's life.

RV point Beta should have been a  coppice  at  the  top  of  a  shallow
escarpment west of Imbraani. When Niner got within visual range of it, there
were no trees to be found.

"Coordinates are right, or else this visor is up the creek," Atin said,
tilting his head one way, then the other. "No, position's accurate.  Confirm
no trees, though. Shall I deploy a remote to recce?"

"No," Niner said. "Let's save them for ordnance.  Too  conspicuous  out
here. We'll have to lay up as close as we can and rely on eyeballing  Darman
if he shows. Where's the nearest cover?"

"About one klick east."

"That'll have to do."

Atin looped back, keeping within the trees and retracing their steps to
ensure they weren't being tracked. His armor was now caked  with  moss,  and
Niner was glad he wasn't downwind of  him.  Whatever  he'd  crawled  through
smelled authentically rural. Fi and Niner tabbed on, carrying the extra gear
between them, an assortment  of  entry  equipment  including  three  dynamic
hammers, a hydraulic ram, and a ratchet attachment for the really  difficult
doors. They had transferred all the explosive ordnance to  their  backpacks.
If they made hard contact and had to drop the  load  and  hurry  out,  Niner
didn't  fancy  being  left  with  a  hydraulic  ram  and  ration  packs  for
self-defense. A pile of grenades was far more useful.

"Logging," Fi said quietly.

"What?"

"The missing coppice. It's  coming  up  on  autumn.  They've  been  out
cutting trees for winter since the recce was done."

"That's the problem with intel," Niner said. "Goes stale really fast."

"Not like exercises."

"No. It's not. This is going to be invaluable for training updates when
we get back."

Fi sounded as if he had sighed. That was the funny thing  about  helmet
comlinks. One got used to listening to every nuance of breath and  tone  and
even the different ways his  brothers  swallowed.  They  couldn't  see  each
other's facial expressions, and had to listen for them. It was probably like
being blind. Niner had never known any blind people, but he had heard  of  a
batch of clones whose eyesight wasn't 20/20 disappearing after  their  first
exercise. Kaminoans were obsessive about quality control.

He might have been bred for selfless obedience, but he  wasn't  stupid.
The Kaminoan technicians were the only things that truly terrified him,  and
what he felt when he  obeyed  their  instructions  was  different  than  the
feelings he had when a Jedi gave him orders. He wondered if Fi and Atin felt
the same way.

"You don't think we're going to make it, do you, Fi?"

"I'm not afraid to die. Not in combat, anyway."

"I didn't say you were."

"It's just..."

"Ten-meter range, son. No Kaminoans listening."

"It's just so inefficient. You said it yourself.  You  said  it  was  a
waste."

"That was Geonosis."

"They spend so much time and trouble making us perfect  and  then  they
don't give us what we need to do the job. You  remember  what  Sergeant  Kal
used to say?"

"He used to swear a lot, I remember that."

"No, he used to get upset when he'd had a few drinks and  say  that  he
could make us better soldiers if we had time to go out and live.  Data-rich,
experience-poor. That's what he used to say."

"He used to slur the words  quite  a  bit,  too.  And  he  didn't  like
clones."

"That was all bluster. And you know it."

Yes, Kal Skirata said awful things about clones, but it  never  sounded
as if he meant them, not to the clones, anyway. He got uj cake from home, no
easy feat on secret, sealed Kamino, and shared it with the  commando  squads
he was responsible for training. He  called  them  his  Dead  Men,  his  Wet
Droids, all kinds of abusive things. But if you caught him off duty  in  his
cabin, he would sometimes fight back tears and make you  eat  some  delicacy
smuggled in for him, or encourage you to read one of his illicit texts  that
wasn't on the accelerated training curriculum. They were  often  stories  of
soldiers who could have done many other things, but chose to fight. Sergeant
Kal was especially eager for his Wet Droids to read stuff  about  a  culture
called Mandalorian. He admired Jango Fett. "This is  who  you  really  are,"
he'd say. "Be proud, however much these ugly  gray  freaks  treat  you  like
cattle."

No, he didn't like Kaminoans much, did Kal Skirata.

Once he signed up with the Kaminoans, he said, they never  let  him  go
home again. But he'd told Niner that he didn't want to.  He  couldn't  leave
his boys now, not since he knew. "Brief," he'd say, gesturing with  a  glass
of colorless alcohol, "is never glorious."

Niner was  determined  to  work  out  what  Kal  Skirata  had  come  to
understand, and why it upset him so much.

"Nobody has all the answers," Niner said.  "The  trouble  with  getting
used to being powerful is that you can  forget  the  small  details  that'll
bring you down."

Fi made that ffff sound as if he was about to start laughing.  "I  know
who you're quoting."

Niner didn't even realize he'd said it. It was Sergeant Kal all  right.
He'd even started using the word son.

He missed him.

Then the comlink warning light in his  HUD  interrupted  his  thoughts.
Medium range. What was Atin-

"Contact, five hundred meters, dead on  your  six."  Atin's  voice  cut
through. "Droids. Ten, one humanoid-confirm ten tinnies, one wet, looks like
an officer." There was a loud blast behind them. "Correction-hard contact."

Niner knew this by rote and Fi didn't even  exchange  words  with  him.
They dropped the gear and darted back the way  they  had  come,  rifles  up,
safetys off, and when they got within fifty meters of Atin's  location  they
dropped into the prone position to aim.

Atin was pinned down at the foot of a tree. There was one droid slumped
on its side with wisps of smoke rising from it, but the others  were  formed
up,  laying  down  covering  fire  while  two  advanced  in  short  sprints,
zigzagging. Atin was managing to get off  the  occasional  shot.  If  they'd
wanted him dead, they probably had the blaster power to do it.

They wanted Atin alive.

"I can see the wet," Fi said. He was to Niner's left, staring down  the
sniperscope. "Aqualish captain, in fact."

"Okay. Take him when you're ready."

Niner snapped on his grenade launcher and aimed at the line of  droids.
They were spread, maybe forty meters end-to-end. It might take two rounds to
knock them out if they didn't scatter. Droids were  great  on  battlefields.
But they weren't made for smart stuff, and if their officer was down . ..

Crack.

The air expanded instantly with the release of heat  and  energy.  That
was what gave  plasma  bolts  their  satisfying  sound.  The  Aqualish  fell
backward, chest plate shattered, and lumps that looked  like  clods  of  wet
soil but weren't flew from  him  and  dropped.  The  droids  stopped  for  a
fraction of a second,

men carried on their course as if that was the best idea they had.

Fi scrambled away from his position and rolled.

No, they really weren't good at close-quarters  combat,  at  least  not
without direction from a wet. But there were always a lot of them, and  they
could return fire as well as any  organic  life-form.  Three  of  the  seven
remaining droids turned their attention to the direction of Fi's bolt.

The bushes where Fi had been firing exploded in flame. Niner  perceived
that it was all happening slowly-at heartbeat pace-but  it  wasn't,  not  at
all. He aimed and fired, once, twice. The twin explosions almost merged into
one. Soil and grass and metal fragments rained down  around  him.  At  close
range, droids were almost as dangerous when you hit them as  when  they  hit
you: they were their own shrapnel.

The firing stopped. Smoke drifted from at  least  five  impact  points.
Niner could see nothing moving.

"One tinnie intact but immobile," Fi said.

"Got it," Niner said. He fired again, just in case.

"Looks sorted out there," Fi said. He lowered  his  rifle.  "Atin?  You
okay?"

"Nothing missing that I can't bolt back on."

"You're a laugh a minute," Niner said, and started to ease  up  on  one
arm. It was amazing how he could forget the weight of his pack for  the  few
moments it took to save his life. "Now, how did they-"

"Down!" Atin yelled.

A bolt flew a meter above Niner's head  and  he  dropped  back  on  his
belly. It sounded like two shots. Then there was silence.

"Now it's sorted," Atin said. "Someone help me get up, please?"

When Niner managed to get into a  kneeling  position  he  could  see  a
thoroughly shattered pile of droid, a bit closer to him than  the  line.  It
had been two shots he'd heard: one had been aimed at him and  one  had  come
from Atin, to make sure there wasn't a second.

"Coming, brother," Niner said.

Atin's mud-smeared chest plate was a different color now,  matte  black
with streaks radiating from the center. "I can't breathe properly," he said,
utterly matter-of-fact, in the way badly injured men often were.  He  gulped
in a breath. "My chest hurts."

Fi propped him up against the trunk of a tree and took his helmet  off.
There was no blood coming from his mouth: he was bone  white,  and  his  raw
scar looked dramatic, but he wasn't bleeding out. His pupils looked okay: he
wasn't in shock. Fi released the gription on his chest plate and  eased  the
armor off.

The bodysuit was intact.

"Sure it's just your chest?" Fi asked. He didn't have a tally  scan  to
check Atin's status. You didn't start removing  armor  or  embedded  objects
until you knew what you were dealing with. Sometimes that was all  that  was
holding a man together. Atin nodded. Fi peeled  away  the  section  of  suit
starting at the collar.

"Phwoar," Fi said. "That's going to be a monster of  a  bruise."  There
was a livid  patch  from  his  sternum  to  halfway  down  his  chest.  "You
collecting distinguishing features or something?"

"Hit me square on," Atin said, panting. "Not  a  regular  round.  Armor
works though, eh?"

Fi took his helmet off and listened to Atin's breathing  with  his  ear
pressed to his chest.

"Ow."

"Shut up and breathe."

Atin took shallow breaths, wincing.  Fi  straightened  up  and  nodded.
"Can't hear any pneumothorax," he said. "But let's keep an eye on  him.  The
air trapped inside can build up. Might be fractured ribs, might  just  be  a
bad bruise." He took out  a  canister  of  bacta  and  sprayed  the  rapidly
developing bruise. Atin lifted his arms slightly as if testing them.

Fi sealed the bodysuit and armor back in place.

"I'll take your pack," Niner said, and unclipped it. It was  the  least
he could do. "I think we can skip RV Beta now. Let's  leave  some  souvenirs
around there so Darman can spot them if he shows up. You never know if  more
tinnies will follow. They're not original thinkers."

They probably had a few minutes, even if any of the droids had  managed
to call in to base. Fi sprinted off through the trees with a few  pieces  of
debris to leave them at the RV point. Niner  searched  the  remains  of  the
Aqualish officer and took everything that looked like a key, a data  medium,
or proof of ID. Then he dragged Atin's pack behind him on a  webbing  strap,
heading for the place they'd left the entry equipment.

It was going to be a tough slog to RV Gamma, at least until Atin  could
carry his pack again.

The whole engagement had lasted five minutes and eight  seconds,  first
shot to last, including running time. He had no idea  if  it  had  been  one
second or half an hour. Funny thing, time  perception  under  fire.  Niner's
boots crunched over droid shrapnel and he wondered how long a firefight felt
to a droid.

"Is that how they see us?" Niner asked. "Ordinary people, that is. Like
droids?"

"No," Atin said. "We don't  have  any  scrap  value."  He  laughed  and
stopped short with a small gasp. It must have hurt him. "I'm going  to  slow
you down."

"Don't go gallant on me. You're coming the rest of the way because  I'm
not lugging all that gear around with Fi. I want a break sometime."

"Okay."

"And thanks. I owe you."

"No. You don't."

"Thanks anyway. Want to explain why you've been Darman?"

Atin was holding his rifle carefully, a handspan clear  of  his  chest.
"I've been the last man left standing in two squads now."

"Oh." Silence. Niner prompted: "Want to tell me how?"

"First squad tried to rescue me on a live range exercise. I didn't need
rescuing. Not that badly, anyway."

"Ah." Niner felt instantly appalled at himself for thinking Atin didn't
care what happened to Darman. He was just  caring  too  much.  "My  training
sergeant said there was something called survivor's guilt. He also said that
in those cases, having you survive was what your squad wanted." "They bred a
lot of stuff out of us. Why not that as well?" Niner stopped dragging Atin's
pack and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He lifted the pack and was  glad
to carry it. "If they had, I might not be  here  now,"  he  said,  and  knew
Darman would be waiting for them tomorrow.

Ghez Hokan surveyed the scrap heap that had been  a  functioning  droid
platoon a few hours earlier. Whatever had hit them had hit  fast  and  hard.
And-judging by the precisely placed sniper shot and  the  blast  pattern  of
only two grenades- they had been taken out by experts.

It might have been one man  or  it  might  have  been  a  platoon.  You
typically couldn't ambush battle droids like that with a handful of men, but
that depended entirely on who the men were.  It  was  a  shame  the  captain
hadn't called back with a sitrep as instructed: if he  hadn't  been  killed,
Hokan would have had him  shot  for  disobeying  operational  procedure.  He
studied the droid escort lined up neatly by the speeder bikes  and  wondered
if they felt anything when they saw dismantled comrades.

"There's no sign of a camp, sir." Lieutenant Cuvin  came  jogging  back
from the woods opposite the clearing. It was curious to  see  the  Umbaran's
deathly pallor tinged pink by the exertion. "Some broken  branches  at  knee
height and crushed grass from troops firing prone, but I honestly can't tell
how many men we're dealing with."

"You can't tell much, can you, Lieutenant?" Hokan said.

"Sir, I'll check again." He was white-faced  now,  white  even  for  an
Umbaran.

"Sir! Sir!" Second Lieutenant Hurati was enthusiastic, no doubt keen to
be elevated to Cuvin's rank. He sprinted to his commander, an attitude Hokan
appreciated. "I've found the most extraordinary thing."

"I'm glad one of you has found something. What is it?"

"A pile of droid parts, sir."

"And this is extraordinary because ... ?"

"No, sir, they're some way from here  and  they're  sort  of  arranged,
sir."

Hokan strode off for the speeder. "Show me."

The trees had been cut down  a  few  days  earlier  because  there  was
already klol fungus growing on them in a pale-pink mesh. One broad stump-the
flattest one, almost like an altar-supported the remains of a droid.

The torn pieces of its trunk were  laid  flat.  The  arms  were  neatly
arranged on one side of the thorax and the legs on the other.  Part  of  the
faceplate was propped up as if looking skyward.

"That's how the droid pilot was left, too, sir." Hurati was a good man.
He'd obviously studied the report the militia had filed, however appallingly
inadequate its presentation had been. "I think it's a sign."

It was a long way to move a dead droid from a  battle.  There  were  no
drag marks leading to the stump. It was a heavy load to carry on foot;  they
might even have  a  transport,  although  he  could  see  no  signs  that  a
repulsorlift had passed over  the  ground.  Hokan  stared  at  the  ritually
arranged debris and tried to think who would want to send the Separatists  a
message-and what it might mean.

"It's a trophy," Hokan said. "They're taunting us. They're showing  how
easy this is for them."

That made him angry. He was Mandalorian. Being an easy enemy wasn't his
way. "A curfew, Hurati. Declare a permanent curfew on all  powered  vehicles
until further notice. Anything moving under power  is  either  ours  or  the
enemy. We can track all friendly transports." He paused. "You have made sure
all our vehicles have their own transponders, haven't you?"

"Yes sir."

"Why the delay, then?"

"It's-it's harvest, sir. How will the  farmers  get  their  produce  to
Teklet for shipping?"

"I imagine they have handcarts," Hokan said. He swung

his leg over the  speeder's  saddle.  "Ankkit  will  have  to  find  an
alternative means of conveyance for his crops."

Hokan pondered on the carefully arranged droid debris all the way  back
to his new headquarters in Ankkit's villa. He feared that moving  into  that
vulgar Hurt bordello of a house would make him soft and decadent, too, so he
set up his office in an outbuilding. He didn't care for  fancy  drapery  and
useless ornaments. It just  happened  to  be  convenient  for  the  research
facility, and close to his troops.

So who had the Republic sent  to  target  Uthan's  project?  They  were
clearly bold men; first they made sport of an aerial  patrol,  now  a  droid
platoon and its captain. They seemed to be choosing their targets  casually.
The clone army must have been terribly important to the Republic's  strategy
for these troops to land like this.  Where  were  the  conventional  armies?
Where were the Jedi generals? When would they come?

This was a new kind of war. He could feel it.

He hated not knowing who was out there, preparing to fight him.  If  he
hadn't known the man was dead, he would have sworn it was Jango Fett himself

.

[Image007]

You know what makes you especially effective? It's not just

that you 're genetically superior and intensively trained. And

it's not just because you obey orders without question. It's

because you 're all prepared to shoot to kill, every time.

Only one percent of civilians are prepared to kill, and less

than a quarter of ordinary human soldiers, even under fire.

-Sergeant Kal Skirata, from his opening lecture to

commandos on military psychology

The droid fired a volley of bolts at the sealed alloy doors until  they
glowed red. And still nothing happened.

"Stop!"

The droid appeared not to hear.

Dr. Ovolot Qail Uthan ran down the  flight  of  steps,  red  and  black
strands of hair streaming out behind her. She was wearing a voluminous  dark
blue nightgown; it looked as expensive as her day wear.  Hokan  saluted  her
politely and went on watching the droid's progress.

"Have you gone mad?" Uthan whispered fiercely. She didn't strike  Hokan
as the sort of woman who would need to raise her voice to  make  her  point.
"There's a biohazard behind that door."

"I know," Hokan said. "Just testing. It's all holding up  well  indeed.
Excellent safety bulkheads."

Uthan took a discreet but deep breath and glanced briefly at the  backs
of her hands. "This facility has  been  built  and  tested  to  the  highest
containment standards, Major. You needn't worry."

"But I do, Doctor." He watched the droid patiently wasting  bolt  after
bolt on the door for a while. It paused to swap power packs. "Stop."

It stopped. Hokan took out the lightsaber he had taken from Kast Fulier
and ran its pure blue light down the  seam  between  the  two  doors.  Smoke
curled up from the surface, but no breach appeared. It  would  take  even  a
Jedi a long time to cut through this plating.

"Forgive my insistence, but could this not  wait  until  the  morning?"
Uthan asked. "I'm working around the chrono  as  it  is  to  weaponize  this
agent. I even sleep here. I would prefer to be doing that right now."

"My apologies, Doctor, but we might not have the luxury of time."

"What's time got to do with it?"

"I think I need to relocate you."

Uthan had a way of lowering her head slightly, then straightening up as
if she were a krayt dragon. It was most impressive.  "This  is  a  high-risk
biohazard facility. It can't be relocated like some tent."

"I appreciate the inconvenience involved. I still believe it  would  be
safer if you were to pack up your materials and staff and move elsewhere."

"Why? You have the security situation under control."

"I have it more under control than I did, that's true, but enemy troops
have landed. I don't know their numbers, and I don't know what materiel  and
armaments they have at their disposal. All I know-all I think I know-is that
this is what they've come for."

"This is a fortress. You have a hundred droids at  your  disposal.  Let
them come. You can repel them."

"All fortresses can be breached in time. I could give  you  a  list  of
circumstances under which someone who's  very  resourceful  could  get  past
these doors, but I want you to trust my judgment  and  accept  what  I  say.
Let's move you and your work to somewhere less obvious until I have  a  more
accurate assessment of the threat."

Uthan looked completely impassive, staring slightly past  Hokan  as  if
she was calculating something.

"I can remove the biomaterials and my staff," she said  at  last.  "The
equipment can be replaced if needed. I won't be  able  to  continue  working
without a safe laboratory environment, of course, but  if  you  believe  the
project is at risk, then idle time is a better  option  than  wasting  three
months' work."

What a splendidly sensible woman she was,  almost  Mandalorian  in  her
discipline and dedication. Hokan ushered  the  droid  out.  "How  long?"  he
asked.

"Six hours, perhaps."

"Is this material that dangerous?"

She tilted her head slightly. "Only if you're a clone. If  you're  not,
it might simply make you unwell."

"It must be strange to fight with weapons you can't see."

"War is about technology," she said.

Hokan smiled politely and walked back out into the courtyard  to  stand
in the dim light from the doorway. There was the first hint of chill on  the
night air; winter was coming, and the landscape  would  be  much  easier  to
patrol when the leaves had fallen. When the snows came,  it  would  be  even
easier. But he suspected that this conflict was going to  be  a  rapid  one.
Intelligence reports were starting to come in  that  the  Republic  was  now
fighting on hundreds of different fronts. Hundreds.

Their new army would  have  to  be  millions  strong  to  achieve  that
dispersal. So they were all clones. Sad travesties of the great Jango Fett.

Well, he knew one thing. The Republic wouldn't  be  sending  clones  to
deal with this particular problem. They had to know the Separatists  already
had the one weapon that could stop them in their tracks. And  this  kind  of
operation was beyond the capacity of the docile infantry  clones  Uthan  had
described. This was not a game of numbers.

Hokan replaced his helmet and started visualizing the re-

search facility as a trap. So they wanted to come and take a look,  did
they? He'd make them welcome.

"Droids, form up. Two ranks across this entrance."

The droids moved as one, even in the darkness, and Hokan again  admired
their precision. Now they were a road sign pointing the way to  the  target,
confirming what the Republic thought it knew. But they'd be wrong. They'd be
sending their best men to a decoy.

War is about technology.

"No," Hokan said aloud. The droids snapped  to  attention.  "War  isn't
even about firepower." He tapped  his  temple.  "It's  about  applying  your
brains." Then he touched his chest. "And it's about courage."

He didn't expect the droids to understand that. Clones probably  didn't
understand it, either.

The straw stank of something awful, but Darman  was  too  exhausted  to
care. It looked like it might be soft enough to sink  into.  That  was  good
enough for him.

But first he walked around the walls of the barn  and  checked  for  an
exit if he needed one in an emergency. There were several  loose  boards  in
one wall that would do fine. The rickety building  looked  as  if  he  could
actually punch an escape hole through any fragile plank he chose.

Reassured, he dropped everything he was carrying and tried  to  sit  on
the bales, but it turned into more of an uncontrolled slump. He didn't  even
take his helmet off. He sat back and let out a breath.

The Padawan commander leaned over him. "Are you all right, Darman?" She
held her hand out, palm down over him, as if she was going to touch him  but
didn't.

"I'm fit to fight, Commander." He started to sit up, and she  held  her
hand in a slightly different gesture that clearly meant Stay where you are.

"I didn't ask that," she said. "I can feel  you're  in  some  distress.
Tell me."

It was an order. It came from a Jedi. "I injured my leg

when I landed. Apart from that I'm just tired and a  bit  hungry."  Bit
hungry? He was ravenous. "Nothing at all, Commander."

"Landed?"

"I free-fell from a vessel."

"With all that equipment?"

"Yes ma'am."

"You astound me." He couldn't tell  if  that  was  good  or  bad.  "Two
things, though. Please don't call me Padawan or Commander-I don't want to be
recognized as a Jedi. And I'd rather be  called  Etain  than  ma  'am."  She
paused, no doubt thinking of some other failure on  his  part.  "And  please
take your helmet off. It's rather disturbing."

So far Darman had met three Jedi  and  they  all  seemed  to  find  him
distracting in some way, with or without his helmet. All  his  life  he  had
been taught that he and his brothers were created for the Jedi, to help them
fight their enemies; he'd expected some recognition  of  that  bond,  or  at
least an expression of satisfaction. He removed his helmet and  sat  feeling
confused, torn between the absolute clarity of his military  expertise,  and
the confusion of dealing with the civilian world he had been thrust into for
the first time.

The Padawan-no, Etain, she'd made her orders clear- took a small sphere
out of her cloak  and  opened  it  in  both  hands.  Layer  after  layer  of
holographic images spilled out of it, stacking neatly like plates.

"Plans," she said. Her  voice  had  changed  completely.  She  radiated
relief. "Plans of all  the  Separatist  and  Neimoidian  buildings  in  this
region. Floor plans, utility  layouts,  wiring  diagrams,  drainage,  ducts,
specifics on materials used- every detail of how the contractors built them.
This is what you need, isn't it? What you are looking for?"

Darman wasn't tired anymore. He reached out and broke the beam  of  the
projection, flipping a plan vertically  so  he  could  read  it.  He  looked
through them all and heard himself let out an involuntary breath.

Etain was right. It was nearly every bit of intelligence  they  needed,
apart from more fluid details such as personnel numbers and  routines.  With
these plans they knew how to cut power to the  buildings,  where  to  insert
nerve agents into air ducts or water supplies, and exactly what  they  would
see and where they would have to go when they gained entry. The plans showed
the construction of walls, doors,  bulkheads,  and  windows,  so  they  knew
precisely what size of charge or type of ram would be needed to breach them.
This was a set of clear instructions for achieving their objective.

But Etain didn't seem to know that objective. "What are you going to do
with this?" she asked.

"We've come to abduct  Ovolot  Qail  Uthan  and  destroy  her  research
facility," Darman said. "She's  developing  a  nanovirus  intended  to  kill
clones."

Etain leaned closer. "Clones?"

"I'm a clone. The whole Grand Army is composed of clones,  millions  of
us, all commanded by Jedi generals."

Her face was a study in blank surprise. It was also  fascinating  in  a
way he couldn't define. He had never seen a human female  this  close,  this
real. He was astonished by the dappling  of  small  brown  dots  across  the
bridge of her nose and her cheeks, and the different strands  of  colors  in
her long, unkempt hair-light browns, golds, even reds. And she was  as  thin
as the locals. He could see blue veins in the backs of her  hands,  and  she
smelled different from anyone he'd ever shared space with. He wasn't sure if
she was pretty or downright ugly. He just knew she  was  utterly  alien  and
utterly fascinating, as alien as  a  gdan  or  a  Gurlanin.  It  was  almost
stopping him from concentrating on the job.

"All like  you?"  she  said  at  last,  blinking  rapidly.  She  seemed
unsettled by his scrutiny. "What have I said?"

"No ma'am-sorry, Etain. I'm a commando. We're trained differently. Some
people say... that we're eccentric. I realize you haven't received  much  by
way of intelligence."

"All I knew-all my Master would tell me-was that  Uthan  was  here  and
that the plans were critical to the Republic's safety.  Clones  didn't  come
into the conversation." She was staring at him just as Jusik  had.  "There's
an old woman who told me you were coming, but she didn't tell me much  else.
How many of there are you on Qiilura now?"

"Four."

"Four? You said there were millions of you! What use is four  going  to
be?"

"We're commandos. Special forces. You understand that term?"

"Obviously not. How are  four  ten-year-olds  going  to  storm  Uthan's
complex?"

It took him a few moments to realize she was being sarcastic. "We fight
differently."

"You're going to have to be very different indeed, Darman." She  looked
absolutely crushed, as if he'd let her down simply by showing up.  "Are  you
really ten years old?"

"Yes. Our growth is accelerated."

"How can we possibly train competent soldiers in that time?"

"It's very intensive training." He was finding it hard not  to  say  ma
'am each time. "They created us from the  best  genetic  stock.  From  Jango
Fett."

Etain raised her eyebrows, but said nothing else. Then  she  stood  up,
reached for a basket balanced on a low beam, and handed it to  him.  It  was
full of odd round items that smelled  edible,  but  he  thought  he'd  check
anyway.

"Is this food?"

"Yes. The local bread and some sort of steamed cake. Nothing  exciting,
but it'll fill you up."

Darman bit into a lump that yielded slightly in  his  fingers.  It  was
glorious. It was strongly flavored and chewy and among the  most  satisfying
meals he had ever eaten: not quite on the scale of uj cake, but so far  from
the odorless, tasteless, textureless field rations that it might  well  have
been.

Etain watched him carefully. "You must be starving."

"It's wonderful."

"That doesn't say much for army food."

Darman reached into his belt and pulled out a  dry  ration  cube.  "Try
this."

She sniffed it and bit into it. The expression of  vague  disbelief  on
her face changed slowly into one  of  revulsion.  "It's  appalling.  There's
nothing in it."

"It's the perfect nutritional profile for our requirements. It  has  no
smell, so the enemy can't detect it, and no fiber,  so  we  excrete  minimal
waste products that would enable us to be tracked, and-"

"I get the idea. Is that how they treat you? Like farm animals?"

"We don't go hungry."

"What do you like doing?"

He really didn't know what answer she was after. "I'm a  good  shot.  I
like the DC-seventeen-"

"I meant in your free time. Do you get free time?"

"We study."

"No family, of course," she said.

"Yes, I've got squad brothers."

"I meant-" She checked herself. "No,  I  understand."  She  pushed  the
basket of bread closer to him. "My life hasn't been that much different from
yours, except the food was better. Go on. You can finish the  whole  lot  if
you want."

And he did. He tried not to watch while Etain wrung water from her robe
and shook out her boots. She made him feel uncomfortable but he didn't  know
why, apart from the fact that she wasn't quite the  Jedi  commander  he  had
been so thoroughly trained to expect.

The only females he could  recall  were  Kaminoan  medical  technicians
whose quietly impersonal tones intimidated him more  than  a  yelling  drill
sergeant. And his platoon had once  experienced  an  unpleasantly  memorable
lecture in encryption techniques from a female Sullustan.

He feared females. Now he feared his Jedi officer and was also agitated
by her in a way that he  didn't  even  have  a  word  for.  It  didn't  feel
acceptable.

"We need to move on," he said. "I have to make the RV point. I've  been
out of comm contact with my squad for nearly two days, and I don't even know
if they're alive."

"This gets worse by the second," she said wearily. "First we have four.
Now we might be down to one."

"Two. Unless you have other duties."

"You've seen me fight."

"You're a Jedi. A commander."

"That's a title, not an assessment of my ability. I'm not  exactly  the
best of the best."

"You must be. I know what Jedi can do. Nobody can defeat you as long as
you have the Force."

She gave him a very odd smile and picked up the holo-chart sphere.  She
seemed to be struggling to find her thread again. She swallowed a few times.
"Show me where your RV point is-that's right, isn't it? RV? Show me where it
is on this chart."

Darman took out his datapad and linked  his  mission  charts  with  the
image projected from the sphere. He pointed to the coordinates.

"It's here," he said. "Before we set out on exercises or  missions,  we
agree where we'll meet up if anything goes wrong. We had to  bail  out  when
our transport crashed, so we're scattered, and the procedure is that  we  go
to an RV point for a set time window."

He zoomed in on the area northwest of Imbraani. Etain tilted  her  head
to follow.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Primary target. Uthan's facility."

"No, it's not."

"Intel said-"

"No, that's the Separatist base. Their garrison." Her eyes darted  back
and forth, scanning the chart. She pointed. "This group of buildings is  the
facility. You can see. Look."  She  superimposed  the  floor  plans  of  the
facility with the layout of the farm buildings and shrank the image to  fit.
They lined up perfectly.

Darman's  stomach  knotted.  "My  squad  will  be   heading   for   the
Separatists, then."

"We'd better make sure we intercept them," Etain said. "Or they'll  run
smack-bang into a hundred droids."

Darman was suddenly on his feet in one move, even before he'd  realized
that he'd heard someone coming.

"I don't think so," a woman's voice said. "Because the droids  are  all
heading for Imbraani."

Darman's sidearm was out of his belt and aimed before Etain could  even
turn her head.

[Image008]

There is something very touching about them. They look like soldiers; they
fight like soldiers; and sometimes

they even talk like soldiers. They have all the finestqualitiesof the
fighting man. But behind that is nothing-no love, no family, no

happy memory that comes from having truly lived. When I see one of these men
killed, I weep more for him than for any ordinary soldier

who has lived a full and normal life.

-Jedi General Ki-Adi-Mundi

Darman had flattened Jinart's face against the wall and put his blaster
to her head in the time it took Etain to jump to her feet.

"Steady there, boy," Jinart said quietly. "I mean you no harm."

He had her pinned securely. The expression  on  his  earnest  face  was
entirely benign, so far divorced from the potential violence he was ready to
mete out that Etain shuddered.

"Let her go, Darman," she said. "She's a fellow Jedi."

Darman stood back instantly and let Jinart go.

"I'm not a Jedi, I tell you," Jinart said irritably. She looked up into
Darman's face. "So you'd shoot an old woman, would you?"

"Yes ma'am," Darman said. Etain stared, horrified. "Threats come in all
guises. Not all  soldiers  are  young  males,  and  not  all  soldiers  wear
uniforms."

Etain waited for Jinart to aim a kick at his groin, but the  old  woman
broke into a satisfied grin. "There's a sensible boy," she said. "You'll  do
well. Trust this one, Etain. He's very good at his job." She peered  at  the
blaster, still firmly in his grip. "DC-seventeen, I see."

"There are four of them," Etain said, expecting Jinart  to  react  with
the same disappointment she had.

"I know." The woman handed Etain a bundle of rags. "A complete squad of
clone commandos. Here, dry clothing. Nothing chic, but at least it's  clean.
Yes, I know all about them. I've been tracking the other three."

"They're okay?" Darman was all anxiety again, still emitting that  same
sense of child that Etain found hard to bear.  "I've  got  to  rejoin  them.
Where are they?"

"Heading north."

"To RV Gamma."

"Whatever you say, lad. You've all led me  on  something  of  a  dance.
You're a challenge to track."

"That's how they trained us, ma'am."

"I know."

Jinart was still staring at Darman's face. "You really  are  a  perfect
copy of Fett, aren't you? In his prime, of course."  Her  voice  had  become
lower, with less of the hoarse cracking typical of the very old,  and  Etain
wondered if this was the moment at which she would reveal  that  she  was  a
Sith. The Padawan slid her hand slowly into her sodden cloak.

Jinart suddenly became black as Coruscant marble, and  then  devoid  of
texture and hair and fabric and wrinkles, as if she were wax poured  into  a
crude mold. Her form began flowing.

Darman's incongruously  innocent  face  broke  into  something  like  a
familiar smile. Etain was ready this time. She was focused;  she  visualized
the lightsaber as part of her arm. She was prepared to fight.

"You're the Gurlanin," Darman said. "We weren't told you were  on  this
mission. How did you manage that?"

"I'm not Valaqil," said a soothing liquid  voice.  "I'm  his  consort."
Jinart, now a four-legged, black-furred creature, sat up on her haunches and
seemed to simply extend upward like a column of molten metal. "Girl, you  do
look surprised."

Etain couldn't argue with that. Even  if  you'd  encountered  the  full
diversity of nonhuman species-and she certainly had,  even  within  her  own
Jedi  clan-seeing  a  shapeshifter  metamorphose  before   your   eyes   was
mesmerizing. On top of that, even this naive clone soldier  knew  what  this
creature was. She didn't.

"You're quite a revelation, Jinart. But why can I sense something about
you that feels like the Force?"

"We're telepaths," the Gurlanin said.

"Oh..."

"No, I'm not delving into your mind. It  doesn't  work  like  that.  We
communicate only with each other."

"But I heard your voice that night, in my mind."

"I was standing near you, actually. Not in any shape you'd  notice,  of
course."

"And  me,  ma'am?"  Darman  asked,  seeming  totally  absorbed  by  the
conversation.

"Yes, I told you to get some sleep. I make a  convincing  fallen  tree,
don't I?" Jinart flowed and changed and reassembled herself into the epitome
of a crone again. "I know,  stereotypical,  but  effective.  Old  women  are
invisible. Like you, Darman, we go where others won't  and  do  what  others
can't. The communications network here is totally controlled  by  the  Trade
Federation, and in practice that means a single relay and monitoring  ground
station  at  Teklet.  And  while  my  kind  cannot  transmit  details   over
interstellar distances, we can communicate broad ideas and notions  to  each
other. My consort and I are your  comlink.  Not  perfect,  but  better  than
silence."

The Gurlanin made a liquid sound like water boiling.  "I've  spent  the
last two days running myself ragged to gather this intelligence, and it's as
much for this young man as it is for you. Ghez Hokan now has command of  the
armed forces here, such as they are, and he's no fool-he  realizes  Republic
troops are here for Uthan's  box  of  tricks.  Darman,  he's  tracking  your
comrades."

"We're pretty good at evasion."

"Yes, but they do tend to leave bodies and parts behind them. He admits
he doesn't know how many of you there are, and that troubles him."

"You're privy to his concerns, then?" Etain said.  She  trusted  nobody
now. She still didn't know who had betrayed Master Fulier, and until she did
she would keep an open and cautious mind. Although her  Master  hadn't  told
her about the clones, he must  have  known  if  he  had  discovered  Uthan's
activities. But he hadn't trusted her. For all his kind words, when it  came
down to it he simply confirmed-even from the grave-that she was not  fit  to
become a Jedi Knight.

"I know Hokan's concerns because I can make a very convincing  old  man
as well as an excellent grandmother," Jinart said. The reply made no  sense.
"I'll catch up with Darman's comrades and try to direct  them  to  somewhere
safe. They have no reliable intel, as  you  call  it,  a  finite  amount  of
ordnance, and no advantage of surprise any longer. Hokan knows what you have
come to do and he has enough firepower and droids to stop  you.  That  makes
your  mission  next  to  impossible  without  some   change   of   plan   or
intervention."

Darman considered her  carefully.  Jinart's  news  hadn't  dented  that
tangible confidence: Etain saw not a flicker  on  his  face.  "It  could  be
worse. I quite liked the sound of a single transmitter."

"Might I also add that the locals will turn you in for  one  chance  to
get disgustingly drunk."

Darman looked at Etain. She squirmed.  "Out  of  ideas,  soldier?"  she
asked.

"I await your orders, Commander."

It was the final straw. Weeks of fear, hunger, and fatigue  on  top  of
years of doubt and disillusion  suddenly  brought  Etain's  fragile  edifice
crashing down. She had done all she could do, and there was nothing left  in
her to give.

"Stop it, stop calling me Commander." She felt her nails dig  into  her
palms. "I am not your blasted commander. I haven't a clue what to  do  next.
You're on your own, Darman. You 're the soldier. You come up with a plan."

Jinart said nothing. Etain  felt  her  face  burn.  She  had  lost  all
dignity.  A  lifetime  of  careful  training  in  the  art  of  control  and
contemplation had come to nothing.

Darman changed before her eyes. He  transformed  not  in  the  physical
sense that the Gurlanin had, but the change was just  as  startling  because
the sense of the child that Etain detected so clearly simply evaporated. Its
place was taken by calm resignation and something  else,  a  rather  forlorn
feeling. She couldn't pin it down.

"Yes ma'am," he said. "I'll do that right away."

Jinart jerked her head in the direction of the  door.  "Get  some  air,
Darman-I need to talk to Commander Tur-Mukan."

Darman hesitated for a moment and then slipped outside. Jinart  rounded
on Etain.

"Listen to me, girl," she whispered, all harsh sibilants.  Droplets  of
fine saliva glittered briefly in the dim light. "That soldier  may  think  a
Jedi's every word is a divine  pronouncement,  but  I  don't.  You'd  better
sharpen up fast. The commandos and I are all that stands between maintaining
some kind of order in the galaxy and its fragmentation, because if the clone
army can be wiped out, then the Separatists will win.

"You can either help us  or  stand  aside,  but  you  will  not  be  an
obstacle, and that's what you are if you can't lead those men. They've  been
bred to obey Jedi without question. Sadly, in this case that means you."

Etain was used to feeling worthless. There  was  no  lower  place  that
Jinart could cast her. "I didn't ask for that responsibility."

"And neither did Darman." Jinart flashed back into a mass  of  seething
black sinews for a terrifying second. "That's the nature of duty.  It  calls
and you give your all. He will. So will his comrades, every  single  one  of
them. They need you to help them do their job."

"I'm still learning how."

"Then learn fast. If those soldiers weren't conditioned  to  obey  you
I'd consider cutting you down now and  have  done  with  it.  My  kind  have
nothing to thank Jedi for, nothing at all. But we share a common enemy,  and
I want to see Valaqil again. Think yourself lucky."

Jinart swept out. Etain sank down on her knees in the hay and  wondered
how she had come to this. The barn door  creaked  open  slowly,  and  Darman
peered around.

"Don't mind me," she said.

"You okay, ma'am?" He winced visibly. "Apologies. Etain"

"You probably think I'm useless as well, don't you?"

"I came up with a plan, as you ordered."

"Bred for diplomacy, too, eh?"

"If Hokan has set the facility as a decoy, then we need  him  to  think
that we believe it's still the genuine target. So we split-"

"I'll take that as a yes."

Darman lapsed into silence.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Carry on."

He knelt down, facing her, and swept the floor clear with i  his  hand,
creating a clear space on which to demonstrate  something.  He  reached  for
some crusts of bread and a lump of insect-eaten wood.

"What do you think I am?" he asked quietly,

"From what Jinart says, a clone soldier bred to obey." She watched  him
break the wood and the crusts into separate chunks and place them in  a  row
like game pieces. "No choice."

"But I do have a choice," he said. "A choice in how  I  interpret  your
orders. I'm intelligent. I've seen Jedi fight, so I know what you're capable
of. Once you're exposed to situations that call on your  skills,  you'll  be
the same."

He was all contradictions. She wondered for a moment  if  he  wasn't  a
clone soldier at all but another Gurlanin playing spiteful games  with  her.
But she could feel a combination of quiet  desperation  and...  faith.  Yes,
faith.

He was the only person in many  years  who  had  shown  any  degree  of
confidence in her, and the first since Master Fulier who had shown her  real
kindness.

"Very well,"  she  said.  "This  is  your  overriding  order.  Whatever
happens, you are to intervene if anything  I  do  or  say  compromises  your
mission. No, don't look at me like that." She held up her hand to stifle the
protest she could see forming on his lips. "Think of me as  a  commander  in
training. You must train me. That might mean showing me the correct  way  to
do things, or even saving me from my own lack of... experience."  She  could
hardly bring herself to say it. "And... and that's an order."

He almost smiled. "This is why I have  confidence  in  obeying  a  Jedi
commander. Your wisdom is unequaled."

Etain had to think about that for a few seconds. If Jinart had said it,
she would have seethed. Darman meant it. And perhaps he meant it in a number
of ways.

Yes, he was intelligent and subtle, not a  droid  at  all.  How  did  a
ten-year-old get that way? Disturbed, she concentrated  on  the  comfort  of
believing that he had seen things that she never had, and so knew best.  "Go
on," she said. "You had a plan."

RV Gamma, laying-up point, nightfall

"How do you feel now?" Niner asked.

Atin moved his arms, bent at the elbow in a  swimming  motion,  testing
his pectoral muscles. "Nearly good as new. No  breathing  problems,  either.
No, just a hard smack on the plate."

Fi's disembodied voice spoke up in their helmet comlinks. He was tucked
under a bush on the edge of the ridge, keeping watch  on  the  track  below.
"I'm such a good field medic. Wait till you see me do a tracheotomy."

"I'll pass if that's all right with you," Atin  said,  easing  off  his
helmet. "Dinner?"

"What do you prefer," Niner asked. "Dry rats, dry rats,  or  maybe  dry
rats?"

"Let's go with the dry rats for a change."  Yes,  Atin  was  definitely
feeling better, and not just physically. "Who used to say that, then?"

"Uh?"

"The dry rations thing."

"Oh. Skirata. Our old instructor sergeant."

Atin took a bite out of the white cube and washed it down with  a  gulp
of water from his bottle. "He never trained us. Heard a lot about him."

"Trained  Fi  and  Darman,  too.  Our  squads  were  all  in  the  same
battalion."

"We had Walon Vau."

"That explains where you get your cheery outlook."

"Sergeant Vau taught us  the  importance  of  planning  for  the  worst
scenario," Atin said, all loyalty. "And maximizing your tech. Being hard  is
good, being hard with superior tech is better."

"I'll bet."

"I'd  heard  everyone  loved  Skirata,  though.  Even  if  he   was   a
bad-tempered drunk."

Niner had never been drunk and he didn't even know what alcohol  tasted
like. "He cared what happened to us. He was one of us, pretty much. Not just
there because he couldn't cope with not being in the army anymore, or had to
disappear. No, he was a good man." Niner would have given a  great  deal  to
have seen Skirata come limping through the trees right  then,  demanding  to
know what they were doing lounging around like a  bunch  of  Kaminoan  nahra
artists. "No idea where he is now, not since we left Kamino. Best covert ops
and sabotage man ever."

"You'd know, of course."

"We'll all know soon. I'm relying on what he  taught  us  to  get  this
mission completed."

Niner ate  the  perfectly  balanced,  sensibly  designed,  and  utterly
tasteless cube, and sat silently, still waiting for  Darman.  They  couldn't
even trap something and cook it: the smell of roasting meat and the light of
the fire would betray their position.

With Fi on watch, he could shut his eyes and  sleep  for  a  couple  of
hours. He put his helmet back on, partly to be ready to move  fast  if  they
had enemy contact, and partly to keep the temperature up in his suit. It was
getting chilly. He allowed himself one comfort that he didn't  really  need,
for morale.

You scare me. You just absorb everything I tell  you.  Don't  you  ever
forget?

"No, Sarge," Niner said.

He had no idea how long he'd been asleep. He woke with a start  at  the
sound of Fi's voice.

"Possible contact, due  east,  range  forty  klicks.  Looks  like  it's
centered on Imbraani."

Even through the visor, it wasn't clear exactly what  Fi  had  spotted,
but Niner could see it now, too. A glow marked  the  horizon  like  a  false
sunrise. It was constant, the gentlest graduation from amber to deep red: it
wasn't an explosion.

Niner switched between visor modes, main spectrum to infrared  to  full
spectrum, and  then  back  again.  The  glow  was  hot,  too.  The  infrared
long-range picked it up.

"I reckon that's one big fire coming," Fi said.

They waited, watching:  Niner  could  hear  Atin  a  few  meters  away,
gathering up equipment and assembling it, ready to pull out. With the binocs
on full distance, they could see that the fire was being eclipsed in  places
by billows of smoke. Eventually, Atin joined them, and  all  three  observed
the distant blaze in silence.

"They're not burning crop stubble at night,"  Fi  said.  "They  haven't
even finished  harvesting  that  stinking  barq  stuff  yet.  They've  found
something."

"I know."

"Either they've found Darman, and they're teaching the  locals  not  to
shelter the enemy, or they haven't found Darman and they're trying to  flush
him out."

Niner thought it was relatively good news. "But it means  he  made  the
landing," he said. "So we wait here right up to the last second, and maybe a
little longer just to be sure."

Atin laid the gear down again. He was too professional and  disciplined
to slam it on the ground, but Niner picked up  on  the  slight  sag  of  his
shoulders. "And if he doesn't show by then?" he asked,  with  a  level  tone
that suggested he didn't want to show dissent any longer. "Next plan?"

"We take another look at the whole area from Teklet to Imbraani," Niner
said. "We start from scratch."

"This isn't to scale," Darman said. He scraped marks in the loose  soil
on the exposed dirt floor of the barn  and  placed  pieces  of  stale  bread
carefully on the crude chart. "This is the river. These three crusts are RVs
Alpha, Beta, and Gamma." He snapped the wood into  more  pieces  and  placed
them. "This is the droid base ... and this is Uthan's lab."

Etain held out her cupped hand. He dropped two chunks of wood into  it.
"This is Lik Ankkit's residence," she said. "He's the  Neimoidian  overlord,
for want of a better word. He runs the agricultural produce export business,
and that near enough makes him an emperor here."

"Okay. What else have we got?"

Etain crumbled her remaining lump  of  wood  into  smaller  pieces  and
scattered them carefully in patches. "Imbraani itself, and Teklet, which  is
the spaceport, and its storage and distribution depot."

"And this was the last known position for my squad."

Etain stared at the worm-eaten wood and the  moldy  crusts  that  might
help them save the Grand Army from destruction. "Why are we scraping maps in
the dirt when we've got perfectly good holocharts?"

"That's what Sergeant Skirata used to do," Darman said. "He didn't like
holos. Too transparent. He also thought that feeling  the  texture  of  dirt
focused your mind."

"And you don't need any technology to do it."

"He was a great believer in intuition."

Darman drew his blaster and turned suddenly. The barn door  opened.  He
relaxed and dropped his arm to  his  side.  Jinart  held  more  drab  fabric
bundled in her arms. "You have to go," she said breathlessly. "Take  a  look
out there to the east. They're burning the fields to flush you out and  deny
you

cover. There's somewhere you can lie low, but  you  have  to  pass  for
farmers-that's not going to be easy for you, lad. You're too  big  and  well
fed."

Etain didn't rise to the bait. She knew she'd  fit  in  fine  with  the
undernourished, shabby locals.

"I have to take my gear," Darman said. "I can lay up somewhere with  it
if I have to."

"Can't you leave any of it?"

"Not if we're going  to  blow  up  that  facility.  I've  got  all  the
implosion ordnance to deal with the nanovirus, as well as the E-Web  cannon.
We need it."

"Then take a cart. There's a curfew on powered vehicles." Jinart tossed
one of the bundles to Darman. "And get out of that armor.  You  couldn't  be
more conspicuous if you were wearing a wedding gown."

"We can try to make RV Gamma."

"No, go to the first safe house you can find. I'll reach your squad and
let them know, then I'll return to you."

There was an assortment of barrows and handcarts stored  in  the  barn,
all in various states of disrepair. They'd attract no attention: the network
of dirt roads was well traveled by people trying to get their quota of  barq
and other crops to Teklet on foot or with merlie-carts.

Loading the sections of the blaster cannon on the sturdiest barrow they
could find made Etain realize just how heavy a burden  Darman  had  carried.
When she tried to heave one of the gray  packs  into  the  cart,  it  nearly
wrenched her shoulder from the socket, so she decided  to  enlist  a  little
assistance from the Force. She hadn't expected it to be so heavy. She wasn't
the only one with deceptive physical strength.

"This is all weapons?" she asked.

"Pretty much."

"Not enough to take a hundred droids, though."

"Depends how you use it," Darman said.

Etain wondered if he looked more conspicuous out of his  sinister  gray
armor than in it. The armor had made him look much bigger, but even  without
it he was so solidly built that it was obvious he'd spent his life  training
for strength, eating adequate protein. Subsistence farmers didn't have  that
distinctive slope from neck to shoulder formed  by  overdeveloped  trapezius
muscles. Even the youngsters bore the marks  of  constant  exposure  to  the
elements; Darman simply looked strikingly healthy and unburned by  the  sun.
He didn't even have callused hands.

And then there was that ramrod parade-ground posture. He looked exactly
like the elite soldier he was. He would never pass for a local. Etain  hoped
the farmers would be more terrified of him than they were of Hokan.

The night horizon was amber like the urban skies of Coruscant,  but  it
was flame, not the light of a million lamps, that caused the reflection from
the clouds. It looked like rain might follow; they could cover the cart with
a tarpaulin and not cause any curiosity. Layers of barq stalk, sacks of barq
grain, and strips of dried kushayan  buried  Darman's  "gear,"  as  he  kept
calling it. His language swung from slang and generality to highly  educated
subbtlety, from gear-his catchall noun for any artifact-to DC-17s and DC-15s
and a whole slew of numbers and acronyms that left Etain befuddled.

"Look at that," Darman said, assessing the skyline. "That  flame  front
must be four klicks, at least."

"That's a million or more credits' worth of barq going up in smoke. The
farmers are going to be furious.  The  Neimoidians  are  going  to  be  even
angrier."

"So will Birhan," Jinart said. "That's a fair whack of his barq  you're
using for camouflage, girl. Get going." The Gurlanin took  Darman's  datapad
and inserted a mem-stick. "These are all the relatively safe homes  I  could
chart. Don't advertise your identity, either of you. Even if the  master  of
the house you  call  on  knows  who  you  are,  do  him  the  favor  of  not
compromising him by admitting it."

Etain  had  covered  her  distinctive  Jedi  cloak  with  an   Imbraani
ankle-length tunic. Jinart indicated her hair. "And that," she said.

"The braid, too?"

"Unless you want to advertise what you are."

Etain hesitated. She had once heard someone say they could never remove
their betrothal ring, not until they died. Her Padawan's braid felt  equally
permanent, as if her soul was woven in with it, and that removing  it  after
so long-  even  temporarily-would  rend  the  fabric  of  the  universe  and
underscore her belief that she was not Jedi material. But it had to be done.
She unfastened the single thin braid and combed the  strands  of  wavy  hair
loose with her fingers.

She felt less like a Jedi than ever, and not even remotely close  to  a
commander.

"I imagine you never thought a Jedi commander would  run  away  from  a
fight," she said to Darman as they made their carefully unhurried way up the
track.

"Not running away," Darman said. "This is E and E. Escape and evasion."

"Sounds like running to me."

"Tactical withdrawal to regroup."

"You're a very positive man." The child was  almost  completely  absent
now. She could mainly  sense  focus  and  purpose.  He  shamed  her  without
intention. "I'm sorry that I lost my composure earlier."

"Only in private. Not under fire, Commander."

"I said not to call me that."

"Where we can be overheard, I'll obey your order." He paused. "Everyone
loses it now and then."

"I'm not supposed to."

"If you don't crack sometimes, how do you know how far you can go?"

It was a good point. For some reason he was far  more  reassuring  than
Master Fulier had ever been. Fulier, when not getting caught up  in  putting
the galaxy right, was all effortless brilliance. Darman was  expert  at  his
craft, too, but there was a sense  of  hard-won  skill,  and  there  was  no
randomness or mystery to that.

She liked him for being so pragmatic. It  crossed  her  mind  that  she
might be saving clone soldiers from death by biological agent so they  could
die from blaster and cannon round. It was a horrible thought.

She didn't like having to kill, not even by another's actions.  It  was
going to make life as a commander exceptionally hard.

The droids advanced along the  edge  of  the  wood  with  flamethrowers
borrowed from the same farmer whose fields they were burning. Ghez Hokan and
his lieutenants Cuvin and Hurati stood in the path  of  the  blaze,  staring
back at it from three hundred meters.

"We'll have to burn a great deal of land  to  deny  all  cover  to  the
enemy, sir," Cuvin said.

"That isn't the point," Hurati said. "This is as  much  to  create  the
impression of protecting the facility as it is to flush out troops."

"Correct," Hokan said. "There's no point alienating the natives, and  I
can't afford to compensate them all for lost production. This is sufficient.
We'll use droids on the remaining boundaries."

Cuvin seemed undeterred. "May I suggest  we  use  hunting  strills?  We
could bring in a pack with their handlers in two days. The Trade  Federation
won't welcome the disruption to the barq harvest,  and  a  shortage  of  the
delicacy will be noticed by some very influential people."

"I don't care," Hokan said. "The same influential people will  be  even
more inconvenienced by the arrival of millions of Republic clones  on  their
homeworlds."

Hokan was in full  Mandalorian  battle  armor  now,  not  so  much  for
protection as to convey a message to  his  officers.  Sometimes  he  had  to
indulge  in  a  little  theater.  He  knew  that  the  glow  of  the  flames
illuminating  his  traditional  warrior's  armor  made  a  fine   spectacle,
calculated to impress and  overawe.  He  was  at  war.  He  didn't  have  to
prostitute his martial skills as an  assassin  or  bodyguard  for  weak  and
wealthy cowards any longer.

Cuvin was right about the strills, though. It didn't mean  he  wouldn't
have to deal with his dissent, but finding the Republic troops  wouldn't  be
easy.

"How many do you estimate now, Hurati?" he asked.

Hurati flicked a holochart into life and a fly-through image  shimmered
in the dark. "Vessel downed here, confirmed Republic R5 military droid."  He
pointed. "Remains of two Weequay militia  found  here,  here,  and  here-but
gdans had dismembered and dragged the cadavers over a five-klick  range,  so
the exact location of the kill is estimated.  The  air-speeder  was  brought
down here. The speeder circuitry was found dismantled here, but as it was at
the entrance to gdan burrows, there's no telling where they might have found
it to start with. The engagement with the droid patrol was here, because  we
deployed the patrol based on that finding."

"That's pretty much all in a five-klick corridor spanning forty klicks.
Looks obvious to me that they're heading for Teklet, probably  to  take  the
port before targeting the facility."

"It would look that way, sir."

"Numbers?"

"I would have said no more than ten, sir. We have reports from  farmers
who've found evidence of movement across their land. They're very protective
of their crops, so they notice these subtle signs-unlike droids, sir."

"And what does that suggest, then?"

"Multiple tracks crossing an area forty klicks by thirty  klicks,  sir.
Expertly done, too-the locals thought it might be wildlife, but these tracks
are not random. I'd say we're being decoyed."

Ten troops.  Ten-pathfinders,  special  forces,  saboteurs?  Were  they
preparing the ground for more troops, or were they tasked  to  complete  the
mission on their own? Hokan wished he had a few Mandalorian mercenaries, not
droids and career officers. He kept  his  concern  well  hidden  behind  his
full-face helmet. He also wished he had more airspeeders; he'd never  needed
more than one to police farms, and it would take days to have any shipped to
Qiilura. "Farmers can be pretty cooperative, can't they?"

"Remarkably so, ever since that one found the circuitry, sir."

Hokan turned and started walking back toward the research facility that
was now empty but lavishly and conspicuously guarded. He beckoned Hurati  to
follow him. Cuvin started to follow, too, but Hokan  held  up  his  hand  to
motion him to stay put.

"Lieutenant," he  said  quietly.  "Any  sign  of  my  former  employee,
Guta-Nay?"

"Not yet, sir. Patrols have been briefed."

"Good, and keep an eye on Cuvin for me, won't you? I don't  think  he's
going to make captain."

Hurati paused, but briefly. "Understood, sir."

It was amazing what the unspoken promise  of  an  extra  rank  insignia
could do. Hokan wondered what had happened to the code of conduct.

So there were perhaps ten commandos operating in  the  region.  Hunting
them down would be enormously  time-consuming.  Barring  luck,  Hokan  would
never catch them, not with droids and these young academy theorists.  Sooner
or later, the enemy would need to resupply; sooner or later, they would show
themselves.

The Republic was playing decoy games with him, and he with them. It was
looking better all the time. They didn't appear to be adopting  their  usual
tactic of landing infantry in force. It was a game  of  wits,  and  if  need
arose he could sit tight and force the Republic to come to him.

If he wanted to bring the Republic close enough to shoot, then he might
need an even more compelling bait.

Dr. Uthan would understand. She was a pragmatic woman.

Fi was getting edgy. It wasn't like him. Niner had  only  known  him  a
matter of days, but you made quick judgments on small detail if you  were  a
clone commando, especially among your own.

He didn't sleep when Niner relieved him on  watch,  and  after  fifteen
minutes Fi came forward to the observation position and settled down  beside
him. The fires seemed to have stopped; the glow was still  visible,  but  it
was static. It had probably reached one  of  the  streams  and  was  burning
itself out.

"They know we're here anyway," Fi said. Niner needed  no  telepathy  to
know he was worrying about Darman. "We  could  try  the  comlink  at  longer
range."

"They'd get a fix on positions."

"They'd have to get lucky."

"And we only have to be unlucky once."

"Okay. Sorry, Sarge."

He lapsed back into silence. Niner  adjusted  his  infrared  filter  to
remove the distracting light  of  the  fire.  Suddenly,  it  was  abnormally
silent, and that meant the gdans had stopped their incessant prowling, which
was not good.

Niner looked down his rifle scope one-handed to get a narrower focus on
the bushes in front of him. As he panned across 180 degrees, he caught sight
of  little  paired  reflections,  the  alert  eyes  of  gdans   huddled   in
uncharacteristic stillness to avoid something.

Movement. His scope flashed blue in one quadrant,  warning  him.  Maybe
whatever it was could see infrared. He killed the  targeting,  switching  to
image intensification and the Mark One Ear'ole, as Skirata  called  it.  You
got eyes and ears, son,  good  ones.  Don't  rely  on  the  tech  too  much.
Something was coming, something slow, stealthy, smaller than a man, more sly
than a droid.

Niner put his hand on Fi's shoulder-Stay down-not daring to speak, even
on comlink.

It was ten meters away, coming straight at them, making no  attempt  to
stalk. Maybe it didn't know what they were. It was going to get a  surprise,
then.

Niner flicked on his tactical spot-lamp, and the blinding beam caught a
shining black shape. He cut the  beam  immediately,  muscles  relaxing.  The
creature was so flat to the ground now that it looked as if it were  flowing
water. It was only when it was right in front of them that  it  sat  up  and
became Valaqil.

"I thought I'd let you see me coming, given  your  armaments,"  said  a
voice that wasn't Valaqil's but was equally liquid and hypnotic. "I make  it
a rule never to startle a humanoid with a rifle."

"Just as well that we've seen a Gurlanin before," Fi said, and  touched
his glove to his helmet politely.

"I didn't seem to surprise your colleague, either. I've come  to  brief
you. I'm Jinart. Please don't call me ma 'am every two seconds  like  Darman
does."

Niner wanted to ask a hundred questions about Darman, but the  Gurlanin
had used the present tense and so he was alive. Niner was glad  he  had  his
helmet in place. Displays of emotion weren't professional, not to outsiders,
anyway.

"You're heading for the wrong target," Jinart said. "You're on a course
for the Separatist base. Normally  you'd  be  knocking  on  the  door  of  a
barracks with a hundred droids inside, but they've moved  half  of  them  to
defend the research facility and patrol the  area.  Neither  Uthan  nor  her
nanovirus is at the actual facility any longer."

"So it's all going just great," Fi said cheerfully.

"Your targets are at  a  villa  just  outside  Imbraani,  despite  what
evidence you might see of the facility being defended. It's a trap."

"What's Darman doing?" Niner asked.

"He has your special ordnance and detailed plans of your targets.  I've
sent him into hiding with the Jedi."

"General Fulier? We thought-"

"You thought right. He's dead. The  Jedi  is  his  Padawan,  Tur-Mukan.
Don't get your hopes up.  She  isn't  commander  material-not  yet,  perhaps
never. For the time being, this is still your war."

"We weren't planning on a frontal assault, not without infantry," Niner
said. "Now that we've lost the advantage of surprise, we're going to have to
get it back again."

"You do have one element-Ghez Hokan has no accurate idea how few of you
there are. I've made sure there are many, many  obvious  signs  of  movement
through the woods and fields."

"You've been busy."

"I can do a good impersonation  of  a  small  army,  or  at  least  its
movement." Jinart glanced at Atin and Fi as if checking them. Maybe she  was
working out how she would mimic the

form of a commando. "Not thinking of shooting and eating  any  merlies,
are you?"

"Why?"

"That armor isn't looking such a tight fit on you as it should."

Fi nodded. "She's right. Expending about thirty percent  more  calories
than planned, Sarge. They didn't calculate for us carrying gear overland."

"You'll  exhaust  your  rations  soon,"  Jinart  said.   "Merlies   are
delicious. Just never shoot one, please. If necessary, I could hunt them and
leave them for you."

"Why?"

"The one you shoot might be me."

It was one more angle they hadn't covered on exercises.  Not  even  Kal
Skirata had dealt with  Gurlanins,  it  seemed,  or  if  he  had  he  hadn't
mentioned it. Niner liked them. He wondered what world they  came  from.  It
was bound to be a fascinating one.

"Where will you head now?" Jinart asked. "I need  to  let  Darman  know
where you are."

"I'd have said RV Gamma, but that's going  the  wrong  way,  from  what
you've told us."

"I can give you the location of a suitable area  nearer  Imbraani,  and
when I return to Darman I will give him the same coordinates."

Atin cut in. "They mine gems here, right?"

"Zeka quartz and various green silicates, mainly, yes."

"Picks and shovels or mechanized?"

"Mechanized."

"They'll have explosives for blasting, then. And remote detonators with
nice, safe, long-range settings."

Gurlanins chuckled just like a human. She might have  been  amused.  On
the other hand, she might have been thinking Atin was a  madman.  But  Niner
liked the direction that Atin's inventive mind was taking.

"Get your holocharts," Jinart said. "Let me give you a virtual guide to
the gem industry of the Imbraani region."

10

NOTICE TO QIILURAN CITIZENS

Anyone found with Republic personnel on their land

will have that property confiscated and will forfeit their

freedom. They, their family, and anyone employed by

them in any capacity will be delivered to the Trandoshan

representative at Teklet for enslavement. Anyone

actively aiding or sheltering Republic personnel

will face the death penalty.

A reward is offered for anyone providing information

leading to the capture of Republic personnel or deserters

from the former militia or the Separatist armed forces, in

particular Lieutenant Guta-Nay or Lieutenant Pir Cuvin.

-By order of Major Ghez Hokan, commanding officer,

Teklet Garrison

A thin, cold drizzle started falling almost as soon as the sun came
up. It felt like Kamino; it felt like  home,  and  that  was  at  once  both
reassuring and unpleasant.

The moisture beaded on Darman's cloak, and he shook it off. Merlie wool
was full of natural oils that made it feel unpleasantly clammy next  to  the
skin. He longed to get back into the black bodysuit, and not only because of
its ballistic properties.

Etain was pushing the rear of the cart. Darman was pulling it,  walking
between its twin shafts. There were times on the rutted track when  she  had
the worst of it, but-as she kept telling him-Jedi could summon the Force.

"I could help," he said.

"I can manage." Her voice sounded like she was straining it through her
teeth. "If this  is  lightweight  gear,  I'd  rather  not  see  the  regular
variety."

"I meant I could help with martial skills. If you want  to  train  with
your lightsaber."

"I'd probably end up slicing off something you'd miss later."

No, she wasn't what he was expecting at all.  They  walked  on,  trying
hard to look downtrodden and rural, which wasn't so much of a challenge when
you were hungry, wet, and tired. The dirt road was deserted: at this time of
year there should have been visible activity at first light. Ahead  of  them
was the first safe house, a single-story hut topped by a  mixture  of  straw
thatch and rusting metal plates.

"I'll knock," Etain said. "They'll probably run for their lives if they
see you first."

Darman took it as a sensible observation  rather  than  an  insult.  He
pulled his cloak up across his mouth and pushed the cart out of sight behind
the hut, looking around slowly and carefully as if he were  casually  taking
in the countryside. There were no windows at the rear, just  a  simple  door
and a well-worn path in the grass leading to a pit with an interesting aroma
and a plank across it. It wasn't an ideal location for  an  ambush,  but  he
wasn't taking chances. Stopping in the open like this made you vulnerable.

He didn't like it at all. He wished he could  feign  invisibility  like
Sergeant Skirata, a short, wiry,  nondescript  little  man  who  could  pass
completely unnoticed, until he decided to stop and fight. And Skirata  could
fight in a lot of ways that weren't in the training manual. Darman  recalled
all of them.

He pressed his elbow into his side to reassure himself that  his  rifle
was within easy reach. Then he slipped his hand under his cloak and felt for
one of the probes in his belt.

When he reached the  front  again,  Etain  was  still  rapping  on  the
doorpost. There was no response. She stood back and seemed to be looking  at
the door as if willing it to open.

"They're gone," she said. "I can't sense anyone."

Darman straightened up and walked  casually  toward  the  rear  of  the
house. "Let me check the regular way."

He beckoned her to follow. Once around the back, he took  a  probe  and
slid the flat sensor strip carefully under the gap beneath  the  back  door.
The readout on the section that he was holding said there were no traces  of
explosive or pathogen. If the place was booby-trapped, it would be very  low
tech. It was time for a hands-on check. He pressed on the door with his left
hand, rifle in his right.

"It's empty," Etain whispered.

"Can you sense a tripwire that'll send a row of metal  spikes  swinging
into you?" he asked.

"Point taken."

The door swung slowly open. Nothing. Darman took a remote from his belt
and sent it inside, picking up low-light images from the interior. There was
no movement. The room appeared clear. He let the door swing  back,  recalled
the remote, and stood with his back to the  entrance  for  one  final  check
around him.

"I go in, look again, then you follow me if you hear me say in, in, in,
okay?"  he  said,  almost  under  his  breath.  He  didn't  meet  her  eyes.
"Lightsaber ready, too."

As soon as he was inside, he pulled his rifle, stood  hard  up  in  the
corner, and scanned the room. Clear. So clear, in fact,  that  last  night's
meal was still half eaten on the table. There was a single door that  didn't
appear to open to the exterior. A cupboard,  a  closet-maybe  a  threat.  He
trained his rifle on it.

"In, in, in," Darman said. Etain slipped through and he gestured her to
the corner opposite, then pointed: Me, that  door,  you,  back  door.  Etain
nodded and drew her lightsaber. He walked up to  the  closet  and  tried  to
raise the latch, but it didn't open, so he took two steps back and  put  his
boot to it, hard.

They didn't build well around here. The door splintered and hung on one
rusted hinge. Behind it was a storeroom.  It  made  sense  now:  in  a  poor
country, you locked away your food supply.

"They left in a hurry," Darman said.

"Are you wearing your armored boots?" Etain said.

"I wouldn't be kicking down a door without them." He'd covered them  in
tightly wound sacking. "No boots, no soldier. As true as it  ever  was."  He
stepped through the gap into the store and studied the shelves. "You're just
learning the first step in clearing a house."

"What's that?" Etain reached past him  for  a  metal  container  marked
gavvy-meal.

"Who's watching the door? Who's watching our gear?"

"Sorry."

"No problem. I expect it never occurs to you when you have Jedi  senses
to rely on." There: he hadn't even tried to call her ma 'am this  time.  "If
we knew why the occupants left in such a  hurry,  this  might  have  made  a
decent place to lay up. But we don't. So let's grab some supplies  and  move
on."

He took dried fruit and something that looked like cured leathery meat,
making a mental note to test all of it with the toxin strip in  his  medpac.
It was too kind of the locals to leave all this. There was, of course, every
chance they had fled in terror from the same violence that he had  witnessed
looking down from his observation point just after he landed.

Etain was filling a couple of water bottles from a pump outside.

"I've got a filter for that," Darman said.

"Are you sure you weren't trained by Neimoidians?"

"You're in enemy territory."

She smiled sadly. "Not all soldiers wear uniforms."

She'd catch on. She had to. The thought that a Jedi might be unable  to
offer the leadership  he  had  been  promised  was  almost  unbearable.  His
emotions didn't have  names.  But  they  were  feelings  that  had  memories
embedded in them- finishing a fifty-kilometer run thirty-two seconds outside
the permitted time, and being made to run it again; seeing a  clone  trooper
fall on a beachhead landing exercise, weighed down by his pack and drowning,
while no directing staff paused to help; a commando whose sniping score  was
only 95 percent, and whose whole batch disappeared from  training  and  were
never seen again.

They were all things that made his stomach sink. And each time it  did,
it never quite regained the same level as before.

"Are you all right?" Etain asked. "Is it your leg?"

"My leg's fine now, thank you," he said.

Darman wanted his trust back, and soon.

They resumed their  path  along  the  dirt  track  that  was  gradually
liquefying into mud, the rain at their backs. By the time they  got  to  the
next farm the rain seemed to have set in for the day. Darman thought of  his
squad making their way through sodden countryside, perfectly  dry  in  their
sealed suits, and he smiled. At least this made  it  harder  for  anyone  to
track them.

A woman with a pinched expression like a gdan stared at them  from  the
front step of the farmhouse. It was a grander building than  the  last  one:
not by much, but the walls were stone and there was a lean-to shelter  along
one side. Etain walked up to  her.  Darman  waited,  looking,  aware  of  an
outdoor refresher to the right that might contain a threat, keeping half  an
eye on a group of youngsters tinkering with a large machine on rollers.

They all looked so different. Everyone was so different.

After some conversation, Etain beckoned him and indicated the  lean-to.
So far, so good. Darman still didn't plan on relinquishing his ordnance.  He
reached into the barq for his helmet and detached the comlink, just in  case
Niner tried to contact him.

"Are you coming?" Etain asked.

"Just a moment." Darman took out a string of AP micro-mines and trailed
them around the front of the house as far as the cable would stretch. He set
them to run off a remote signal and tucked the transmitter  section  of  the
detonator in  his  belt.  Etain  watched  him  with  an  unspoken  question,
perfectly clear from her expression. "In case anyone gets any ideas," Darman
said.

"You've played this game before," Etain said.

He certainly had. The first  thing  he  checked  when  he  entered  the
farmhouse, one hand against his rifle, was where the best observation  point
might be. It was a perforated airbrick that gave him  a  good  view  of  the
road. There was a large window in the far wall with a  brown  sacking  sheet
tied across it. Reassured-but only slightly-he sat down at  the  table  that
dominated the front room.

The family that took them in consisted of the  thin  gdan-faced  woman,
her sister, her even thinner husband, and  six  youngsters  ranging  from  a
small boy clutching a piece of grubby blanket to the nearly  full-grown  men
working outside. They wouldn't give their names. They didn't want  a  visit,
they said, as if a visit was much more than it seemed.

Darman was riveted. These people were humans like him;  yet  they  were
all different. But still they had features that looked similar-not the same,
but similar-to others in the group. They were different sizes and  different
ages, too.

He had seen diversity in  training  manuals.  He  knew  what  different
species looked like. But the images always came  to  mind  with  data  about
weapons carried and where to aim a shot for maximum stopping power. This was
the first time in his life that he had been in close  contact  with  diverse
humans who were in the majority.

To them, perhaps, he also looked unique.

They sat around the rough wooden table. Darman tried not  to  speculate
on what the stains in the wood might be, because  they  looked  like  blood.
Etain nudged him. "They cut up the merlie carcasses  here,"  she  whispered,
and he wondered if she could read his mind.

He tested the bread and  soup  placed  in  front  of  him  for  toxins.
Satisfied that it was safe, he dug in. After a while he was aware  that  the
woman and the small boy were staring at him. When he looked  up,  the  child
fled.

"He doesn't like soldiers much,"  the  woman  said.  "Is  the  Republic
coming to help us?"

"I can't answer that, ma'am," Darman said. He meant that he would never
discuss  operational  matters;  it   was   an   automatic   response   under
interrogation.  Never  just  say  yes,  never  just  say  no,  and  give  no
information except your ID number. Etain answered for  him,  which  was  her
prerogative as a commander.

"Do you want the Republic's help?" she asked.

"You any better than the Neimies?"

"I'd like to think so."

The table fell silent again. Darman finished the soup. Pol-

itics was nothing to do with him; he was more interested in filling  up
on something that had flavor and texture. If all went according to plan,  in
a few weeks he'd be far from here and on another mission, and if it  didn't,
he'd be dead. The future of Qiilura was genuinely of no relevance to him.

The woman kept refilling his bowl with soup  until  he  slowed  up  and
eventually couldn't manage any more. It was the first hot food he'd  had  in
days, and he felt good; little perks like that boosted morale. Etain  didn't
seem so enthusiastic about it. She was moving each chunk  cautiously  around
with her spoon, as if the liquid contained mines.

"You need to keep your strength up," he said.

"I know."

"You can have my bread."

"Thanks."

It was so quiet in the room  that  Darman  could  hear  the  individual
rhythm of everyone's chewing, and  the  faint  scrape  of  utensils  against
bowls. He could hear the  distant,  muffled  sound  of  merlies  nearby,  an
intermittent gargling  noise.  But  he  didn't  hear  something  that  Etain
suddenly did.

She sat bolt upright and turned her head to one side, eyes unfocused.

"Someone's coming, and it's not Jinart," she hissed.

Darman flung off his cloak and pulled his  rifle.  The  woman  and  her
relatives jumped up from the table  so  fast  that  it  tipped  despite  its
weight, sending bowls tumbling to the floor. Etain drew her lightsaber,  and
it shimmered into life. They both watched the entrance; the family scrambled
through the back door, the woman pausing to grab a large metal  bowl  and  a
bag of meal from a sideboard.

Darman doused the lamps and peered out through a hole in the air-brick.
Without  his  visor,  he  was  completely  dependent  on   his   Deece   for
long-distance vision. He couldn't see  anything.  He  held  his  breath  and
listened hard.

Etain moved toward him, gesturing at the far wall,  indicating  seven-a
whole hand then two fingers.

"Where?" he whispered.

She was marking something on the dirt floor. He watched

her finger draw an outline of the four walls and then stab a number  of
dots outside them, most around the one she'd been pointing to, and  one  dot
near the front door.

She put her lips so close to his ear it made him jump. "Six there,  one
here." It was a breath, barely audible.

Darman indicated the far wall and pointed to himself. Etain gestured to
the door: Me? He nodded. He  gestured  one,  two,  three  quickly  with  his
fingers and gave her a thumbs-up: I'll count to three. She nodded.

Whoever was outside hadn't knocked. It didn't bode well.

He clipped the grenade attachment to his rifle and  aimed  at  the  far
side. Etain stood at the door, lightsaber held above her head for a downward
stroke.

Darman hoped her aggression would triumph over her self-doubt.

He gestured with his left hand, rifle balanced in his right. One, two-

Three. He fired one grenade. It smashed through the sack-covered window
and blew a hole in the wall just as he was  firing  the  second.  The  blast
kicked him backward, and the front door burst  open  as  Etain  brought  her
lightsaber down in a brilliant blue arc.

Darman switched his rifle to blast setting and swung his sight  on  the
figure, but it was an Umbaran and it was dead, sliced through from  clavicle
to sternum.

"Two," Etain said, indicating the window, or at least where it had been
seconds earlier. Darman sprang forward across the room,  dodging  the  table
and firing as he came to the hole smashed in  the  wall.  When  he  stumbled
through the gap there were two Trandoshans coming toward him with  blasters,
faces that seemed all scales and lumps, wet mouths gaping. He  opened  fire;
one return shot seared his left shoulder. Then there was  nothing  but  numb
silence for a few moments, followed by the gradual  awareness  that  someone
was screaming in agony outside.

But it wasn't him, and it wasn't Etain. That was all that mattered.  He
picked his way across the  room,  conscious  of  the  growing  pain  in  his
shoulder. It would have to wait.

"It's all clear," Etain said. Her voice was shaking. "Except  for  that
man ..."

"Forget him," Darman said. He couldn't,  of  course:  the  soldier  was
making too much noise. The screams would attract attention. "Load up.  We're
going."

Despite Etain's assurance that there  were  no  more  waiting  outside,
Darman edged out the door and kept his back to the wall all the  way  around
the exterior of the farmhouse. The wounded soldier was  an  Umbaran.  Darman
didn't even check how badly hurt he might be before he shot him  cleanly  in
the head. There was nothing else he could do, and the mission came first.

He wondered if Jedi could sense droids as well. He'd have to ask  Etain
later. He'd been told Jedi could do extraordinary things,  but  it  was  one
thing to know it, and another entirely to see it in action. It had  probably
saved their lives.

"What was that?" she asked when he returned to the lean-to. She already
had the extra pack slung on her back, and he realized she'd  actually  moved
the micromines even though they were still live. Darman, swallowing anxiety,
disabled the detonator and added it to the list of things he needed to teach
her.

"Finishing the job," he said, and pulled on  his  bodysuit  section  by
section. She looked away.

"You killed him."

"Yes."

"He was lying wounded?"

"I'm not a medic."

"Oh, Darman ..."

"Ma'am, this is a war. People try to kill you. You  try  to  kill  them
first. There are no second chances. Everything else you need to  know  about
warfare is an amplification of that."  She  was  horrified,  and  he  really
wished he hadn't upset her. Had they given her a lethal lightsaber  and  not
taught her what it really meant to draw one? "I'm sorry. He  was  in  a  bad
way, anyway."

Death seemed to shock her. "I killed that Umbaran."

"That's the idea, ma'am. Nicely done, too."

She didn't say anything else. She watched him attach the armor  plates,
and when he  finally  replaced  his  helmet  he  knew  he  didn't  care  how
conspicuous he looked in it, because he wasn't going to take it off again in
a hurry. He needed that edge.

"No more safe houses," Darman said. "There's no such thing."

Etain followed him into the woodland at the back of the house, but  she
was preoccupied. "I've never killed anyone before," she said.

"You did fine," Darman told her. His shoulder  was  throbbing,  gnawing
into his concentration. "A clean job."

"It's still not something I would care to repeat."

"Jedi are trained to fight, aren't they?"

"Yes, but we never killed anyone in training."

Darman shrugged and it hurt. "We did."

He hoped she got over it fast. No, it wasn't enjoyable, killing: but it
had to be done. And killing with lightsaber or blaster was relatively clean.
He wondered how she'd handle having to stick a blade in someone and see what
ran out. She was a Jedi, and with any luck she'd never have to.

"Them or us," he said.

"You're in pain."

"Nothing major. I'll use the bacta when we reach the RV."

"I suppose they turned us in."

"The farmers? Yeah, that's civilians for you."

Etain made a noncommittal grunt and followed silently behind him.  They
moved deeper into the woods, and Darman  calculated  how  many  rounds  he'd
expended. If he kept engaging targets at this rate,  he'd  be  down  to  his
sidearm by nightfall.

"It's amazing how you can sense people," Darman said. "Can  you  detect
droids, too?"

"Not especially," she said. "Usually just living beings. Maybe I can-"

A faint whine made Darman turn in time to see  a  blue  bolt  of  light
streaking toward him from behind. It struck  a  tree  a  few  meters  ahead,
splitting it like kindling in a puff of vapor.

"Obviously not," Etain said.

It was going to be another long, hard day.

A warning siren sounded: three long blasts, repeated  twice.  Then  the
peaceful fields northwest of Imbraani shook with a  massive  explosion,  and
terrified merlies bolted for the cover of the hedgerows.

"Blasting today, then," Fi said. "Lovely day for it."

Niner couldn't see anything but droids-industrial droids- moving around
the quarry. He ran his glove across his visor to clear the droplets of  rain
and tried several binoc magnifications, flicking between settings  with  eye
movements. But if there were organic workers around, he couldn't see any.

The quarry was a massive and  startling  gouge  in  the  landscape,  an
amphitheater with stepped sides that allowed droid  excavators  to  dig  out
rock for processing. The depression sloped gently at  one  side;  it  was  a
towering cliff on the other. A small site office with alloy-plated walls and
no windows sat beside a wide track at the top of the slope. Apart  from  the
steady procession of droids laden with raw rock for the screening plant, the
area was deserted. But someone-something- was controlling  the  detonations.
They had to be in the building. And structures with solid alloy  walls  like
that tended to have interesting contents.

The all-clear siren sounded. The droids moved in to scoop up the  loose
rock, sending spray and mud flying as they rumbled up the slopes.

"Okay, let's see what we can liberate from the hut," Niner said. "Atin,
with me. Fi, stay here and cover."

They darted out of the trees and across a hundred meters of  open  land
to the edge of the quarry, dodging between giant droids that took no  notice
of them. One droid, its wheels as high as Niner was tall, swung  its  bucket
scoop unexpectedly and  struck  his  shoulder  plate  a  glancing  blow.  He
stumbled and Atin caught his arm, steadying him. They  paused,  waiting  for
the next droid to return up the slope, then jogged alongside it until  level
with the site building.

They were now exposed, pressed close to the front wall.

The building was only ten meters wide.  Atin  knelt  at  the  door  and
studied the single lock.

"Pretty insubstantial if this is where they store the  explosives,"  he
said.

"Let's take a look."

Atin stood up slowly and placed a scope  on  the  door  to  listen  for
movement. He shook his head at  Niner.  Then  he  slid  a  flimsi-thin  flat
endoscope around the jamb, working it back and forth, slowly and  carefully.
"Now that's a tight fit," he said. "Can't get it in."

"We could always just walk in there."

"Remember, we're probably heading into a store full of explosives. If I
could get a probe through it could at least get a sniff of the air and  test
for chemicals."

"Okay, let's walk in carefully, then."

There was no handle. Niner stood to the hinge side, Deece in one  hand,
and pressed silently on the single plate that made up the  door.  It  didn't
yield.

Atin nodded. He took out the handheld ram, ten kilos  that  had  seemed
like dead, useless weight in their packs until now. He squared it up to  the
lock.

Niner raised one finger. "Three ... two ..."

It applied a force of two metric tons.

"Go."

The door fell open, and they both leapt back as a stream of blasterfire
shot out. It stopped suddenly. They squatted on either side of the entrance.
Usually this was simple: if someone inside didn't want to leave,  a  grenade
coaxed them out, one way or another. But with a high  chance  of  explosives
being inside, that method was a little too emphatic. Niner shook his head.

Atin moved the endoscope carefully, getting a glimpse of the building's
interior. Then he edged the probe into the doorway, drawing  another  stream
of blasterfire.

"Two moving around," he said. "Light's out. But the probe got  a  sniff
of explosives."

"Spot-lamp and rush them, then?"

Atin shook his head. He took out a grenade and locked it

in the safety position. "How nervous would you be if you  were  sitting
on enough stuff to put this quarry into orbit?"

"Drink-spilling nervous, I'd say."

"Yeah." Atin hefted the grenade a few times. "That's what I thought."

He bowled the disabled grenade into the doorway and jerked back.  Three
seconds later, two Weequays rushed out. Niner and Atin fired simultaneously;
one Weequay dropped instantly, and the other's momentum carried him on a few
meters farther, until he fell in the path at the top of the ramp. The quarry
droids trundled on, oblivious. If the shot hadn't killed him, the  advancing
droid did.

"Sarge, you need some help down there?"

Niner motioned Atin inside. "No, Fi, we're set here. Keep an eye out in
case we get company."

The building reeked of cooking and unwashed  Weequay.  A  small  droid,
lights blinking on standby and caked in dried mud, stood by a  console.  The
rest of the space-three rooms- was taken up by explosives,  detonators,  and
various spare parts and stenciled crates.

"There's your demolitions man," Atin said, tapping  the  droid  on  its
head, and retrieved his grenade. He wiped it with his glove and put it  back
in his belt pack.

"I'd rather have Darman," Niner said. He studied the inert droid, which
seemed to be waiting for  the  dislodged  rock  to  be  cleared.  It  jerked
suddenly into life, made its way toward a crate of  explosives,  opened  the
safety lid, and took out several tubes. Then it turned toward the room where
the detonators were kept. Niner reached out and opened its control panel  to
deactivate it. "Take some time off, friend," he said. "Blasting's  over  for
the day."

It didn't appear that the Weequay had been  employed  here.  The  droid
sorted all the charges and oversaw the blasting. On an upturned  crate  were
the remains of a meal, eaten off makeshift plates fashioned from  box  lids.
It looked like the Weequays had been hiding out here, and Niner  was  pretty
sure he knew who they had been avoiding.

Atin  checked  the  various  charges  and  detonators,  selecting  what
appeared to take his fancy and piling it in  a  clear  space  on  the  muddy
floor. He was a connoisseur of technology, especially  things  with  complex
circuitry. "Lovely," he said, with genuine  satisfaction.  "Some  dets  here
that you can set off from fifty klicks. That's what we  need.  A  bit  of  a
pyrotechnics show."

"Can we carry as much as we need?"

"Oh, there's some beauties here. Darman would think  they  were  pretty
basic, but they're going to work fine as a diversion. Absolute beauts." Atin
held up spheres about the size of a scoopball. "Now this baby-"

Crash.

Something fell to the floor in one of the rooms off the main one.  Atin
held his rifle on the doorway and Niner drew  his  sidearm.  He  was  edging
toward the door when a sudden voice almost made him squeeze the trigger.

"Ap-xmai keepuna!" The voice was shaking, and judging by the accent  it
probably belonged to a Weequay. "Don't kill! I help you!"

"Out. Now." Projected from his helmet, Atin's  voice  was  intimidating
enough without a rifle to back it up. A Weequay stumbled out from  behind  a
stack of crates and sank to his knees, hands held up. Atin pushed  him  down
flat with his boot, Deece aimed at his head.  "Arms  behind  your  back  and
don't even breathe. Got it?"

The Weequay appeared to have got it very  quickly.  He  froze  and  let
Niner cuff his wrists with a length of wire. Niner did a sweep of the  rooms
again, worried that if they'd missed one target they might have missed more.
But it was clear. He walked back and squatted down by the Weequay's head.

"We don't need a prisoner slowing us down," he said. "Give  me  a  good
reason why I shouldn't kill you."

"Please, I know Hokan."

"I'll bet you know him pretty well if you were hiding out here.  What's
your name?"

"Guta-Nay. I were right-hand man."

"Not anymore, though, eh?"

"I know places."

"Yeah, we know places, too."

"I got key codes."

"We've got ordnance."

"I got codes to Teklet ground station."

"You wouldn't be messing around, would you, Guta-Nay? I don't have time
for that."

"Hokan kill me. You take me with  you?  You  Republic  guys  nice,  you
gentlemen."

"Steady, Guta-Nay. All those syllables might burn you out."

Niner looked at Atin. He shrugged.

"He'll slow us down, Sarge."

"Then we either leave him here or kill him."

The conversation wasn't designed to scare Guta-Nay,  but  it  had  that
effect anyway. It was a genuine problem:  Niner  was  reluctant  to  drag  a
prisoner around with them, and there was no guarantee the  Weequay  wouldn't
try to buy back favor from Hokan with intelligence  on  their  strength  and
movements. He was an unwelcome dilemma.  Atin  clicked  his  Deece,  and  it
started to power up.

"I get you Neimie boss, too!"

"We definitely don't need him."

"Neimie's really mad at Hokan. He put droids in his nice  shiny  villa.
Floors messed up."

Guta-Nay's breathing rasped in the silence of the room.  Niner  weighed
the extra baggage against the prospect of some edge  in  gaining  access  to
Uthan.

"Where's Uthan now?"

"Still in villa. Nowhere else to hide."

"You know a lot about Hokan, don't you?"

"Everything." Guta-Nay was all submission. "Too much."

"Okay," Niner said. "You got a reprieve."

Atin waited a couple of seconds before  powering  down  his  rifle.  He
seemed doubtful. Niner  couldn't  see  his  expression,  but  he  heard  the
characteristic slight exhalation that was Atin's silent oh-terrific.

"He'll leave a trail a worrt could follow."

"Ideas?"

"Yeah." Atin leaned over Guta-Nay, and  the  Weequay  turned  his  head
slightly, eyes wide with terror. He seemed more terrified by the helmet than
the gun. "Where do the droids take the raw rock?"

"Big place south of Teklet."

"How far south?"

"Five klick maybe."

Atin straightened up and indicated with a pointed finger  that  he  was
going outside. "Technical solution. Wait one."

His predilection for gadgets was becoming a blessing. Niner was tempted
to take back the unkind thoughts he'd had about the man's training sergeant.
He followed him outside. Atin jogged alongside one of the excavation droids,
matching its pace before jumping up scrambling onto its flatbed. The machine
rumbled inexorably up the slope as if nothing was going to  divert  it  from
its progress to the screening plant.  Then  it  stopped  and  swung  around,
narrowly missing the droid bringing up its  rear.  It  paused  a  couple  of
meters from Niner; Atin, kneeling on the flatbed, held up two cables.

"You can't get it to do tricks," he said. "But you  can  start,  steer,
and stop it now."

"Brain bypass, eh?"

"I've seen a few people with those ..."

"So we ride it into town?"

"How else are we going to move all this explosive?"

They couldn't pass up the chance. Niner  had  plans  for  the  charges,
places to lay them all around the Imbraani  countryside.  They  also  had  a
temptingly neat window of opportunity to take  out  the  ground  station  at
Teklet, and rendering Hokan's troops deaf to what was happening around  them
would double their chances of pulling off the mission. It meant  they  could
use their own long-range comlinks at last.

"Tell you what," Niner said. "I'll take this one to Teklet. You hotwire
another and take Fi and our friend as far back down the road to Imbraani  as
you can get with as much as you can carry." He  took  out  his  datapad  and
checked the chart. "Lay up here where Jinart suggested, with  the  droid  if
you can, without it if you can't."

A bulldozer droid on a steady path to the screening plant would attract
no attention. It just had to overshoot by a few kilometers. It would be dusk
soon, and darkness was their best asset when it came to moving around.

Niner hauled Guta-Nay out of  the  building.  "Is  the  ground  station
defended in any way?"

Guta-Nay had his head lowered, looking up from under his  brows  as  if
blows to the head  normally  accompanied  questions.  "Just  fence  to  stop
merlies and thieving. Only farmers around, and they scared anyway."

"If you're lying to me, I'll see that you get back to Ghez Hokan alive.
Okay?"

"Okay. Truth, I swear."

Niner summoned Fi from his cover position, and they loaded two  droids.
One carried enough explosives to reduce the ground station to powder several
times over, and the other took everything they could  lay  their  hands  on,
except for some detonators and explosives to keep the  blasting  droid  busy
for a few more hours. There  was  no  point  letting  the  quarry's  silence
advertise the fact that they had liberated some ordnance. It would spoil the
whole surprise.

They loaded Guta-Nay last, bundling him into the huge bucket scoop with
his arms still bound. He protested at being  stuck  on  top  of  spheres  of
explosive.

"Don't worry," Atin said dismissively. "I've got all the dets here." He
bounced a few detonators up and down in his palm; Guta-Nay flinched. "You'll
be fine."

"Jinart's quite an asset," Fi said. He took off  his  helmet  to  drink
from his bottle, and Guta-Nay made an incoherent noise.

"She could be right behind us now and we'd never know. I hope they stay
on our side." Niner removed his helmet, too,  and  they  shared  the  bottle
before handing it to Atin for a last  swig.  "What's  that  Weequay  whining
about now?"

"Dunno," Atin said, and took his helmet off as well. He paused,  bottle
in hand, and they all stood and stared at Guta-Nay, loaded in the  scoop  of
the droid like cargo.

His mouth was slightly open and his eyes were darting from one commando
to the next. He was making a slight uh-uh-uh sound, as if he was  trying  to
scream but couldn't.

"It's Atin's face," Fi said. "Don't stand there  being  so  ugly,  man.
You're scaring him."

Niner gave the Weequay a quick prod with his glove to shut him up.

"What's the  matter?"  he  asked.  "Haven't  you  ever  seen  commandos
before?"

They were here.

The break that Ghez Hokan had been waiting for had come: a  farmer  had
rushed to notify the authorities that Republic soldiers-one man, one  woman,
both very young- were at a house on the Imbraani-Teklet road.

Hokan studied the dripping foliage at the side of  the  farmhouse.  The
maze of footsteps in the mud and the crushed stalks were no  different  from
those on any farm, and they were disappearing fast in the rain.  Behind  the
ramshackle collection of sheds and stone walls, the land sloped away to  the
Braan River.

"It's a mess in there, sir," Hurati said. "One wall nearly  blown  out.
All dead. And that was just two enemy commandos."

"One," Hokan said.

"One?"

"Only male clones in the front line. The other had to be  a  Jedi."  He
turned over the body of an Umbaran with his boot and shook his  head.  "That
wound was made by a lightsaber. I know what a lightsaber wound  looks  like.
Two people. I wouldn't even have that information  if  it  hadn't  been  for
informants. Do I have to rely on dung-caked farmers for intelligence? Do  I?
Do I?"

He regretted having to shout.  But  it  seemed  necessary.  "Why  can't
anyone manage to call it in when they make an enemy contact? Think! Use your
di'kutla heads, or I'll show you how to recognize  a  lightsaber  wound  the
hard way." Two droids began lifting  the  Umbaran's  body  onto  a  speeder.
"Leave that thing where it is. Get after your  comrades  and  find  me  some
enemy."

Hurati put his hand to  the  side  of  his  head.  "Droids  have  found
something else in a house up the road, sir." His expression fell blank as he
listened to his comlink. "Oh. Oh." He turned to Hokan. "I think  you  should
see this for yourself, sir."

Hurati didn't strike him as an officer that would waste his time.  They
mounted the speeder and worked their way back up the road to another  small,
dilapidated hovel set among  the  trees.  Hokan  followed  Hurati  into  the
farmhouse,  where  a  couple  of  droids  had  illuminated  the  rooms  with
spot-lamps.

For some reason he would never fathom, the first aspect  of  the  chaos
that caught his eye was the soup tureen lying on  its  side  on  the  filthy
floor. It was only when he turned his head that he saw the bodies!.

"Ah," Hokan said.

Soldiers used blasters. In a pinch, they  would  use  knives  or  blunt
objects. But he had never known anyone  in  uniform,  not  even  his  ragtag
militia, who used teeth. The three adults were ripped and torn as if a large
carnivore had attacked them. All had crush injuries  to  what  was  left  of
their throats. One woman had so little intact tissue in her  neck  that  the
head was bent over at almost ninety degrees. Hokan found himself staring.

"There are others outside in the shed," Hurati said.

Hokan had never considered himself easily disturbed, but  this  worried
him. It was an act by something he didn't recognize and couldn't comprehend,
beyond the scope of a sentient creature's simple revenge. It might have been
coincidence, an animal attack on someone who happened to be an informer- but
he couldn't think of any species on Qiilura that could or would  bring  down
humans.

Hurati studied the bodies. "I didn't think killing  civilians  was  the
Republic's style."

"It's not," Hokan said. "And commandos wouldn't waste time on work that
wouldn't aid their effort."

"Well, whoever killed them wasn't motivated by robbery."

Hurati picked up a large metal bowl from the floor, dusted it with  his
glove, and set it on a shelf. "This is probably  our  informer.  I  wouldn't
count on much assistance from now on. Word will get around fast."

"You're certain there are no blaster wounds?" It might have been simple
predation. He knew in his gut that it wasn't. But what had done this?

"None," Hurati said.

Hokan didn't like it at all. He  beckoned  Hurati  to  follow  him  and
walked out briskly to summon two droids. "I want  a  ring  around  Imbraani.
Pull all the droids back. I'd rather lose Teklet than risk Uthan's project."

"We could arrange for Doctor Uthan to be evacuated."

"Moving her and her entourage is going  to  be  slow  and  conspicuous.
We're better off defending a position than moving. I want  half  the  droids
blatantly visible at the facility and the other half  around  the  villa-but
discreetly, understand?"

There was a rattle of metal in the distance, and Hokan spun  around  to
see droids swarming toward the riverbank.

"Have they found anything?"

Hurati pressed his hand to his head, listening  to  the  comlink.  "Two
enemy sighted five klicks west of here, sir. The droids have engaged them."

"That's more like it," Hokan  said.  "I'd  like  at  least  one  alive,
preferably both if the girl's a Jedi."

He swung onto the speeder bike and motioned Hurati to sit up front  and
drive. The speeder zipped down the track heading west  as  Hurati  confirmed
coordinates with the droid patrol.

Hokan hoped the droids could  manage  an  instruction  like  take  them
alive. He needed real troops for this, actual soldiers who  could  get  into
awkward places and see  subtle  things.  He  now  had  just  thirty  organic
officers remaining and slightly under a hundred droids: ideal  for  a  small
set-piece battle, but next to useless for countering a commando force spread
over terrain with plenty of cover.

They'd definitely have to come to him. Just  this  once,  though,  he'd
humor them and join the pursuit.

[Image009]

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increase the price of the new season's barq.  Shortages  are  due  to  local
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favored regular customers. -Trade Federation notice to wholesalers

Darman had taken down quite a few tinnies on Geonosis,  and  one  thing
he'd learned was that they were built for conventional  infantry  combat  on
nice, flat ground.

They weren't so clever on treacherous  terrain-or  without  an  organic
officer calling the shots.

He could see a group of trees a hundred meters away that appeared to be
skylined against nothing,  and  he  hoped  that  meant  there  might  be  an
escarpment on the other side. "Down there," he yelled  to  Etain,  pointing.
"Come on, and get ready to jump."

He'd almost forgotten the pain in his shoulder. He clutched  his  rifle
tight to his chest and sprinted for the tree line. It took him ten  seconds.
The land sloped away below, all thorn bushes and muddy soil  right  down  to
the river, broken only by a natural back-sloping terrace that formed a small
gully. When he looked back, Etain  was  right  behind  him-  and  he  wasn't
expecting her to be.

"Keep going!" she panted. "Don't keep looking back."

The blasterfire of the advancing droids was hitting  branches  far  too
close for comfort. When they got to the edge he simply shoved her. She tried
to right herself for a second before falling and rolling down the slope.  He
launched himself and rolled after her.

Darman had the protection of Katarn armor, but she  didn't.  When  they
came to a halt at the bottom of the gully, Etain was minus her  outer  cloak
and plus a lot of scrapes. But she still  had  two  sections  of  the  E-Web
cannon strapped to her share of the pack. She was clinging to them with grim
determination.

"Next time, let me jump, will you?" she  hissed.  "I'm  not  completely
helpless."

"Sorry." He checked his grenades. "I'm going to run short of ammo soon.
I'm going to have to sacrifice some demolition ordnance."

"Tell me what you're planning."

"Bringing down the slope. With them on it." He paid  out  the  line  of
micromines and scrambled a few  meters  back  to  string  them  horizontally
between the trees. "Can you dig out some of the bore-bangs from  that  pack,
please? Four should do it."

"What are they?"

"The long red sticks. Custom ordnance."

He heard her gasping her way up the slope behind him.  When  he  turned
his head she was gripping a bush with one hand, and  holding  out  tubes  of
explosive in the other. Her fingers were covered in blood. He felt  suddenly
guilty, but he'd have to worry about that later.

"Thanks, ma'am,"  he  said  automatically.  He  balanced  precariously,
feeling the strain in his calves, and scrambled from bush to bush.  He  held
each bore-bang perpendicular to the slope  and  twisted  the  end  cap;  the
cylinder whirred and burrowed deep  into  the  ground.  He  spaced  them  at
five-meter intervals.

The chinking noise of droids on the move was getting  closer,  carrying
on the still, damp air.

"Run!" Darman hissed.

Adrenaline was a wonderful thing to see in action.  Etain  grabbed  her
pack and bolted along the gully. Darman followed. Fifty meters-a hundred-two
hundred. He paused to look back and saw one thin metal faceplate  peer  over
the edge.

"Down!" he yelled, and squeezed the detonator in his palm.

A chunk of Qiilura blew apart at approximately eight thousand meters  a
second. Darman heard it and regretted  not  seeing  it,  but  his  head  was
shielded by his crossed arms and he was facedown in the dirt.  It  was  pure
instinct. He should have told Etain to cover her ears, although it  wouldn't
have helped her much. He should have made her run a lot  sooner.  He  should
have done a lot of things, like ignoring Jinart, and instead stayed  on  the
mission.

He hadn't. He'd deal with it.

The noise of the blast overloaded his helmet for a few  moments;  there
was a crackling silence. Then sound rushed back in again and he  could  feel
clods of soil plopping against his back like heavy rain. When he got to  his
knees and turned around, there was a brand-new landscape to be  seen.  Trees
jutted out from a sharp cliff of packed mud  at  bizarre  angles.  Some  had
intact branches, and others  were  snapped  off  and  splintered.  A  single
metallic leg protruded from the debris. Dirt was  crumbling  away  from  the
face of the cliff like wet permacrete,  and  one  tree  was  sliding  slowly
downward.

Darman looked around for Etain. She was a few  meters  ahead,  kneeling
back on her heels with her hand to one ear. When he drew closer he could see
a thin trickle of blood running down the side of her face.

"Okay?" he asked.

Etain stared at his mouth. "I can't hear you," she said. She nursed her
left ear, face contorted with pain.

"You've blown an eardrum. Take it easy." Stupid: she couldn't hear, and
she couldn't see his lips with his helmet on. It was reflex reassurance.  He
was about to look for his bacta spray when she looked past him  and  pointed
frantically. He turned. A droid was peering over the edge of the crater.  It
didn't appear to have seen them.

Darman didn't know how many there  might  be.  He  debated  whether  to
deploy a remote, then wondered what he'd do if it showed him a hundred  more
tinnies coming. He wasn't sure where else to run. He estimated that he could
hold them off for about an hour, and then they'd be out of everything except
his vibroblade and Etain's lightsaber.

Then he heard a shout.

"Droids, report!"

Darman flattened himself into the side of the slope  beside  Etain.  He
could hear the voices, even if she couldn't. She stared up at the cliff  and
squeezed her eyes shut. For a moment Darman thought it was plain terror, and
he wouldn't have blamed her. He'd blown  away  half  a  hillside  and  still
hadn't stopped the droids. He was starting to feel a  gnawing  emptiness  in
his gut as well.

He concentrated on the voices, trying to guess numbers. Two humans, two
men.

"... they've booby-trapped..."

"... can you see anything?"

"... there's nothing else down there."

Darman held his breath.

"No, they're gone. Must have speeders."

"Droids, form up and return ..."

The metal face pulled back and the clinking  gait  faded  on  the  air,
along with the whir of a speeder engine. Then there was silence, broken only
by the occasional creak of a splintered tree being pulled  slowly  apart  on
its journey down the shattered slope.

Darman glanced at  Etain.  Her  eyes  were  still  shut,  and  she  was
breathing hard.

"I didn't think I could do that," she said.

"Do what?" She stared at him. He took off his helmet so she  could  see
his mouth. "Do-what?" Darman mouthed, exaggerating the syllables.  Her  gaze
fixed on his lips.

"Influence them. Both of them."

"Was that some sort of Jedi thought trick?"

She looked baffled. She obviously wasn't  used  to  lip-reading.  "It's
sort of a Jedi thought trick," she said.

Darman stifled an urge to laugh. It wasn't funny at all.

She'd achieved something he found almost magical. At that point in  the
crisis, it was the best military option, better than letting loose with  all
the ordnance at his disposal, and something even Kal Skirata couldn't do.

They were alive. They could move on.

"Nice job, commander," he said. "Very  nicely  done."  He  touched  his
glove to his forehead and grinned. "Let's get ourselves sorted, eh?"

Darman took out his medpac and removed two sharps of painkiller and the
bacta spray. He fixed his own shoulder first, jabbing the needle  hard  into
the blue vein in the crook of his left elbow  so  that  the  drug  dispersed
faster. But it still made his eyes water when he sprayed the blaster burn.

Etain watched with grim resignation and swallowed visibly.

"Come on, Etain," Darman said. "Hold still."

He aimed the spray like a pistol into her left ear.

Darman had no idea that Jedi could curse fluently in  Huttese,  but  he
was learning more about them every minute. A lot more.

The excavation droid rattled down the  road,  managing  to  find  every
pothole and rut between Imbraani and the screening plant. Niner bounced each
time, too. Buried in the scoop under a layer of loose  rubble,  with  enough
explosives to level everything within half a kilometer, he was ... anxious.

The detonators were disabled. He kept checking that.

Now that night had fallen and the rain stopped, he could  ease  himself
into a position where he could see ahead. Blue navigation lights picked  out
the droid's front fender, and an amber hazard light whirled on  its  canopy,
illuminating the trees on either side of the track. It was a lumbering thing
that wouldn't get out of anyone's way. Behind  it,  a  convoy  of  identical
droids followed. They were an intimidating procession.

Even the column of tinnies marching toward Niner moved to one  side  of
the road.

He picked them out in his night-vision visor, although the sound  alone
identified them. Clink-rasp-clink-rasp. It was the knee joints. Nothing  but
battle droids marched that regularly, not even clone troopers. There were no
voices, not even the occasional command to form single file, or shut it back
there. It was all grim mechanical purpose.

Niner closed his fingers around the  grips  of  the  DC-17.  He  really
didn't want to engage them. It was going to be hard  enough  to  direct  the
excavator to the target and get  away  in  one  piece  without  pausing  for
skirmishes along the route. Walk on, will you? Just walk on. He didn't  want
to test the manufacturer's assurance that a few blaster bolts  wouldn't  set
off the charges. He  was  sprawled  on  top  of  them.  Proximity  made  you
skeptical.

There were fifty battle droids in the column heading for  Imbraani.  If
he managed to knock out the ground station, that would be the first  message
he'd send on his long-range comlink.

The chunk-chunk-chunk of their feet drew level with him and he froze.

Chunk-chunk-chunk-chunk-chunk.

It began to fade behind him. He  breathed  again.  Once  the  excavator
droid was coaxed past its logical destination of  the  screening  plant,  it
would be that much more conspicuous. At least the tinnies looked  busy.  The
worst part was having a pretty good  idea  about  what  orders  they'd  been
given.

Just ten klicks. He was minutes away from the  point  where  the  droid
would attempt to deliver its load. At that moment,  he'd  divert  it  toward
Teklet itself, through the center of the town and into  the  ground  station
compound. At least the aerial recce appeared to have been right about  that.
Teklet was a sprawl of storage silos and  shipping  facilities  for  getting
produce off the planet, and not much else.

The worst that the Trade Federation had ever anticipated  dealing  with
was a band of angry farmers. It was going  to  make  his  job  a  good  deal
easier.

Just ahead, the droid's flashing light  bounced  off  a  sign  pointing
left: all contractor traffic-no entry via main gate. The excavator knew  its
way and began slowing for the turn. Niner took Atin's jury-rigged cables and
unplugged one strand. Go on. Go on. Go...

The droid was almost at the turn. It was moving at  around  twenty-five
klicks now, threatening to veer off. But it carried on, past the sign,  past
the slip road, and on toward Teklet. "That's my boy," Niner said. The  sweat
prickled  between  his  shoulder  blades,  despite  his  suit's  environment
controls. "Couldn't speed up a bit, could you?" Maybe that  was  asking  for
trouble. When he eased his head clear of the  layer  of  rubble  and  peered
around the side of the scoop, he could see a procession of droids strung out
behind him along the curve of the  road,  neatly  line  astern  like  battle
cruisers, each flashing an orange hazard light with its outline  picked  out
in blue.

It was actually pretty, all things considered. Then the  nearest  droid
slowed and peeled off down the  slip  road,  the  light  show  behind  Niner
fading, then disappearing altogether. He was on his  own.  He  settled  back
under the rubble with his head tilted so that he could see ahead  through  a
channel in the debris.

Teklet had little in the way of street lighting,  and  there  were  few
people about. As architecture went, this wasn't tasteful, elegant Tipoca. It
was a service depot and it looked like one. A  couple  of  Trandoshans  were
sitting under an awning outside a hut,  blasters  across  their  laps;  they
stared at the droid with vague curiosity but didn't appear  to  move.  Niner
was almost past the ribbon of huts  when  the  thought  struck  him  that  a
five-hundred-meter blast zone would take out a lot  of  Teklet,  and  people
with it. Not all of them were Separatists.

Once you make that your concern, they'll always have a  weapon  to  use
against you. Skirata said they  had  to  get  used  to  it.  Achieving  your
objective sometimes had a high price.

A bonded  cargo  transporter  with  red  security  straps  sealing  its
containers crossed in front of him. The droid missed it by two  seconds.  If
the driver was cutting it that close, then they hadn't taken much notice  of
the machine. So far, so good . . . and getting better. As the droid  pressed
on, Niner was checking his escape route. It  was  a  good  two-hundred-meter
sprint to the nearest cover from any part of the road. It was  going  to  be
tight.

He had to get the droid to halt right alongside the ground station.  If
it kept going, the blast would be centered elsewhere. He could set the  dets
now, slide out of the scoop, and run for it, but that  meant  observing  the
droid up to the last second, and that meant he'd probably be too close  when
it blew.

But he was committed now. The ground station had to go. It would put  a
serious dent in the Separatists' defenses for a  few  critical  days,  maybe
even weeks, and that was an edge they needed.

Working some rubble aside with his finger, Niner could see  the  lights
of the compound. He flicked to night vision, and the green image showed  him
flimsy mesh fencing and a waist-high retaining  wall.  The  excavator  would
roll right over it on its path to the building itself.

They'd know he was there, all right.

He'd left the dets until last. The  charges  were  linked  by  cord  in
series, just waiting for  the  final  connection  to  the  three  detonators
that-in theory-Niner could trigger remotely. He clamped the  cords  together
and shoved them into the aperture of the det housings, snapping them shut.

The explosives were now live. He wasn't just sitting on a bomb; he  was
sitting in one. The charges, dispersed among the  rubble,  were  up  to  his
neck. He began to ease his legs clear, ready to jump.

If he didn't walk away from this, then that was the way it had  to  be.
For a moment Niner felt a cold spasm in his gut that he  recognized  from  a
dozen all-too-real exercises. He was probably going to get  killed.  He  was
possibly going to get killed. If anyone thought intensive training wiped out
the fear of dying, they were wrong. He was as afraid as  he  was  when  live
rounds had flown past him for the first time. It never went  away.  He  just
learned to live with it, and tried to learn well enough that he could use it
to work for him, and get him out of trouble faster.

Niner fumbled with the cabling. He steered the droid in a gentle arc so
that it was square-on to the fence. It wasn't  the  best  course  he'd  ever
steered, but with a five-hundred-meter blast zone, it was going to  be  good
enough. He ducked. The wire mesh loomed in his  face  at  the  edge  of  the
scoop, then strained and vibrated, tearing up posts with  it  as  the  droid
pushed through, oblivious.

It was nearly at the wall. The building  was  five  meters  high;  flat
roof, no windows. They didn't seem to like windows here. He heard  a  single
shout, something like chuba, and he had to agree. This was going to  fierfek
someone's watch with a lot of reports.

Niner yanked the cables apart and cut the droid's power.  Its  momentum
carried it on a few more meters, and  metal  twanged  and  squealed  as  the
chain-link fence was stretched to the  breaking  point.  The  wires  finally
snapped back like a bowstring under the excavator's wheels.

One, two, three...

The droid was at a dead stop hard against the  wall.  The  blocks  were
beginning to crack, and gaps were opening between  them.  He  had  a  sudden
vision of finding himself buried in collapsing masonry and unable  to  move,
and a combination of animal panic and a lifetime of training  propelled  him
out of the rubble and over the edge of the scoop.  He  fell  flat  from  two
meters and  struggled  to  right  himself.  Then  there  was  shouting  and,
fifty-kilo pack or not, he executed the fastest bugout of his career,  Deece
in one hand and the remote det control in the other.

There was one way out and that was through the gap he'd smashed in  the
fence.

It wasn't covert. A human in an overall was  standing  open-mouthed  in
his path, and Niner knocked him flat on his back as he ran full-tilt for the
hole in the mesh.

He had about a minute to put distance between himself  and  the  ground
station before he blew the charges. At twenty klicks  an  hour,  that  meant
he'd be about -

Fierfek, just do it.

Niner was past the first line of trees and  into  long  grass  when  he
dropped and pressed the remote det in both hands.

Teklet was a sudden ball of light. Then the roar of air and  the  shock
wave shook him. He crouched as debris  rained  down  on  him,  hoping-really
hoping-that Katarn armor was all that it was cracked up to be.

Ghez Hokan was the first to admit that it was taking a lot less to  get
him irritated lately. He'd waited long enough. He tapped the comlink console
impatiently.

"I asked to be out through to CO CISCom ten minutes ago, di'kut."

"I realize that, Major. He'll be with you as soon as he's free."

"Enemy forces have infiltrated and I need to speak to  your  commanding
officer. Do you understand what we have on Qiilura? Could you possibly shift
your di'kutla shebs long enough to find out why this  is  so  vital  to  the
war?"

"Sir, we have Republic troops infiltrating more places than I  care  to
name right now, so-"

The screen flickered and broke up in noise. Hokan switched  to  another
channel and got the same crackling, shimmering display. It was the same  for
every channel he tried. His first thought was that someone had disabled  his
receiver. They were closer than he'd thought, and a lot more daring. He  put
on his helmet and edged cautiously down the passage to  the  exterior  door,
his Verpine shatter gun in one hand and a hunting vibroblade in the other.

The droid sentry stepped aside to let him pass. On the roof,  the  comm
relay was intact. Hokan took out his personal comlink and called Hurati.

All Hokan could hear was the chatter of static. It struck him that  the
Republic troops might well have done what he would have, faced with the same
target.

"Droid, can you make contact with your fellows?"

"Affirmative sir."

The droids  had  their  own  comlink  system.  They  could  communicate
instantly on any battlefield. What they didn't need was the  main  relay  at
Teklet in order to do it.

"Can you contact Lieutenant Hurati?"

The droid paused for a few moments. "I have him, sir."

"Ask him if he has any news of Teklet."

Pause. A much longer pause.

"Large explosion seen in the direction of Teklet, sir."

It's what I'd do if I was preparing  an  assault,  Hokan  thought.  I'd
render my enemies blind and deaf.

There was nothing he could do on the ground to deal with  an  invasion,
if one was coming. There was a Republic assault ship in Qiilura  space,  and
that didn't bode well.

He had two options for his immediate  task.  He  could  defend  Uthan's
project-the technical knowledge invested in  her  and  her  staff,  and  the
nanovirus itself-or, if he was overrun, he could  prevent  it  falling  into
enemy hands to be studied and neutralized.

It was a big planet. If he had to run, they'd have to find him. In  the
meantime, he'd sit tight and wait for them to come.

"Tell Hurati I want every functioning droid back here now," Hokan said.
"We're digging in."

12

Coruscant Command to Republic Assault Ship Majestic,

Qiilura Sector

Cruiser Vengeance will RV with you  at  0400.  You  have  clearance  to
intercept any vessel leaving Qiilura space, prevent landing by  non-Republic
vessels, and engage any vessel failing to comply. Have biohazard containment
standing by.

Niner struggled to his feet and stared back at the ground station.

It wasn't there anymore. Neither were  the  few  small  huts  scattered
along the approach road.  There  was  billowing  smoke  and  fires  burning,
including one that looked as if it were a blowtorch. Another explosion  made
him shield his head, and more debris peppered his armor.

Apart from that, the area was silent. He  set  off  through  the  trees
again, feeling as if he'd been picked up and shaken hard by  someone  really
angry. A small pack of gdans began chasing him, snapping on his  leg  armor,
but they caught on fast that he was going to be impossible to eat  and  fell
back. He opened his long-range comlink for the first time in days.

"Niner here, anyone receiving?"

He could hear his own breath rasping as  he  ran.  He  was  down  to  a
stumbling jog now and feeling the reality of his  exhaustion.  He'd  take  a
stim or two later. He had to.

"Sarge? Fi here. Target acquired, then."

"Wow. P for plenty."

"You sound busy."

"On my way to the RV."

"You're running."

"You bet. Sitrep?"

"Had to dump the droid and cache a lot of stuff. But  the  Weequay  can
carry a surprising amount if you ask him nicely. ETA an hour or so."

"Call Darman, in case Jinart hasn't caught up with him yet."

"Copy that. ETA?"

"Depends. Looking for transport right now."

"You sure about that?"

"You can do fast or you can do covert. Right now fast looks good to me.
Out."

Niner kept close enough to the road  to  hear  vehicles.  He  needed  a
speeder. The mangled chassis of  a  personal  transport  of  some  kind  was
upended at the side of the road, testimony to the force of the blast.

Eventually, someone would show up to take a look at  the  damage.  Then
he'd have his chance.

After a few minutes Niner was starting to see intact buildings  through
the trees. He was nearing the farthest edge of the blast zone. Farther ahead
he could see lights coming toward him, and his  visor  told  him  they  were
approaching fast. He dropped down into the cover of the grass. As  they  got
nearer, he could pick out one landspeeder and a speeder bike.

Niner couldn't face walking back into the blast zone to take one.  He'd
have to stop them here. And he'd have to stop them with minimum  damage,  or
else he'd still be hiking back to the RV point.

He aimed his rifle on sniper setting and waited until  the  landspeeder
was within three hundred meters. It didn't surprise him that  it  wasn't  an
emergency vehicle. He could see  the  driver  clearly:  a  Trandoshan.  They
didn't have a record in humanitarian public service. He was probably rushing
to see if his slave traffic had been affected by the blast. The speeder  was
carrying a Trandoshan as well.

Niner squeezed  gently,  and  the  bolt  shattered  the  land-speeder's
screen. The vehicle veered right off the road, spraying mud  and  gravel  in
the air, and the speeder bike swung left and pulled up dead.  For  a  moment
the rider hesitated, instinctively looking around in the dark as  if  unsure
what had happened, but then he appeared to  work  it  out  just  as  Niner's
second bolt caught him full in the chest. The speeder bike hung motionless a
meter above the ground.

There was a lot to be said for night-vision visors.

Niner ran from cover and swung onto the speeder, catching his  pack  on
the back of the seat. He savored the moment. Taking the weight off his  feet
ranked near the top of the list of primeval human needs, along with  a  long
drink of ice-cold water. The relief was wonderful.

A good night's sleep and a decent hot meal would have  rounded  it  off
perfectly. The sooner he got back to his squad and finished the job in hand,
the sooner he'd be able to indulge. He steered the speeder  into  the  woods
and headed south with newly uplifted spirits.

Pinpricks of light formed a small constellation ahead  of  Etain.  They
might have been a kilometer away, or  they  might  have  been  within  arm's
reach: she couldn't tell by sight alone.

But she could certainly smell their breath. It was  a  cloying,  sickly
scent of raw meat. She swiped her lightsaber  across  the  entrance  to  the
shelter, and the gdans scattered. She had tried using the Force to  persuade
them to bother someone else, but it  only  succeeded  in  making  them  more
curious, although they had stopped trying to take bites out of her.

How do you do it, Jinart? How do you keep them at bay? She sat  huddled
under the covering Darman had constructed and listened to the water  working
its way down through the leaves. The rain had stopped, but  the  runoff  was
still trickling through and plopping on the  sheet  of  plastoid  above  her
head. She could hear again, at least in one ear.

She could also see very clearly. What she  saw  was  the  face  of  the
Umbaran she'd almost decapitated with her lightsaber.  Panic  and  fear  had
pushed the event from her mind, but now that she was  quiet  and  tired,  it
flooded back and wouldn't go away.

Etain tried to meditate for the first time in days,  shutting  out  the
irritating drip of water on her head. Darman prowled around outside,  silent
and unnerving. She could feel him ebbing and flowing; anxious, even a little
scared, but focused and devoid of violence or inner conflict.

She wanted to ask him how he achieved that balance. They had both  been
raised in complete isolation from the everyday world, with their own set  of
values and disciplines, not because they had been chosen to be different but
because they had been born that way.  Their  calling  was  random,  genetic-
unfair. He'd obviously  succeeded  brilliantly;  she  had  failed  in  equal
measure. She let the sensation of his clarity wash over her.

It was almost soothing. Then it was suddenly gone and a  wave  of  pure
exhilaration hit her like a body blow. Darman thrust his  head  through  the
entrance to the shelter.

"They're coming," he said. "My squad's on its way." He paused as if  he
was listening to something, his glove held against the side of  his  helmet.
It was odd to watch  someone  so  obviously  delighted  without  having  the
slightest idea of his facial expression. "An hour or so. Niner's  taken  out
the comm station at Teklet. Fi and  Atin  have  acquired  a  bit  more  gear
that'll come in handy. Plus a prisoner."  He  paused  again.  His  head  was
moving as if he was talking. He appeared to be able to switch back and forth
between being audible and inaudible to her, as if his helmet was a  separate
environment into which he could retreat at will. "A Weequay, of all  things.
Oh well, they've got their reasons."

He was utterly still for a few moments before  nodding  vigorously.  He
eased off his helmet and his face was one broad grin, aimed  at  nothing  in
particular.

"They're all right, I take it," Etain said.

"They're fine."

"I'm glad. You're brothers, right?"

"No, not really."

"All right, you're clones."

"They're not my original squad," Darman said. His expression was  still
all delight and good humor. "My brothers were all killed at  the  battle  of
Geonosis, and so were theirs. We didn't even know  each  other  before  this
mission. But three of us had the same training sergeant,  so  I  suppose  we
feel like family. Except Atin, of course."

It was an extraordinary statement. Darman showed not the slightest sign
of being wounded by  his  recent  loss.  Etain  knew  little  of  biological
families, but she knew that losing Master Fulier would still hurt  badly  in
three months' time, and even in three years. Perhaps they'd bred  grief  out
of clones, too.

"You don't miss your brothers, then."

Darman's grin slowly relaxed. "Of course I do," he said quietly. "Every
day."

"You seem to be taking it... calmly."

"We know we're likely to get killed. If we dwell on that, we  won't  be
any use to anyone. You just get on with it, that's  what  our  old  training
sergeant used to say. We're all going to die sometime, so you might as  well
die pushing the odds for something that matters."

Etain wanted to ask him what  mattered  to  him  about  the  Republic's
cause. She was almost afraid to, but she needed to know.

"What do you think you're fighting for, Darman?"

He looked blank for a moment. "Peace, ma'am."

"Okay, what do you think you're fighting against?"

"Anarchy and injustice." It was a rote response, but he  paused  as  if
considering it for the first time. "Even if people aren't grateful."

"That sounds like your training sergeant, too."

"He wasn't wrong, though, was he?"

Etain thought of the locals who had betrayed them to Hokan's men.  Yes,
she'd learned a lot about the reality of conflict in the last few weeks. But
it still wasn't enough.

"It's getting light," Darman said. He  sat  down  cross-legged  in  the
hide, armor plates clacking against something. "You look cold. Need any more
painkillers?"

Etain had achieved a consistent level of dampness  and  pain  that  she
could live with. She was too tired to think of doing  anything  else.  She'd
even stopped noticing the persistent odor of wet merlie wool. "I'm okay."

"If we light a fire we'll be a magnet for half the Separatist army." He
rummaged in his belt  and  held  out  a  ration  cube  to  her,  still  that
incongruous amalgam of fresh naivete and utterly clinical killer. She  shook
her head. He pulled out a bag. "Dried kuvara?"

She realized from the way he had put the fruit carefully  in  his  belt
and not in his pack that he prized it. He lived  on  rations  with  all  the
taste appeal of rancid mott hide. The sacrifice was rather  touching;  she'd
have plenty of time to gorge herself on the galaxy's varied foods,  provided
she got off Qiilura alive, but Darman wouldn't.  She  managed  a  smile  and
waved it away. "No. Eat up. That's an order."

He didn't need encouraging. He chewed with his eyes closed and she felt
desperately sorry for him; yet a little envious of his delight  in  ordinary
things.

"I know a good way to warm up," he said, and opened his eyes.

Etain bristled. Maybe he wasn't as naive as he seemed. "You do?"

"If you're feeling up to it."

"Up to what?"

Darman made a wait-and-see gesture with one raised finger and got up to
go outside. No, Etain thought, he wouldn't have meant that at all.  She  was
suddenly embarrassed that she'd even imagined he might. She  stared  at  the
backs of her hands, suddenly appalled at their abrasions  and  broken  nails
and general ugliness. A roughly trimmed pole was thrust  into  the  shelter.
She jumped. She didn't need any more surprises.

"If that's supposed to be funny, Darman, I'm not laughing."

"Come  on,  commander."  He  peered  down  the  length  of  the   pole.
"Lightsaber drill. Let's do it now before you have to for real."

"I just want to rest."

"I know." He squatted down and stared at her. "I don't know much  about
swords, either, but I'm trained in hand-to-hand combat."

He didn't move. His persistence  annoyed  her.  Actually,  it  suddenly
angered her; she'd had enough. She was exhausted,  and  she  wanted  to  sit
numbly and do absolutely nothing. She jumped to her feet, snatched the pole,
and ran at him.

He sidestepped her, but only just.

"Relatively safe way to perfect your lightsaber skills," Darman said.

"Relatively?" She held the pole two-handed, furious.

"Relatively," Darman said, and brought his own mock  lightsaber  around
sharply on her shin.

"Ow! You-"

"Come on. Do your worst." Darman leapt back  out  of  the  range  of  a
savage and uncontrolled lunge. "That's it. Come at me."

That was the point at which she always stumbled-the fine  line  between
giving maximum effort and being blinded by angry violence. You have to  mean
it. It's not a game anymore. She came at him with a  two-handed  sweep  from
right to left, cracking hard against his weapon and feeling  the  impact  in
her wrists and elbows, forcing Darman onto his back foot. Three  more  rapid
sweeps, right, right, left-and then one immediately  downwards,  unexpected,
hitting him so hard between neck and shoulder that if the pole  had  been  a
real lightsaber she would have sliced him in half.

She heard the sickening thwack. It was the first time she'd seen him in
pain. It was a split second of a grimace, no more,  but  she  was  instantly
appalled at herself.

"Sorry-" she said, but he came straight back at her and sent the  stake
flying from her hand.

"You have to press home your advantage," Darman said, rubbing his neck.
"I've never used an energy blade and I don't have the Force to call on.  But
I do know when to go all-out."

"I know," Etain said, inspecting her shin and catching her breath. "Did
I do any damage?"

"Nothing serious. Good move."

"I don't want to let you down when you need me most."

"You've done fine so far, Commander."

"How can you do all this, Darman?"

"Do what? Fight?"

"Kill and remain detached."

"Training, I suppose. And whatever was in Jango Fett that  made  him...
detached."

"Were you ever afraid in training?"

"Almost always."

"Did you ever get hurt?"

"All the time. Others died. It's how you learn.  Getting  hurt  teaches
you to shoot instinctively. That's why our  instructors  began  training  us
with simunition that would hurt us without causing permanent damage. Then we
moved on to live rounds."

"How old were you then?"

"Four. Perhaps five."

She hadn't known that. It made her shudder.  She  couldn't  recall  any
Jedi dying in training. It was another world. She picked  up  her  pole  and
made a few slow passes with it, her gaze fixed on  its  tip.  "I  find  this
accelerated growth difficult to comprehend."

"It's a Kaminoan industrial secret."

"I mean that it's hard for me to reconcile what you appear  to  be  and
what you can do, with-well, with someone who's had less  experience  of  the
profane world than even a Padawan."

"Sergeant Skirata told us we perplexed him."

"You talk about him a lot."

"He trained my squad and also Niner's and Fi's. That might be why  they
put us together for this mission when our brothers were killed."

Etain felt ashamed. There was no self-pity in him whatso-

ever. "What will they do with you in thirty years, when you're too  old
to fight?"

"I'll be dead long before then."

"That's rather fatalistic."

"I mean that we'll always age faster than you. We've been told  decline
for clones is mercifully swift. Slow soldiers get killed. I can't think of a
better time to die than when I'm no longer the best."

Etain really didn't want to hear anything more about death right  then.
Death was happening all too easily and frequently, as if  it  didn't  matter
and had no consequences. She could feel the  Force  being  distorted  around
her; not the regular rhythm of life as it was meant to be, but the chaos  of
destruction. She felt she could neither accept it nor influence it.

"We're supposed to be peacekeepers," she said wearily. "This is ugly."

"But war always is. Calling it peacekeeping doesn't change anything."

"It's different," Etain said.

Darman pursed his lips, looking slightly  past  her  as  if  rehearsing
something difficult in his mind. "Sergeant Skirata said that civvies  didn't
have a clue, and that it was all right for them to have  lofty  ideas  about
peace and freedom as long as they weren't the ones being shot  at.  He  said
nothing focuses your mind better than someone trying to kill you."

That stung. Etain wondered  if  the  comment  were  just  an  unguarded
recollection, or a subtle rebuke of her principles. Darman appeared  equally
capable of either. She still hadn't come to terms with his  duality,  killer
and innocent, soldier and  child,  educated  intelligence  and  grim  humor.
Undistracted by a normal  life,  he  seemed  to  have  spent  more  time  in
contemplation  than  even  she  had.  She  wondered  how  much  the  intense
experience of the outside world would change him.

She'd killed just one fellow living being.  It  had  certainly  changed
her.

"Come on," he said. "Sun's coming up. Might dry out your clothes."

It was definitely autumn. A mist had blanketed the countryside  like  a
sea. A puddle had formed in the sheeting  stretched  over  the  top  of  the
shelter, and Darman went to scoop it out but stopped.

"What are these things?" he asked. "I saw them on the river, too."

Ruby- and sapphire-colored insects were dancing above  the  surface  of
the puddle. "Daywings," Etain said.

"I've never seen colors like it."

"They hatch and take flight for a day, and they die  by  the  evening,"
she said. "A brief and glorious ..."

Her voice trailed off. She was appalled at her own  insensitivity.  She
began assembling an apology, but Darman didn't appear to need one.

"They're amazing," he said, completely absorbed by the spectacle.

"They certainly are," she said, and watched him.

Lik Ankkit's villa had been splendid. It  was  still  splendid  in  its
unnecessary way, but the polished  kuvara  floors,  with  their  intricately
inlaid flower motif borders, were now scuffed and gouged by the  metal  feet
of droids.

Ankkit hovered in the doorway while these  four  droids  screwed  alloy
sheets across the window  frames,  shutting  out  the  sunrise.  Ghez  Hokan
watched the progress of the conversion from mansion to fortress.

"You'll split the wood," Ankkit hissed. "Careful! Do you know how  long
it took to have those panels carved?"

Hokan shrugged. "I'm not a carpenter."

"They were not made by carpenters. They were made by artists-"

"I don't care if Supreme Chancellor Palpatine carved them himself  with
a dinner fork. I need to secure this building."

"You  have  a  perfectly  adequate  purpose-built  facility  not  three
kilometers from here. You could defend that."

"And I have."

"Why? Why ruin my home when Uthan is no longer here?"

"For a devious and treacherous little bean counter, Ankkit, you show  a
surprising lack of tactical creativity." Hokan walked over to the Neimoidian
and stood close to him. He would not be intimidated by this grocer's height.
He didn't care if he had to crane his neck to look him in the  eye;  he  was
the bigger man. "I know she's no longer here. The enemy  might  believe  she
is. If  I  observed  my  enemy  making  lavish  preparations  to  defend  an
installation, I might assume it was a bluff and investigate  an  alternative
target. If I found  that  alternative  target  discreetly  prepared  against
intruders, I would make an educated guess that it was  the  real  objective,
and attack it."

Ankkit appeared unconvinced. He glared at Hokan  with  half-lidded  red
eyes, which was a rare show of courage for him. "And how will they spot this
discreet reinforcement?"

"I've made sure that supplies have been  seen  arriving  here  with  an
accompanying degree of security procedure. Movement by night, that  sort  of
thing. Given the nobility of the local population,  I'm  sure  someone  will
trade that information for some bauble or other. It always worked for me."

"This reinforcement will not save my home from destruction."

"You're right, Ankkit. Wooden structures don't bear up well to cannons.
That's why I've moved Doctor Uthan back to the facility. If I have to, I can
actually defend metal and stone more successfully."

"So why did you move her here in the first place?"

"I'm surprised that you even have to ask. To keep everyone guessing, of
course."

It had seemed like a sensible idea at the time: he hadn't known what he
was dealing with. Now he was fairly sure that he was facing no more than ten
men. Had an army landed, he'd have known by now. Moving Uthan-not a task  he
could achieve in complete secrecy  anyway-had  helped  thicken  the  fog  of
confusion.

Hokan was leaving nothing to chance. He was laying a

trail of clues that would lead the enemy commandos to  one  conclusion:
that Uthan and the nanovirus were barricaded in Lik Ankkit's villa.

A droid dragged a heavy alloy joist through the salon, plowing a furrow
in the golden floorboards. Ankkit let out a muffled squeal  of  frustration.
The droid's comrades lifted the joist and aligned it with a horizontal beam,
knocking over a fine Naboo vase and smashing it. Droids  weren't  programmed
to say Oops and sweep up the fragments. They simply crunched  through  them,
oblivious.

Ankkit was shaking again. He screamed for a servant.  A  sullen-looking
local boy appeared with a brush and swept the debris into a pan.

"Oh dear," Hokan said. He didn't think it was the right time to mention
that the labyrinth of wine cellars and secure vaults beneath the  villa  was
now packed with explosives. He didn't know how to revive  a  Neimoidian  who
had fainted, and he had no intention of learning.

Lieutenant Hurati was waiting outside the front  door.  Even  when  not
under scrutiny, Hurati stood with military composure. Hokan had never caught
him sneaking a drink from a  flask  or  scratching  himself.  Hurati  didn't
straighten up when he saw Hokan, because he was already at attention.

"Sir, Doctor Uthan is getting  irritated  about  the  disruption,"  the
lieutenant said.

"I'll talk to her. How is our droid signal chain working out?"

"It's adequate, sir, but I would  feel  more  secure  if  we  had  comm
monitoring online."

"My boy, there was a time when we had no listening stations, and we had
to fight wars by observation and our own wits. It can be done. What have the
droids spotted?"

"The incursions appear to be limited to Teklet  and  the  area  to  the
south, sir, and quite specific in nature. At least we know why they attacked
the quarry office. I have to say I haven't  encountered  an  excavator  bomb
before." Hurati licked his lips nervously. "Sir, are you sure you don't want
any patrols to search the Teklet road? I'd be happy to do  it  myself,  sir.
It's no trouble."

Hokan took it for the genuine concern it was rather than  a  criticism.
"No, we could be chasing gdan trails all  over  the  region.  Our  enemy  is
obviously good at diversionary tactics, and I'm not going to take any  bait.
I'll wait for them to take  mine."  He  patted  Hurati's  back.  "If  you're
anxious to be busy, keep an eye on Ankkit. I  don't  want  him  interfering.
Restrain him by any means you consider necessary."

Hurati saluted. "Will do, sir. Also-Lieutenant Cuvin ... I don't  think
he will make captain, as you said."

Hokan liked Hurati more every day. "Has his removal from the  promotion
list been noted by your fellow officers?"

"It has, sir."

"Good. Well done."

Hurati was proving to be a loyal aide. He  was  eager  to  obey.  Hokan
decided he would have to watch  him.  He  promoted  him  anyway.  There  was
nothing to be gained by willfully ignoring excellence in another.

13

CO Majestic to Republic Command, Coruscant

On station and awaiting contact from Omega  Squad.  All  communications
from Teklet ground station have ceased. Separatist vessel has approached and
is standing off our port bow at 50 kilometers-has not responded  to  signals
but is believed to be a Techno Union armed transport. Will engage if  vessel
appears to be taking hostile action. Standing by.

"Turned out nice again," Fi said, somewhere ahead of the column.

"You been on the stims?" Niner asked.

"I'm just naturally cheerful."

"Well, I'm not, so where did you get it from?"

Niner didn't like being tail on a patrol. He walked backward,  scanning
the trees, wondering why he was this close to Imbraani  without  a  sign  of
enemy contact since Teklet.

Tinnies couldn't climb trees. It was the wets he was worried about.

"Want to swap?" Fi said.

"I'm fine."

"Just say the word."

Fi was about a hundred  meters  ahead  on  point.  Atin  walked  behind
Guta-Nay. The Weequay  was  carrying  a  fair  share  of  the  ordnance  and
equipment they'd had to load on their backs since abandoning  the  excavator
droid and the speeder bike.

"Very quiet, all things considered," Atin said. "Mind if I  send  up  a
remote?"

"Might as well," Niner said. "Patch visual through to all of  us,  will
you?"

"We there yet?" Guta-Nay asked.

"Soon." Niner hadn't found the Weequay much use so far except as a pack
animal. All he seemed to know about Hokan's tactics was that they hurt  bad.
"Now, are you going to be cooperative, or am I going to return you  to  your
boss?"

"You not do that! It cruel it is!"

"He'll probably just give you a big kiss and tell  you  how  much  he's
missed you."

"He gonna cut my-"

"I'm sure he will. Want to tell us more about the droids?"

"A hundred."

"Any SBDs?"

"What?"

"Super-battle-droids." Niner indicated the bulky shape  with  his  arms
held away from his sides, letting his rifle hang on its webbing. "Big ones."

"No. I seen none, anyway."

"I told you we should have slotted him," Fi said. "Still, he carried  a
bit of gear. I suppose we ought to cut him some slack for that."

The metallic sphere of the remote rose just  above  the  level  of  the
trees and shot off. Niner's field of vision was interrupted in one  quadrant
by an aerial view of the countryside. As the remote tracked along paths  and
swooped among branches, it was clear that nobody was about, a worrying thing
in itself. Then it dived in to show  a  familiar  figure,  stripped  to  the
waist, bending over a makeshift  basin  of  soapy  water  fashioned  from  a
section of plastoid sheet.

The remote hovered above Darman as he reached for his rifle,  not  even
raising his eyes.

"Sarge, is that you?"

Niner was staring into the business end of Darman's  Deece.  It  was  a
sobering close-up. "We're about ten  minutes  from  the  RV  Going  anywhere
nice?"

The rifle disappeared from the frame and Darman,  half  shaved,  stared
back. "Knock first, will you?"

"I'm glad to see you, too. Where'd you get that wound?"

"This one? Or this one?"

"The burn."

"A  Trandoshan.  Ex-Trandoshan,  actually.  We've  had  a  little  more
attention than we'd have liked."

"The commander's still in one piece?"

"Well, this bruise is hers. I'm teaching  her  to  fight  dirty.  She's
catching on."

"Get the kettle boiling, then. We're bringing a guest."

Darman's faintly impatient expression dwindled below the remote and was
replaced by an open view over Imbraani. It  wasn't  so  much  a  town  as  a
scattering of farms, with a few knots of industrial-looking buildings dotted
among them. Atin sent it  higher  and  a  few  more  remote  buildings  were
visible.

"Take it in over the villa," Niner said.

"Open country, Sarge. Bit risky."

"I think we've lost the element of surprise."

"Okay. Long lens, though."

"What you doing?" Guta-Nay  asked.  To  him,  they  were  traveling  in
silence.  He  couldn't  hear  the  conversations  going  on  between  helmet
comlinks. Niner switched channels with a couple of deliberate blinks.

"Taking a look at that villa."

"I know about villa."

"We all know about the villa."

Niner would have welcomed a visit from Jinart.  They  hadn't  seen  the
shapeshifter since yesterday. She could have been anywhere, of  course,  but
she hadn't made herself visible. He hoped she hadn't run into problems.

Five minutes now. No time at all. They'd be a squad again,  and  they'd
have a commander. They'd be at the RV, and then they  could  rest  up,  eat,
have a wash, and generally clear their heads. It began  to  feel  like  good
news.

There was just the matter of  taking  Uthan  and  the  nanovirus,  then
getting out in one piece.

Etain had almost grown used to thinking of Darman's  armored  anonymity
as a friendly face. Then three more exactly like him emerged from the  trees
and disturbed that fragile equilibrium.

And then they took their helmets off.

It was rude, she knew, but all she could do was stare,  and  she  found
herself slowly putting her hand to her mouth in an attempt to  disguise  her
shock.

"Yes, sorry about the Weequay, Commander," one of  them  said.  He  had
Darman's voice and Darman's face. "He's a bit ripe, I know. We'll  have  him
clean himself up."

They were utterly identical, except for one with a terrible scar across
his face. The other two seemed like different moods of  the  same  man,  one
serious, one pleasantly calm and unconcerned. They were all staring at her.

"I can't tell you apart," she said.

"I'm CC-"

"No, you have proper names. I know you have names."

"It's-it's not policy, Commander."

Darman lowered his eyes. "It's a private thing."

"Everyone calls me Fi," said the calm  one,  clearly  not  bothered  by
policy. "And this is Atin."

"Niner," the serious one said, and  saluted.  Etain  couldn't  sense  a
great deal from either of them, but the scarred Atin exuded a sense of  loss
that was almost solid. She could feel its weight. She tried  to  concentrate
on the Weequay. She didn't need to tap into the Force to tell  that  he  was
terrified. He was bent over as if about to drop to his knees, staring up  at
her.

Weequay didn't all look the same. She knew this one. He had chased  her
across a barq  field.  He  was  a  rapist  and  a  murderer,  not  that  the
descriptions set him apart from any other of Hokan's thugs. She reached  for
her lightsaber.

"Whoa," Darman said.

"Girlie?" Guta-Nay said.

"I'll give you girlie," she said, but Darman caught her arm and she was
instantly ashamed of her reaction. Again, it was anger. It  was  what  stood
between her and making sense of her calling. She had to get  the  better  of
it. If Darman could exercise force without venom, then so could she.

"What's he here for?" she asked, thumbing off the blade.

"We thought he might have useful information," Niner said.

Etain was desperate to be useful. She felt as if she were only  capable
of performing conjuring tricks: enough skills to distract, but not enough to
be a functioning soldier. She also wanted Darman to stop treating her as  if
she were merely in need of a little more instruction. She wanted him to tell
her how much he despised all that potential power wasted on a girl  with  no
discipline or focus. He wasn't stupid. He had to be thinking that.

"What do we need to know, Niner?"

"How Hokan thinks, Commander."

"Give me some time with him."

Guta-Nay straightened up and took one step back, shaking his  head.  He
was expecting Hokan-style treatment.

Fi chuckled. "Guta-Nay thinks you're going  to  cut  off  his  ...  er,
braids, ma'am."

Braids. She'd forgotten. She pulled a  section  of  hair  free  of  her
collar, plaited it as fast as she could, and fumbled in  her  pocket  for  a
piece of cord to fasten it. This is what you are. Live up to it, if only  to
justify Darman's faith in you.

"We're going to have a little chat," she said. She let her  braid  fall
back inside her collar. "Sit down ... Guta-Nay."

It wasn't easy for him to settle down on  the  ground  with  his  hands
still tied, but Etain wasn't taking any chances.  He  knelt  and  then  fell
sideways in an undignified sprawl. She hauled him into  a  sitting  position
and they sat outside the shelter in silence. She wanted  him  to  calm  down
before she attempted to influence him.

A sudden clack of armor made her glance over her shoulder, and she  was
astonished to see Atin giving Darman an awkward hug,  slapping  him  on  the
back. She caught Darman's eye: he looked bewildered.

Whatever had given Atin his huge emotional  burden  had  been  slightly
relieved by rinding Darman well. Then the two men parted as  if  nothing  in
particular had happened. Etain turned back to Guta-Nay, suddenly very  aware
that for all their calm manner and unnatural appearance, these soldiers were
every bit as painfully human as she was.

Bred to fight.

A new doubt was growing  in  her.  She  shook  it  off  and  turned  to
Guta-Nay, who wouldn't meet her eyes.

"You're not afraid,"  she  said  quietly,  and  visualized  the  gentle
trickle of water from the fountain of her clan home  on  Coruscant.  "You're
relaxed and you want to talk about Ghez Hokan."

He certainly did.

"Haven't seen Jinart?" Darman said.

"Not since yesterday." Niner cleaned his armor. It  didn't  matter  how
visible they were now, and he hated scruffy rig. Darman  had  stripped  down
his Deece and was wiping the ignition chamber more than  it  needed  it.  Fi
wandered around the temporary camp, cradling his rifle, keeping watch.

"Well, whether she's here or not, I think we go in sooner  rather  than
later."

"The villa or the facility?"

"Latest intel we have from Jinart indicates the villa."

"But..."

"Yeah, but. I'd find it hard to walk away from a place I could  defend,
too. That villa's nothing but firewood." He put down the shoulder  plate  he
was cleaning. "Show me that plan again."

Darman clipped the DC-17 back together and reached into  his  belt  for
the holochart sphere. "She did okay to get this."

"Our commander? Jinart seemed dismissive of her."

"C'mon, Niner. She's a Jedi. She's an officer."

"Well? What do you think?"

Darman rubbed the bridge of his nose. "She's got  a  lot  of  fight  in
her."

"And?"

"She's ... well, she's not exactly Skirata. But  she's  learning  fast.
And you should see the Jedi stuff she can do. There's more to it  than  just
the fighting skills."

Niner occasionally had his doubts about  nonclone  officers.  They  all
did. They never admitted it publicly, but Skirata had warned them,  quietly,
privately, that outside officers sometimes needed help, and while you always
obeyed orders, you needed to be able to make helpful interpretations if  the
officer was less than  specific.  Officers  could  unintentionally  get  you
killed.

"Nobody's  Skirata,"  Niner  said.  He  was  watching   the   commander
discreetly. Whatever she had done to Guta-Nay had  transformed  him  into  a
true conversationalist. She was actually looking bored,  as  if  she'd  been
cornered by someone who really, really wanted to explain  every  engineering
detail of a repeating blaster.

"You have to admit that's quite a skill," Darman said.

Niner tried not to think about it. It made him uneasy, not knowing  how
many of his actions were his own choice. He didn't like the other  conflicts
she created in him, either. He had never been this close to a  human  female
before, and he was relieved that she was emaciated, unkempt,  and  generally
less than appealing. The proximity still made him  feel  edgy,  though,  and
from the  way  Darman  was  looking  at  him,  it  seemed  they  shared  the
realization.

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."

"Okay, in real terms, there's a layer of solid  droid  on  top  of  the
cellars. Can't free-fall in. So it's through the front

door,  the  wall,  or  the   drains.   And   the   drains   look   like
thirty-centimeter diameter."

"Bore-bangs?" Fi said.

"They won't drill far enough into the ground to penetrate the  cellars,
and they're not powerful enough anyway." Darman's  gaze  was  fixed  on  the
holographic plan. "Although they might be if Atin modified them  and  packed
in a bit of the thermal tape. I was saving it for the  blast  doors  in  the
facility, but I could spare a meter. That'd be ample."

"How about a remote?"  Atin  said.  "If  we  can  direct  it  into  the
building, that is. If you took out the recording components, you could  pack
in the thermal tape-about a couple of meters, easily."

"They'll be able to spot anything that's flying."

Jinart, in aged crone mode, looked from face to identical  face.  "What
size is this device?"

Darman formed a fist. "About this big. I'll show you one."

"I could carry that to the villa, right to the walls, if you can direct
it from there."

Niner pointed into the shimmering image of the building. "Down the roof
vent, which would put it in the main hall running front to back."

"Or maybe along the main drain from  this  culvert  about  two  hundred
meters behind the house. I like that better."

Etain joined in the communal  ritual  of  staring  at  the  holographic
display as if an answer would eventually emerge on its own. "The only  point
in blowing up the villa is if you could  hit  as  many  droids  with  it  as
possible."

"Then we have to convince them we're going  all  out  for  the  villa,"
Niner said. "That means a feint of some sort, which would be fine if we  had
more men. But we don't."

Then Etain did have an idea, and it was one that she wasn't proud of.

"How about sending Hokan a direct message?" she said. "What if Guta-Nay
were to escape and tell him we were planning to attack the villa?"

"But he knows there are only four of us," Darman said. "Sorry, five."

"Six," Jinart said sourly.

"We could convince the Weequay that we have another squad or two in the
area," Etain said. "At this point, he'll believe anything I  tell  him.  But
I'll be sending him to his death."

Fi nodded. "Yeah, if Hokan skewers him without  waiting  to  hear  what
he's got to say, we're stuffed."

He was cheerfully, benignly callous. Etain was briefly appalled  before
letting the reality wash over her. Given the  chance,  Guta-Nay  would  have
abused and killed her without a second thought. Aside from that, the squad's
target was effectively a weapons factory, a weapon that would kill  millions
of men just like Niner, Fi, and Atin. And Darman. If they didn't kill,  they
would be killed.

It didn't take her long to move  from  her  reverence  for  all  living
things to thinking waste the Weequay. She wondered  if  that  was  the  true
nature of corruption.

"I'll do my best to give him a good opening line," Etain said.

"He's scum," Jinart said suddenly. "If his death can  help  remove  the
Trade Federation and all their minions from my world, then  it  is  a  cheap
price to pay."

My world? Etain obviously  had  the  same  thought  as  the  commandos,
because they all reacted, looking at the shape-shifter expectantly.

"We didn't realize this was your homeworld," Niner said.

"It is," Jinart said. "I'm among the last of my kind. Various  invaders
have driven us from our habitat without even seeing us-and now I doubt  they
would have done any differently had they known we were here. Yes, we'll help
you rid this world of Neimoidians and  every  other  hostile  alien  species
that's here. That's our bargain with the Republic. You help us; we help you.
That's why we risk our lives. It is  not  for  the  greater  glory  of  your
cause."

"Nobody told us," Etain  said.  "I'm  sorry.  I  can't  speak  for  the
Republic, but we'll do our best to see that they keep their word."

"Mark that you do," Jinart said. She indicated  the  commandos  with  a
swing of her fine black head. "Like your young friends here, we are few, but
we have no problem inflicting a great deal of damage."

Etain could only nod. At least  Jinart  was  brutally  honest.  Perhaps
telepaths, deprived of secret thought, had no other  style  of  interaction.
The creature was staring at her, all unblinking orange eyes, and  she  could
see for the first time that the four fangs protruding  over  the  Gurlanin's
lower lip each ended in a double point.

"I'll place scent marks around this camp," Jinart  said  stiffly.  "The
gdans won't bother you tonight." She slipped away and merged with the  land,
leaving a trail of rustling noises as she moved through the bushes.

"Okay, let's see what Guta-Nay can manage," Niner said.  "If  we  don't
see signs of movement toward the villa  by  midday  tomorrow,  we'll  go  in
anyway, and that'll mean splitting the  squad  and  taking  both  groups  of
droids. We really don't want to do that if we can help it."

"This has the makings of a diverting evening,"  Fi  said.  "Anyone  for
supper?"

It was an elaborate charade, and the bizarre thing was that  it  needed
no rehearsal. Guta-Nay was entirely unquestioning: Etain had  begun  to  see
him as a monstrous and sadistic child, unable to comprehend the feelings  of
others, or control his own. They sat around and ate the merlie  stewed  with
dried kuvara, talking about leaving enough for the  "other  squad"  when  it
showed up. They discussed in hushed tones about how "the  villa"  was  their
target. If this was the misinformation game, it was an easy one.

Even so, Etain definitely didn't feel proud of her subterfuge when  she
cut the ties around the Weequay's wrists, ostensibly an act of  kindness  so
that he could eat. It was designed to send him to his death.  At  least  she
felt some relief that as soon as it was  dark,  and  they  made  a  show  of
turning their backs on him and being  preoccupied,  Guta-Nay  would  try  to
escape, and vindicate Jinart's judgment that he was scum.

The decision still sat heavy on her.

Fi and Darman were asleep, judging by the position of their  heads.  It
was impossible to tell with their helmets on, but they were sitting  against
a tree, chins resting on their breastplates and arms folded over the  rifles
clutched to their chests. She had no doubt that if she walked over to  them,
they'd wake and be on their feet in a second.

She glanced up. Niner was on watch, perched in the fork of a tree  with
one leg dangling, occasionally peering down his rifle scope at something.

"What can he see?" she asked.

Atin, cross-legged with an array of wires and detonators spread  around
him, looked up. He'd taken off the armor section that protected his backside
and was using it as a convenient plate for components while he worked.

"Line of sight? Up to thirty kilometers in good  viz.  Connected  to  a
remote ship system? Well, you name it, Com- sorry, Etain." He pointed to his
rifle, and then went on packing tight-coiled  black  and  white  ribbons  of
explosive into the remote. "Have a look through the Deece. Safety's on,  but
don't press anything."

Etain shouldered the rifle. It was a lot lighter than  it  looked,  and
the view through the scope was startlingly vivid despite the failing  light.
She found it difficult to shut out the display that was superimposed on  her
field of vision. It narrowed the view to a tight focus on  the  target.  "Is
this what you see through that visor?"

"Sort of."

"Can I try the helmet? I want to know what it's like to be inside it."

Atin gave her a dubious look and  shrugged.  "You  won't  get  all  the
readouts without the rest of the armor system, but you'll see  enough.  It's
top shelf. They upgraded it just for this mission."

She lifted the helmet and held it above her head, a bizarre coronation.
As she lowered it into place, the feeling of confinement and  stifling  heat
almost made her nauseous, but she steeled herself to tolerate it.

"Hot," she said.

"It's fine when it's sealed to the rest of the suit," Atin said. He got
to his feet and loomed in her field of vision. "See the red light in the top
corner?"

"Mm."

"Look at it and blink twice, fast."

She did. It unleashed chaos. All she could see now was a riot of  lines
and numbers and flashing symbols. She was aware of a normal view beyond  it,
but the rest of the data dancing before her eyes was overwhelming.

"That's the HUD," Atin said. "Heads-up display.  Real  life-saver.  The
proverbial eyes in your backside."

"It's distracting. How do you cope with it?"

"You get used to it fast. We've used these systems all our  lives.  You
can filter the information out,  like  listening  to  a  conversation  in  a
crowd."

Etain lifted the helmet off and inhaled cool evening air. "And you  can
communicate without any audible sound outside the helmet?"

"Yes, and even without  Command  and  Control  hearing  us  on  certain
frequencies. I  don't  think  ordinary  troopers  can  do  that,  but  we're
different."

"Separate specialized training?"

"They're trained from day one to be more obedient than  us.  And  we're
more obedient than ARC troopers. They're pretty well raw Jango."

He was talking about himself as if he were a commodity. Etain found  it
uncomfortable: yes, these young men were odd because  they  were  externally
identical, but they were still individual men, and not exotic houseplants or
strains of grain. She understood that the Republic  faced  desperate  times.
She just wondered how many desperate measures that could justify. Somehow it
seemed an affront to the Force to do this to fellow  humans,  even  if  they
seemed remarkably sanguine about it.

She handed him back his helmet. "We use you, don't  we,  Atin?  All  of
you."

"No soldier has it easy." He fumbled with a  length  of  wire,  clearly
embarrassed, brow furrowed in mock concentration. The fresh scar from  cheek
to chin was all the more shocking etched into fresh young skin,  and  not  a
battle-hardened, wrinkled face that indicated a full life. "But I like  this
job. What else would I do?"

It was a painfully good question. What would any of  them  do  if  they
were discharged from the Grand Army? She reached out and  squeezed  his  arm
instinctively, but all she grasped was plastoid-alloy plate.

"I know what happened to you," she said. She concentrated, a  precision
job: just enough to influence him to see what was true and  reasonable,  but
not to make mockery of his natural grief. "What happened  to  your  brothers
wasn't your fault. You're a good soldier. Sometimes the  odds  are  too  far
against you."

He stared down at his boots. Eventually, he  looked  up  and  shrugged.
"I'll do my best to make sure this  bunch  stays  alive,  then."  There  was
little indication on his face that the gentle  push  toward  acceptance  had
worked, but Etain felt less of a jagged tear in the  Force  around  him.  He
might heal, in time.

And time was something none of the clone commandos would have. It  made
her ashamed.

"Can I help with anything?" Etain said.

"You could help me put some remote dets into  these.  I  told  Dar  I'd
finish them for him." Atin indicated small packs of  mining  explosive,  and
handed her something that looked like a packet of steel  toothpicks.  "Slide
these between the ribbon and the main charge. Makes any party go off with  a
bigger bang."

"What are they?"

"IEDs,"  he  said.  "Great  for  planting  down  drainage  systems  and
air-conditioning ducts."

"Not more acronyms."

"Improvised explosive devices. Be sure you make them look  neat.  Dar's
fussy about his devices."

It was a relatively simple but fiddly task: Etain was a quick  learner.
They sat in silent concentration, making bombs as casually as if  they  were
shelling qana beans. This is how it

happens, she thought. This is how you slide from peacekeeper to soldier
to assassin.

"Can I ask you a favor?" Atin said, not looking up  from  the  bomb  in
progress.

"Of course."

"May I look at your lightsaber?"

Etain smiled. "Well, you've shown me yours, so it's only fair I  should
show you mine." She took out the hilt and held it up to him.  He  wiped  his
palms on his bodysuit and took the saber carefully.  "That's  the  dangerous
end, and this is the control."

He showed no inclination to activate it. He seemed absorbed by the hilt
and its markings.

"Go on," Etain said.

The lightsaber flared into blue light with a vzzmmm. Atin  didn't  even
flinch. He simply stared down the length of  the  blade  and  seemed  to  be
checking it for true.

"It doesn't feel like a weapon," he said. "It's a beautiful thing."

"I made it."

That changed his expression. She had  struck  a  chord  with  him,  one
builder of gadgets to another. "Now that is impressive."

Etain enjoyed the respect. Being treated with deference as  an  officer
made her squirm, but  this  felt  good.  So  I  think  I'm  pretty  good  at
something. And someone else thinks I'm good at it, too. It was a boost  that
she sorely needed.

Atin thumbed off the blade  and  handed  the  hilt  back  to  her  with
suitable reverence. "I'd still rather have plenty of distance between me and
the enemy," he said. "This is a close-in weapon."

"Maybe I need to practice my more  remote  skills,"  Etain  said.  "You
never know when telekinesis might come in handy."

They went on bundling explosives with ribbon charges and  stacking  the
packages in a heap. She heard and felt Darman relieve Niner on watch:  their
respective presences

ebbed and flowed, merging at one point as they crossed paths.

Through the night Etain  alternated  between  dozing  and  checking  on
Guta-Nay. She was careful not to give him the idea  that  she  was  watching
him, and instead concentrated on sensing whether he was still there, sitting
in the lee of a tree with his knees drawn up  to  his  chest.  Sometimes  he
slept; she could feel the absence of mental activity, almost like sensing  a
plant. Other times he woke and felt more vivid and chaotic, like a predator.

It was getting light again. It had been a long and restless night.

And still Guta-Nay sat there. He'd made no attempt to escape.

Of course he won't. Etain felt her stomach knotting. He's terrified  of
Hokan. He wants to stay with us. We 're the good guys, the civilized guys.

Once again she was horrified by her  ruthless  and  almost  involuntary
calculation of benefit against evil. She wandered past the shelter  made  of
leaves, tarpaulin, and a camouflage net that seemed to be  handmade.  Niner,
now clearly asleep, still wearing full armor, was curled up on his side, one
arm folded under his head. Atin was reading his datapad;  Fi  was  finishing
the cold remains of the merlie stew. He glanced up at her and held  out  the
mess tin.

"I'll pass, thanks." Fat had congealed in unappetizing yellow  globules
on the surface. It seemed soldiers could sleep anywhere and eat anything.

This couldn't be a moral dilemma. It was obvious. These men had  become
her responsibility, both as an individual and as a Jedi: she owed it to them
to see that they survived. She liked them. She cared what happened to  them,
and she wanted to see Atin live long enough to overcome his demons.

And she could do something that even they couldn't.

"Guta-Nay," she said, putting her hand on the  Weequay's  shoulder.  He
opened his eyes. "Guta-Nay, you're not afraid. You want to go to Ghez  Hokan
and tell him what you

know. You want to offer him information about the  Republic  forces  in
exchange for your life. You want to tell him that they plan  to  attack  the
villa because they think the forces at the facility are a decoy."

Guta-Nay stared past her for a moment, and then stood up. He picked his
way through the bushes and headed east toward Imbraani.

Etain knew she had now taken a second life.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes  screwed  shut,  and  wondered
what had happened to her, what Master Fulier would have thought had he  been
alive. Then she was aware of someone watching her.

She looked up. Darman, perched in the same fork of  branches  as  Niner
had been, stared down.

"It's hard to send someone to their death,"  she  said,  answering  his
silent question.

His expression was hidden behind the visor of his  helmet.  She  didn't
need to call on any of her abilities as a Jedi to know what he was thinking:
one day she would do the same to men like him. The  realization  caught  her
unawares.

"You'll get used to it," he said.

She doubted it.

14

There is nothing wrong with fear. You need never be ashamed of  it,  as
long as it doesn't stop  you  functioning.  Fear  is  your  natural  warning
system; it keeps you alive so that you can fight. Show me a  man  who  isn't
afraid, and I'll show you a fool who is a danger to his entire ship.

And I do not tolerate fools in my navy.

-Admiral Adar Tallon, addressing the new intake at a

Republic academy

Hokan stood on the veranda of Ankkit's villa and stared out at a bright
autumnal morning. There were still too many leaves  on  the  trees  for  his
liking.

They were out there somewhere. Republic forces. A handful.

But they were not an army.

He walked to Uthan's laboratory complex, a  comfortable  fifteen-minute
stroll. It occurred to him that he was a good target  for  a  sniper,  if  a
sniper had been able to penetrate Mandalorian armor. Even so, he decided  to
divert via a coppice. His path took him along a dry-stone wall to  the  rear
of the installation, and he made a complete  circle  of  the  farm  building
before walking up to the single entrance at the front.

As a lure, this was a good one. The line of droids across the  entrance
was spectacular. Hokan made a point of inspecting them at a  leisurely  pace
and then engaged them in conversation about their  cannons.  If  anyone  was
observing-soldier, spy, or talkative farmer-they would get the message.

Inside, though, Dr. Uthan was losing her glamorous cool.

"Is this the last time you're going to move me?" she said, tapping  her
nails against the polished metal of her desk. Her files and  equipment  were
still in packing crates.  "My  staff  members  are  finding  this  extremely
stressful, as am I."

Hokan  took  out  his  datapad  and  projected  a  holochart   of   the
installation above the surface of the desk. The place was a  cube  within  a
cube: below ground level, the accommodations, storage, and offices lay in  a
ring around a central core. The core  contained  a  square  of  eight  small
laboratories with one more-the secure room-nestled in the center.  The  rest
of the complex had bulkheads that  could  be  brought  down  and  sealed  to
isolate a biohazard escape. It could be defended.

But it wouldn't come to that. He'd laid a  careful  trail  to  Ankkit's
villa and a greeting from fifty droids,  along  with  cannons  and  powerful
explosives.

He wanted to get it over with.

"Yes, Doctor, this is the last time I'll move you," he  said.  "Try  to
understand why I've done this, Doctor. I believe I'm facing a small commando
force. Rather than chase them, which could be diversionary, I've decided  to
bring them to me. This means they'll be facing a conventional  infantry  and
artillery battle that I don't think they're equipped  to  fight.  Those  are
battles of numbers."

"I'm not sure if I do see your point, actually."

"We can defend this installation. I have the numbers and the firepower.
Sooner or later, they'll take casualties."

"You're certain about this?"

"Not certain, but everything I see suggests they have landed a  minimal
amount of troops-for example, no evidence  of  large-scale  transport.  They
hijacked explosives from a quarry to destroy the Teklet ground  station.  If
they had the materiel, they wouldn't have bothered."

"And then again, maybe that's a diversionary tactic, too."

Hokan looked up from the holochart. "Nobody has  perfect  knowledge  in
battle. No plan survives contact with the enemy. Yes, I'm making an educated
guess, as every commander in history has had to do."

Uthan considered him with cold black eyes. "You should  have  evacuated
my project from the planet."

Hokan folded his  arms.  "When  you  move,  you're  vulnerable.  You're
vulnerable crossing the countryside between here and the  spaceport.  You're
even more vulnerable attempting to leave Qiilura  with  a  Republic  assault
ship on station. And now we have no communications  beyond  runners,  and  a
bunch of droids relaying messages. No, we sit tight."

Uthan indicated the warren of rooms behind her with one hand. "If  this
comes to a pitched battle, what about my project? What about my staff? Those
five scientists represent the best microbiologists and  geneticists  in  the
CIS. In many ways, they're more important than the biomaterial we  hold.  We
can start again, even if the work so far is lost."

"It's as dangerous for them to leave as it is for you."

"I see."

"You specified a very secure layout when you had this  facility  built.
You must know it's defensible."

Uthan seemed suddenly fixed on the holochart in front of her. It showed
hydraulic emergency  bulkheads  and  chambers  within  chambers.  It  showed
ventilation systems with triple filters. It could be sealed as tightly as  a
bottle.

"It's not  secure  enough  to  stop  anything  getting  in,"  she  said
carefully. "It's to stop anything getting out."

"You said the nanovirus was only lethal for clone troops."

There was a pause, the sort of pause Hokan didn't like. He  waited.  He
stared at her, and he was disappointed to see for the first  time  that  she
was nervous. He waited for her  to  continue.  He  would  wait  all  day  if
necessary.

"It will be," she said at last.

"You said that it might make  other  organisms  merely-  what  was  the
word-unwell?"

"Yes."

"How unwell, then, if you go to all this trouble to contain it?"

"Very unwell."

"Dead unwell?"

"Possibly. Depending on whether the exposed subject has certain sets of
genes ..."

Hokan experienced a rare moment of uncertainty. It  wasn't  because  he
was closer to a dangerous virus than he supposed. It was because someone had
lied to him, and his instinctive way to deal with that was  a  violent  one.
The fact that he was dealing with a woman was the only thing that  made  him
hesitate.

But it was only hesitation.  He  leaned  forward,  seized  her  by  her
elegant designer collar, and heaved her sharply out of her seat  across  the
desk.

"Never lie to me," he said.

They were eye-to-eye. She was shaking, but she didn't blink. "Get  your
hands off me."

"What else haven't you told me?"

"Nothing. You didn't need to know the details of the project."

"This is your final chance to tell me if there's anything else I should
know."

She shook her head.  "No,  there  isn't.  We're  having  some  problems
isolating the parts of the virus  that  will  attack  only  clones.  They're
human. All human races share the majority of genes. Even you."

He held her for a few more seconds and then let go, and she  fell  back
into her chair. He really should have shot her. He knew it.  It  would  have
made her staff more compliant. But she was a significant part of the  asset.
He hadn't gone soft because she was a woman, he was certain of that.

"Understand this," he said, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable.  "This
means we're sitting on a weapon that might destroy us as easily as  it  will
destroy the enemy. It places constraints on how we fight." He went  back  to
the holochart and indicated various features of the  installation  with  his
forefinger. "You're sure it can't escape into the environment?"

Uthan was staring at his face, not at the  chart.  It  was  as  if  she
didn't recognize him. He snapped his fingers and pointed at the chart.

"Come on, Doctor. Pay attention."

"That's-that's the biohazard containment area. Impregnable, for obvious
reasons. I was thinking we might retreat in there for the time being."

"I would prefer to keep you and the biomaterial separate.  In  fact,  I
would prefer also to keep you separate from your staff. I dislike having all
my eggs in one box-if the enemy ever breaches this facility, then they won't
be able to destroy the project in one action. If they eliminate one part, we
can still salvage the other components, be they personnel or materials."

"These rooms aren't as secure in biohazard terms."

"But they are relatively secure  in  terms  of  stopping  someone  from
getting at them. The hazardous materials can stay in the  central  biohazard
chamber."

"Yes," she said. "I concede that."

"Then get your people moving."

"You think it'll come to that? To a battle?"

"No, not here. But if it  does,  this  gives  me  the  best  chance  of
succeeding."

"You're prepared to fight while sitting on a bomb, effectively."

"Yes. Your bomb. And if we're both sitting on it, it'll motivate us  to
prevent its detonation, won't it?"

"I think you're a dangerous and foolhardy man."

"And I think you're a woman who's lucky that she has relative  immunity
through her value to the Separatist cause." Hokan straightened up. Maybe she
wanted an apology. He saw no reason to give one. A scientist, expecting half
the relevant facts to be acceptable in the solution of  a  problem?  It  was
sloppy, unforgivably sloppy. "I'll have a droid help you if you like."

"We'll do it ourselves. I  know  how  careful  they  are  with  fragile
objects."

Hokan closed the holochart and walked out into the corridor.

Outside, a droid approached him. "Captain Hurati is bringing a prisoner
and a visitor," he said. "He says he disobeyed your orders on both."

Maybe promoting the man hadn't been such a good idea.  But  Hurati  was
smart. He'd taken them alive when he should have taken them dead,  and  that
was significant. The young officer wasn't squeamish.

Hokan decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. When the droids  at
the entrance parted to let him pass, Hurati was  waiting,  and  he  had  two
others with him.

One was a Trandoshan mercenary. He carried his distinctive tool of  the
trade, an APC repeating blaster.

The other was no stranger at all. It was Guta-Nay, his  former  Weequay
lieutenant.

"I got information," the Weequay said, cowering.

"You better have," Hokan said.

With one pair of shoulders missing, Niner had some hard choices to make
about what equipment they could take  with  them.  He  stared  down  at  the
various weapons and piles of ordnance laid out on the ground, astonished  by
what they had managed to carry as well as  in  consideration  of  what  they
couldn't take into battle.

"We could always cache some stuff near the target," Fi said.

"Two trips-double the risk."

Atin picked up one of the LJ-50 concussion rifles.  He  had  been  most
insistent on saving those. "Well, I'm taking this conk  rifle  and  the  APC
array blaster if I'm going into that facility."

"Don't trust Republic procurement, then?" Fi said.

"No point being a snob about gear," Atin said.

"Don't get stuck in any confined spaces."

It was a fair point: with a backpack,  Deece,  rifle  attachments,  and
sections of cannon, there wasn't a lot of room left to load much else. Niner
didn't want to say it aloud, but they were trying to do  two  squads'  work.
Something had to give.

"Come on, you know I can carry equipment," Etain said.

She didn't look like she could even carry a tune: battered, disheveled,
and ashen, she seemed about to drop. "Ask Darman."

"That right, Dar?" Niner said on the helmet link.

Darman glanced down from his observation point in  the  tree.  "Like  a
bantha, Sarge. Load her up."

They could split the E-Web across five of them.  That  meant  an  extra
piece and a decent supply of extra power cells and ordnance.

"Okay, plan A," Niner said. He projected a holochart from his  datapad.
"The nearest suitable laying-up point is just under one kilometer  from  the
facility in this coppice  here.  We  tab  down  there  now  and  deploy  two
surveillance remotes to give us a good view of both  the  facility  and  the
villa. Depending on the situation, we can try to come  back  for  the  spare
gear during the day. It's two klicks each way. Not a lot, but it's daylight,
and if Guta-Nay did the business, we'll have a lot of attention."

"I'm up for it," Atin said. "We're going to need it."

"Go on with plan A," Etain said.

"As we agreed-get a remote loaded with ribbon charge into the villa and
do what damage we can, while Fi lays down fire at the rear of the  facility,
Darman blows the main doors, and I go in with Atin.  If  we  can't  get  the
remote into the villa, then we have to tie the  droids  down  with  a  split
attack-plan B."

Etain chewed her lower lip. "That sounds almost impossible."

"I never said we had good odds."

"And I'm not that much use against droids."

"You would be if you had one of these," Atin said, and offered her  the
Trandoshan array blaster. "Lightsabers are all very well, but we don't  want
to get too intimate with the enemy, do  we?  It's  got  a  good  close-range
spread so you don't even have to be an expert marksman to use it." He made a
gesture with his hands. "Bang. Serious bang."

She took the weapon and examined it carefully, then shouldered it  like
a pro. "Never used one of these. I'll get the hang of it fast."

"That's the spirit, ma'am."

"You should also know that I can  move  things,  too.  Not  just  carry
them."

"Move?"

"With the Force."

"Handy," Fi said.

Niner slapped a clip of plasma bolt rounds in Fi's hand to shut him up.
"We might need you to keep Doctor Uthan cooperative,  too.  Worse  comes  to
worst, we've got sedation for her, but I'd really rather  have  her  walking
than as a deadweight."

"Is there a plan C?"

"The nice thing about the alphabet, ma'am, is that it gives you  plenty
of plans to choose from," Fi said.

"Shut up, Fi," Niner said.

"He has a point," Etain said. She spun around to face the  undergrowth.
"Jinart?"

The Gurlanin slipped out of the bushes and wandered among the selection
of weapons, a glossy black predator  again,  picking  her  way  between  the
equipment with careful paws. She sniffed at it.

"Show me what I need to carry," she said.

"Can you manage three remotes?" Atin asked.

"All bombs?"

"No, two holo-cams, one bomb."

"Very well. You can explain to me what you want done with them when  we
reach your..."

"Laying-up point," Niner prompted. "LUP."

"You enjoy not being understood, don't you?"

"Part of our mystique and charm," Fi said, and  strapped  more  webbing
onto his armor.

They followed the line of the woods, a route that took them a couple of
kilometers out of their way, but offered the  shortest  distance  over  open
terrain. Etain-Niner still struggled with first-name  familiarity,  even  in
his muni-kept close to Darman. She seemed to like him. She was polite and

sympathetic to the rest of them, but she certainly liked Darman.  Niner
could see it  on  her  face.  She  exuded  concern.  He  heard  snatches  of
conversation.

"How did you ever carry all the E-Web sections alone?"

"No idea. Just did, I suppose."

She was a Jedi. Skirata said they were fine people, but they didn't-and
couldn't-care about anyone. But you got close very quickly  under  fire.  He
wasn't going to ask Darman what he was playing at. Not yet.

They reached the edge of the woodland and  came  into  a  hundred-meter
stretch of waist-high grass. Fi went forward as  point  man.  Sprinting  and
dropping was now beyond them, but there appeared to  be  nothing  around  to
spot their gray armor anyway, so they walked at a crouch. Niner's  back  was
screaming for a rest. It didn't matter how fit  you  were  when  you  pushed
yourself this hard: it hurt.

When they reached the coppice, it was painkiller time.  Niner  stripped
off his arm plate and peeled back  a  section  of  suit.  He  didn't  bother
finding a vein. He stabbed the needle into muscle.

"Know the feeling," Darman said. He dropped his pack and sat down, legs
outstretched. "Anyone taken any stims so far?"

"Not yet," Niner said. "I reckon we should all dose up one hour  before
moving, just to make sure we're a hundred percent."  He  glanced  at  Etain,
wondering how she might appear after a week of normal meals, unbroken sleep,
and clean clothing. She looked worryingly frail now,  even  though  she  was
doing a valiant job of keeping up. "You, too. Especially you. Can Jedi  take
stimulants?"

"What exactly do they do?"

"The equivalent of ten hours' good, solid sleep and four square  meals.
Until they wear off."

"I ought to draw on the Force to sustain my stamina,"  she  said.  "But
the Force could do with a bit of help right now. Count me in."

She sat down and rested her head on her  folded  arms.  Maybe  she  was
meditating. Niner switched to helmet comms.

"Dar, she's not going to  collapse  on  us,  is  she?  We  can't  carry
anything else."

"If she drops, it'll be because she's dead," he said. "Trust me,  she's
tougher than she looks. Physically, anyway."

"She'd better be. Let's get those remotes deployed."

Jinart had identified a couple of high points to place the cam remotes.
One was on the gutter of a farm building overlooking  the  entrance  to  the
facility; the other was a tree whose canopy gave a good 270-degree  view  of
the villa. The third remote-the one loaded with  ribbon  charge-needed  more
careful placement. She sat up on her hind legs and a  pouch  formed  on  her
stomach like a cook's apron.

"Normally I would carry my young around in this," she said. She  placed
the three spheres in the pouch, giving the impression that  she'd  swallowed
some particularly lumpy prey. "But if  I  don't  help  you,  my  chances  of
raising another litter are remote. So I consider it an appropriate act."

Niner was as fascinated as ever by the Gurlanin. The more he saw of the
creatures, the less he knew about them. He hoped he might have the chance to
find out more one day.

In an hour it would be midday. Atin took out his ration pack  and  mess
tin, a flat sheet that snapped into shape. He placed  his  remaining  ration
cubes in it and held it out. "How much have we got among us?"

"I'm down to half a day's worth," Fi said.

"Me, too," Niner said.

Darman reached into  his  pack  and  pulled  out  a  carefully  wrapped
brick-sized bag. "A day's worth of cubes and this dried  kuvara  and  jerky.
Let's pool this and have two meals before we go in. If  we  pull  this  off,
we'll be running too fast to have lunch. If we don't, it'd be a shame to die
hungry."

"Gets my vote," Atin said.

Niner was going to ask Etain, but she was sitting cross-legged with her
eyes shut and her hands in her lap. Darman put a  finger  to  his  lips  and
shook his head.

"Meditating," he mouthed silently.

Niner hoped she emerged from it transformed. He  was  still  one  squad
short of an adequate force for this job.

"You have ten seconds to live," Ghez Hokan said. He took  out  Fulier's
lightsaber, and the blue shaft of energy buzzed into life. He wondered  what
made the blade a consistent, finite length each time. "Speak."

Guta-Nay,  looking  more  bemused  than  he   recalled,   ignored   the
lightsaber. "I been captured by soldiers. I get away."

"Republic troops? Human?"

"Yes. They catch me, they make me carry stuff."

Hokan sheathed the blade. "They obviously spotted your talents. How did
you get away?"

"They were sleeping. They not care. I go."

"How many soldiers?"

"Four. And girlie."

"Girlie?"

Guta-Nay pointed at the lightsaber. "She got one like that."

So the woman with them was a Jedi. "Just four?"

"They got another lot." He pursed his lips, grappling with a new  word.
"Squad."

"Very well, so we have two squads. Eight men. That  would  fit."  Hokan
turned to Hurati. "And our Trandoshan friend?"

"He says he's highly irritated about his  business  being  interrupted,
sir, and he offers himself and three colleagues to help you  deal  with  the
inconvenience."

"Thank him and accept his offer." Hokan turned  back  to  Guta-Nay.  "I
want you to think very hard. Did they say what they were going to do?  Where
they were going?"

"The villa."

How predictable people were. The locals would  tell  you  anything  for
money, sell you their daughters, inform on their neighbors. Hokan  had  half
expected the ruse to be almost too obvious. "You're doing well. Tell me what
equipment they have."

"Blasters. Explosives." The Weequay made an indication of  great  width
with his hands. "Big gun. They got armor with knives in gloves."

"Describe."

"Like yours."

"What do you mean, like mine?"

Guta-Nay indicated his head and made a T-shape with his fingers.  "Your
helmet."

It was difficult to take in. Guta-Nay was an  inarticulate  brute,  but
there was no ambiguity in his description. "Are you saying they were wearing
Mandalorian armor?"

"Yeah. That it."

"You're sure about that."

"Sure."

"Anything else?" Hokan wondered how he expected  this  creature  to  be
able to assess intelligence. "Anything else unusual?"

Guta-Nay concentrated on the question as if his life  depended  on  it,
which it did not; Hokan would kill him anyway. "They all look the same."

"They were wearing uniforms?"

"No, the men. Same faces."

Children could be unerringly accurate in their observation  of  detail,
and so could stupid adults. Guta-Nay was describing something that Dr. Uthan
had told  him  about:  soldiers,  identical  soldiers,  mindlessly  obedient
soldiers-clone soldiers.

Hokan couldn't believe that clone troopers could operate like this. And
the one weapon that would work against them was denied him, because  in  its
present state it would kill everyone, Uthan and her team included.

But there were probably only eight of them. He  had  nearly  a  hundred
droids. He had weapons.

"Hurati? Hurati!"

The young captain came running and saluted. "Sir?"

"I think we face a two-pronged attack. There are two squads, and I find
it unlikely to imagine that they would not have one squad attack the  villa,
while the other made an attempt on the most obvious target. Divide the droid
platoons between the locations."

"That's what you would do with two squads, sir?  Not  concentrate  your
forces?"

"Yes, if I weren't sure my objectives were consolidated in  one  place.
They can't know who and what is in which building.  And  they'll  attack  at
night, because while they're bold, they're not stupid." He shook  his  head,
suddenly interrupted by his  own  preoccupation.  "Who  would  have  thought
clones could carry out this sort of operation? Uthan said they were no  more
than cannon fodder."

"Commanded by Jedi, sir. Perhaps our tactician is the woman."

It was an interesting idea. Hokan considered  it  for  a  moment,  then
realized that Guta-Nay was waiting expectantly, oddly upright and apparently
unafraid.

"Well?" Hokan said.

"I tell you stuff. You let me live?"

Hokan activated the lightsaber again and held it out to his side,  just
above the level of his right shoulder.

"Of course not," he said, and swung the blade. "It  would  be  bad  for
morale."

15

So how do we justify what  we  are  doing  now?  Breeding  men  without
choice, and without freedom, to fight and die for  us?  When  dp  the  means
cease to justify the end? Where  is  our  society  heading?  Where  are  our
ideals, and what are we without them? If we give in to  expedience  in  this
way,

where do  we  draw  the  line  between  ourselves  and  those  we  find
unacceptably evil? I have no answer, Masters. Do you?

-Jedi Padawan Bardan Jusik, addressing the Jedi Council

Etain jerked involuntarily, as if falling in a dream.  She  opened  her
eyes and stared straight ahead.

"He's dead," she said.

"Who is?" Darman had been watching her meditate,  worrying  what  might
happen to her in the coming battle, afraid both for her and because of  her.
She could be either a liability or an  unimaginable  asset.  "What's  wrong,
Etain?"

Niner caught his eye with a look that suggested he thought  Darman  was
being too familiar with an officer, whatever she had ordered. Then  he  went
back to checking his datapad.

"Guta-Nay." She rubbed her forehead and looked defeated. "I felt it  in
the Force."

Fi looked about to say something, and Atin silenced him with  a  frown.
Darman gave both of  them  a  shut-up  look.  There  was  a  way  of  saying
unpalatable things to people, and Darman thought it would be  better  coming
from him than from his comrades.

"Hokan would have found him sooner or later," he said.

"If the Weequay's managed to mislead him about our true target, he's at
least redeemed himself a little."

"Dar," she said. It was shockingly familiar,  the  squad  nickname  for
him. "I killed him as surely as if I'd cut him down."

"You told us  yourself  that  he  was  a  rapist,"  Fi  said,  sounding
irritated. "The world won't miss him."

"Shut up, Fi." Darman tried again. "It'll save lives in the end."

"Yeah, ours," Fi said.

Darman twisted around, angry. "I said shut up, didn't I?"

Niner stepped in. "You can both shut it," he said. "We're all tired and
we're all testy. Save it for the enemy."

Darman swallowed a sudden and unexpected desire to tell Fi to  lay  off
Etain, and in no uncertain terms. Fi knew nothing about her, nothing. Darman
was ambushed by  a  split  second  of  protectiveness  and  was  immediately
embarrassed by it.

He turned back to her. "He's right. It's one life for many."

"Means justify the end, right?" Etain stood up  from  her  cross-legged
position in one movement. "And what about you? What happens if I send you or
Fi or any of you into a situation where you're going to die?"

She was genuinely upset. He could see it in her face, and  in  the  way
she held one thin, scratched, bony hand clenched tightly  into  a  fist.  He
stood up as well, walking after her as  she  headed  for  the  edge  of  the
coppice.

"We were all made for this," Darman said. It was true,  wasn't  it?  He
wouldn't exist at all if  it  hadn't  been  that  someone  needed  soldiers,
utterly reliable soldiers. But it didn't  feel  that  way  right  then.  Her
reaction told him he was wrong, and suddenly he saw Kal Skirata, in tears, a
drink in his hand. You poor boys. What sort of life is this? "Etain, we  all
do what we have to. One day you really will have to  give  an  order  that's
going to get some of us killed."

"Us?"

"Soldiers, troopers. Whatever."

"Perhaps, but the day I can accept that without being diminished by  it
is the day I'm not fit to be a Jedi."

"Okay," he said. "I understand that."

"How do you feel when you kill?"

"I never had time to think  about  it.  On  Geonosis,  they  killed  my
brothers and they were trying to kill me. They weren't like us."

"So what if it was someone you knew?"

"But you didn't know Guta-Nay, and he isn't like you. Or  me,  come  to
that." Darman hadn't a clue what she was going on  about.  She  was  new  to
killing. It was inevitable that she'd have a few problems dealing  with  it.
"Etain, this squad needs you to be sorted and alert. Think about that."

He turned and walked back to where Niner and the others  were  sitting.
It seemed too obvious to replace their helmets and discuss privately whether
the commander was going flaky on them. She wasn't giving orders anyway.  But
a simple glance could convey a great deal. Darman hoped Fi  understood  that
his fixed stare meant Lay off.

Apparently, he did. Fi made a quick palms-out movement with  his  hands
as if in submission. The subject was dropped.

Niner was right. They were all frayed by the last few days, hovering on
short fuses. They busied themselves checking and rechecking weapons.

We 'ye never fought as a squad before.

They were probably  all  thinking  the  same  thing.  Darman  took  the
hydraulic ram apart and reassembled it,  then  checked  the  hand  pump  for
pressure. It came with an assortment of  claws,  and  at  least  having  the
original plans and specs of both buildings meant he knew which ones to leave
behind. It could exert eight metric tons, so if the charges didn't get  them
through the door, the ram would. The hand-operated ram was lighter to carry,
but packed less than half the punch.

He'd have liked cutting equipment, too, but  he'd  opened  steel  blast
doors on Geonosis with thermal tape charges, and the ribbon version was even
more powerful. Explosive moved at eight thousand meters a second, enough  to
slice through steel: rapid entry didn't get much more rapid than that.

This wasn't a silent job. It was an application  of  force  against  an
enemy who knew they were coming.

"Whoa, receiving," Niner said. He shoved his helmet back on his head in
a hurry. Darman could hear the blip of the alarm from where he was  sitting.
"Jinart's got the remote cams in place." He was looking at something only he
could see, and judging by his quick  head  movements,  it  was  interesting.
Darman and the others followed suit.

"What are they doing?" A platoon of tinnies was marching down the track
from the villa and into the facility. There appeared to be some  urgency  in
their pace. "It looks like they're going back to the laboratory."

The remote was looking down on the scatter of small  structures  around
the former farmhouse. It didn't have a complete view of all  the  approaches
to the building, but it did look out on both the front path and the land  to
the rear. It had no view  of  the  rear  slope  of  the  roof  or  the  land
immediately at the back.

There was a man in armor very similar to their  own,  standing  with  a
familiar helmet tucked under one arm. He was middle-aged and his  hard  face
and confident attitude said clearly that he was a Mandalorian. It had to  be
Ghez Hokan.

Darman heard the collective holding of breath in  his  helmet  comlink.
Hokan was talking to a Trandoshan mercenary, making short stabbing  gestures
with a finger pointed at nothing in  particular.  He  was  agitated  but  in
control. He was marshaling troops.

"Yeah, Dar, I think that's exactly what they're doing. Looks like  he's
making some last-minute changes."

"Why would they be doing that?" Darman said, but he had  an  unpleasant
feeling that he knew.

"Because we've been too clever by half," Niner said. "Fierfek. Guta-Nay
did his job, all right. Too well. What would you do if you thought you  were
really facing two squads?"

"Assume two separate attacks were really possible."

Atin made a noise that sounded like a controlled exhalation. "Oh  well.
We were going to meet the whole tinnie  family  sooner  or  later.  Plan  C,
anyone?"

They waited, standing in an awkward group. Within  half  an  hour  they
would know if Jinart had managed to get a remote cam close to the Neimoidian
villa as well.

Darman felt a hard rap on his back plate and jerked around to see Etain
standing with her hands on her hips, looking anxious. "What's  got  everyone
upset?" she asked. "Come on, I felt it. What's gone wrong?"

Darman took off  his  helmet.  "Guta-Nay  did  a  pretty  good  job  of
convincing Hokan we were targeting the villa. But we overplayed our hand  by
hinting that we had another squad."

"Why?"

"It looks as if Hokan thinks one squad will be going after each target.
So our chances of getting most of the droids in one location  have  taken  a
bit of a tumble."

Etain raked her fingers through her hair and shut her eyes. "Time for a
rethink, then."

Darman replaced his helmet to watch the feed from the remote. Then  the
second cam came online. There was a shaky but clear view of  the  Neimoidian
villa and its outbuildings, seen from the branches of a swaying tree. A wide
path stretched away out of shot from the front of the house.

At least they could now see the size of the  problem  facing  them.  If
Hokan tried to move Uthan, they had a high chance of spotting her.

But whichever remote view Darman switched to, there were an  awful  lot
of droids.

"Okay," Niner said. "Fi, you take the first watch on the  remotes.  I'm
going to see if we can get some backup. Majestic should  be  on  station  by
now."

"We were ordered to keep comm  silence  until  we  needed  extraction,"
Darman said, looking at Etain.

"Commander?" Niner said. "We've taken out the comm station. They  can't
intercept our signal."

Etain didn't even pause. "Sergeant, you go  right  ahead  and  call  up
Majestic," she said. "Ask for whatever help you think we need."

Fi held up one hand. "Hey, we might have a break here.  Check  out  the
remote at the villa."

Darman switched channels with a double blink. The display  in  his  HUD
showed him a shot of a young boy in a scruffy smock walking around to a side
door at the villa, a fruit-laden basket clutched in both arms.  He  knocked,
and the door was opened by  a  droid.  The  youngster  went  in.  There  was
something familiar about him, even though Darman had never seen him before.

He had a very characteristic walk.

"Tinnies wouldn't have sent out for fruit, would they?" Fi said.

The kid's gait reminded Darman of an old woman he'd recently slammed up
against a barn wall.

"You've got to hand it to Jinart," he said. "She's certainly got guts."

"Let's hope she manages to get that fruit into the cellars."

"Let's hope she comes back out," Etain said.

Dr. Uthan appeared to have forgotten that Hokan had hauled her across a
desk by her collar, at least for the time being. She sat in one of the beige
brocade chairs that really didn't match her utilitarian office, listening to
him with apparent patience.

"This is an unprecedented opportunity," she said at last.

Hokan agreed completely. "I realize that you haven't managed to  create
a delivery system for the nanovirus yet, but I think we  might  be  able  to
help with that. Inhalation will work, yes? Could  we  introduce  it  into  a
sealed room?" He had ideas for ambush and entrapment. "Can that be done?"

"It's one of several vectors," she said. "And skin  contact,  too.  But
that isn't quite what I had in mind."

"Which was?"

"A live subject. I would like you to take one of the clones alive."

"That wasn't quite what I had in mind. I tend to have problems with the
alive bit. Not my forte."

"You can't simply spray this agent around, Major. I told you we haven't
ironed out the genome specificity."

"I have droid troops. While rust might be a health issue  for  them,  I
suspect that viruses aren't."

"Having a live test subject would almost certainly enable us to achieve
weaponization faster."

"If you allow me access to the nanovirus, I'll do what I  can  to  save
one for you."

Uthan shook her head. Her vivid red-and-black-streaked hair was scraped
up in a tight bun on the top of her head, giving her  an  even  more  severe
appearance. Not a wisp of hair escaped the topknot. "I can't do that.  While
you might be an expert in combat, you're not a microbiologist, nor  used  to
handling hazardous substances. This is far too dangerous a pathogen for  you
to use at this stage of its development. I'm also  not  prepared  to  expend
what limited samples we have on a risky counterassault."

Hokan knew he could have taken it by force.  But  it  would  have  been
pointless. She was right; if the virus wasn't  in  a  state  that  could  be
weaponized, it was a long shot compared to the proven weapons he had at  his
disposal.

"Pity," he said. "I'll endeavor to learn  more  about  this  technology
after we've dealt with the current difficulty."

"So what happens now?"

"Sit tight. Stay in this suite of rooms with your staff  until  further
notice."

"What do we do if shooting starts?"

"The same."

"What if they get through your defenses?"

"They won't, but if it makes you feel safer, I'll provide you with hand
weapons for your personal protection."

Uthan gave him a regal nod of the head and reached for a pile of notes.
Then she went on reading, pausing occasionally to  write  something  in  the
margins of the papers. Despite the brief showdown earlier, she  didn't  seem
afraid of him in the least: perhaps working with deadly organisms on a daily
basis gave her a different perspective on threats.

"Something highly effective, please," she said as he turned to leave.

"Commanding  Officer  Majestic,"  the  voice  said.  "That  was   fast.
Position?"

Niner couldn't get a video image on his HUD, but the sound was  crystal
clear. "That's a negative on the extraction for the  time  being,  Majestic.
Requesting gunnery support."

"Say again?"

"We'll be needing gunnery support. It might get a bit hectic down here.
A hundred droids."

There was a second or two of silence. "Omega Squad, be  aware  that  it
might get busy up here, too. We have a Techno Union vessel standing off  our
port bow."

"Is that a negative, Majestic?"

"No. If we cease firing, though, it may be because we're  repelling  an
attack ourselves."

"Understood. Coordinates uploading now. On receipt of  code  Greenwood,
direct cannon at this location. On receipt of code  Boffin,  this  location.
Enemy now has no comm apart from droid networks, repeat comm disabled. Knock
yourselves out."

"Received. My, you've been busy boys. Standing by, Omega."

Niner shut his eyes and felt the relief flood through his  stomach.  He
wasn't exactly sure  how  they  were  going  to  deploy  Majestic's  massive
firepower, but at least they had it to fall back on.

"Are you making this up as you go along, Sarge?" Fi asked.

"You got a better idea?"

"I meant the code names."

"Yes."

"Classy."

"And I meant it about the better idea."

Fi drummed his fingers on the thigh plate of his armor. "I wish Skirata
was around. What was it he always said? Turn the problem upside down. See it
from the enemy perspective."

Etain glanced up, now a sure sign that  Jinart  was  approaching.  They
seemed to share a kind of radar. The Gurlanin slunk into the laying-up point
and swung her head around. Darman and Fi gave her a mute round  of  applause
and a show of thumbs up.

"Nice job, ma'am," Darman said. "Amazing deception."

"Thank you, gentlemen," she said.  "Uthan  is  definitely  not  in  the
villa. And your device is now sitting in Ankkit's wine  cellars,  between  a
case of vintage Naboo tarul wine and a crate  of  thermal  detonators.  When
you're ready, you can give Qiilura its own asteroid belt."

"That'll make their eyes water," Fi said.

"And ours if we're too close," Niner said.

"So what now?"

"Let's do what Skirata taught us. Turn it upside down."

The holochart plans of the facility once again hung in  midair  as  the
squad, Etain, and Jinart sat around it, seeking inspiration.

"Is this how you plan operations?" Etain asked.

"It's not meant to be like this, no. You gather intel and then you plan
and execute. This is what Skirata called a self-adjusting screwup. When  the
problem actually provides the solution to another problem. It's  there.  All
we have to do is work it out." Niner  didn't  mind  admitting  it  was  more
guesswork than anyone should have indulged in. But then  he'd  been  on  two
real missions now, and they'd both been the same.  They  hadn't  known  what
they were going into until it was too late. Intel. It was all  about  having
reliable intelligence. "There's  three  things  you  should  never  believe-
weather forecasts, the canteen menu, and intel."

Skirata said  soldiers  always  complained.  Niner  was  not  given  to
complaining, but he was definitely not satisfied with  the  situation.  This
wasn't what special forces were best designed to do. They should  have  been
there to gather intel themselves, identify the target, call in air  strikes,
and  maybe  recover  hostages  or  data.   They   might   even   carry   out
assassinations. They weren't meant to be artillery and infantry as well.

If the Republic hadn't wanted Uthan alive, they needn't have been  here
at all. Majestic could have targeted the facility from orbit,  and  everyone
would have been home in time for supper. Nobody would  have  needed  to  get
their backside shot at, or spend days hauling forty-five-kilo  packs  across
farmland.

"I'm glad you're not just accepting this," Etain said.

Fi shrugged. "If you can't take a joke, you shouldn't have joined."

"I didn't join," Atin said.

At least they all managed to laugh. It was the first time  that  anyone
had found any humor in the situation, apart from Fi, of course.

"What do we normally do?" Darman said suddenly.  "How  do  we  normally
take a target? Break it down."

Niner concentrated. "We isolate a target, go in, and neutralize it."

"Okay, say we don't fight our way in."

"Not with you."

"We're expected to pull off a rapid entry and fight our way in. What if
we fought our way out?" Darman prodded his finger into the hologram. "Can we
get in under the facility to this central room?"

"This plan only shows drains. The bore's too narrow to get a  man  down
there, and this really isn't a job for Jinart."

The Gurlanin twitched visibly. "I wasn't offering,  but  if  there  was
anything I might do-"

"You've done more than enough already." Darman tilted his head this way
and that, studying the plans. "The main drain chamber is  nearly  a  hundred
centimeters wide here, though. It only tapers to thirty centimeters  at  the
wall. Is there any other way of getting into that main?"

"Short of walking up to the wall and digging under it like a  gdan,  in
full view of the droids, no."

Jinart sat upright. "Gdan warrens."

"They tunnel, don't they?"

"Everywhere. They even cause subsidence."

"Are there tunnels around there? Could we locate them?  Would  they  be
wide enough?"

"Yes, there are warrens, because it was once a farm site and gdans like
eating merlies. The tunnels can be quite wide. And I  can  certainly  locate
them for you. In fact, I will lead you through the warrens. You  might  have
to excavate some of the way, though."

"Basic sapper procedure," Darman said. "Except  we  don't  have  proper
equipment, so we'll be digging with these." He took  a  folding  sharp-edged
trowel from his belt. "Entrenching tool. Also used for 'freshers. Apt."

"What is it between you and the gdans?" Etain asked. "Why do they avoid
you and your scent?"

"Oh, we eat them," Jinart said casually.  "But  only  if  they  try  to
approach our young."

"That's it, then," Darman said. "Get me into that central chamber  from
below, and I'll work my way out through the facility."

"Take Atin with you," Niner said. He didn't want to say in case you get
killed, but he wanted another technically minded man in there to lay charges
and blow doors. "Fi and I can lay down fire out  front  and  deal  with  any
droids we see. When you bring Uthan out, Etain can help us get her clear and
then you blow the place. Then we do a runner for the extraction point."

"Gets my vote," Atin said. "You okay with that, ma'am?"

Etain nodded reluctantly. "If that's plan C, it sounds as impossible as
plans A and B." She patted Darman's arm, not quite focusing, as if  she  was
lost in thought about something. "But I don't have a better suggestion."

"Okay," Niner said. "Everyone take a stim now. Be ready to move out  at
nightfall. We've got four hours to prep for this. I'll notify Majestic."

"What if this fails?" Etain asked.

"They'll send in another squad."

"And lose more men?" She shook her head. "If it's down

to me, I'll happily give the order for Majestic to pound this  facility
to dust, with Uthan inside or not."

"Do you think we're going to fail?"

Etain smiled. There was something mildly unnerving about  the  way  she
was smiling. "No. I don't. You're going to pull this off, believe me."

Niner kept a tight grip on his breathing. If he gave the slightest hint
of a sigh of doubt, they'd pick it up. It was crazy. But, as  Skirata  said,
they went where others wouldn't, and did what nobody else could.

And fighting your way out from the heart of  an  alloy-plated,  heavily
guarded facility designed to be impregnable to any life-form certainly lived
up to that boast. For some reason he felt fine about it all.

You 're going to pull this off, believe me.

He wondered if his  thoughts  were  actually  his  own.  If  Etain  was
influencing his mind to improve  his  confidence,  that  was  okay  by  him.
Officers were supposed to inspire you. Right then he didn't  much  care  how
she did it.

16

What do I think about it? I don't know, really. Nobody's ever asked  me
for my opinion before. ,

-Clone  Trooper  RC-5093,   retired,   at   CF   VetCenter   Coruscant.
Chronological age: twenty-three.

Biological age: sixty.

An autumnal mist had settled over  the  countryside.  It  wasn't  dense
enough to provide cover, but it did give Darman a sense  of  protection.  He
tabbed behind Atin as Jinart led the way.

He was a walking bomb factory. Why was  he  even  worried  about  being
spotted? The ram and its  attachments  clunked  against  his  armor  and  he
adjusted them, fearing discovery. Atin walked  ahead,  Deece  held  in  both
hands with his finger inside the trigger  guard,  a  small  but  significant
expression of his anxiety level.

"Matte-black armor," Darman said. "First thing we ought to slap in  for
when we get back. I feel like a homing beacon."

"Does it matter?"

"Does to me."

"Dar, it's one thing for the enemy to  spot  us  coming.  It's  another
thing entirely for them to do anything about it." Atin  was  still  checking
all around him, though. "I was  knocked  flat  by  a  round  and  it  didn't
penetrate the plates."

Atin had a point. The armor might have been conspicuous, but it worked.
Darman had taken a direct hit, too. Maybe in the future the  sight  of  that
armor alone would deter enemies,

a touch of what Skirata called assertive  public  relations.  Myth,  he
said, won almost as many engagements as reality.

Darman was all for a little help from the myth department.

They were four hundred meters southeast of the facility. Jinart stopped
in front of a gentle slope and thrust  her  head  through  a  break  in  the
foliage. Her sniffing was audible.

"We enter here," she said.

There didn't even appear to be a hole.  "How  do  you  know  what's  in
there?"

"I can detect solid surfaces, movement, everything.  I  don't  need  to
see." She sniffed again, or at least Darman assumed  she  was  sniffing;  it
occurred to him that she might have been echolocating. "Do you want to stand
here and present a target all night?"

"No ma'am," Darman said, and got down on all fours.

Jinart might not have needed to see, but he did. He could  have  relied
on the night-vision visor, but he felt the need for real, honest  light.  He
switched on his tactical spot-lamp. He switched it off again, fast.

"Uh..."

"What's wrong?" Atin asked.

"Nothing," Darman said. It was natural not to like confined spaces,  he
told himself. With the light  projected  forward,  he  could  see  just  how
suffocatingly small a space he was in. With his night vision  in  place,  he
was simply looking down a narrow field  of  view,  safe  inside  his  armor,
cocooned from the world in a way he was  not  only  used  to,  but  actually
needed.

Get a grip.

He could hear the sound of scurrying farther ahead, but it  was  moving
away from him. His pack caught the roof of the tunnel, occasionally scraping
loose soil and stones. The warren had been excavated by thousands  of  small
paws, circular in section because gdans obviously didn't need as much  floor
space as a tall human male. Darman almost felt that his hands and knees were
against the sides of the tunnel because of the curvature of the floor,  like
negotiating a chimney when rock climbing. At times he felt he was losing his
orientation and had to shut his eyes and  shake  his  head  hard  to  regain
accurate proprioception.

"You okay, Dar?" Atin asked. Darman could hear labored breathing in his
helmet and he thought it was his own, but it was Atin's.

"Bit disoriented."

"Let your head drop and look at the floor. The pressure on the back  of
your neck is going to make you feel giddy anyway."

"You, too, eh?"

"Yeah, this is weird. Whatever we inherited from  Jango,  it  wasn't  a
love of caving."

Darman let his head hang forward and concentrated on putting  one  hand
in front of the other. He switched to voice projection. "Jinart, why do such
small animals dig such big tunnels?"

"Have you tried dragging a whole merlie or vhek home for dinner?  Gdans
work as a team. That's what enables them to  take  prey  that's  many  times
their size. A point, I think,  that  would  not  be  lost  on  men  such  as
yourselves."

"On the other hand," Atin said cautiously, "you could  say  that  sheer
numbers overwhelm strength."

"Thank you for that positive view, Private Atin. I suggest  you  select
the interpretation that inspires you most."

They didn't talk much after that. As Darman progressed,  sweating  with
the effort, he was aware of a particular scent. It was getting stronger.  It
was sickly at first, like rotting meat, and then more bitter and  sulfurous.
It reminded him of Geonosis. Battlefields smelled awful. The filtration mask
was active against chemical and biological weapons, but it  did  nothing  to
stop smells. Shattered bodies and bowels had a  distinctive  and  terrifying
stench.

He could smell it now. He fought down nausea.

"Fierfek," Atin said. "That's turned me off my dinner for a start."

"We're near the facility," Jinart said.

"How near?" Darman said.

"That odor is seepage from the drainage system. The pipe work is  local
unglazed clay."

"Is that all we can smell?" said Darman.

"Oh, I imagine it's also the gdans. Or rather their  recent  kills-they
have chambers where they amass their surplus. Yes, it's an unpleasant stench
if you're not accustomed to it." She stopped unexpectedly, and Darman bumped
into her backside. She felt surprisingly heavy for her  size.  "That's  good
news, because it means we're near a much larger chamber."

Darman almost felt relief that it was  simply  rotting  meat,  although
that was bad enough. It wasn't his meat. He crawled farther,  encouraged  by
the promise of a bigger space ahead, and then his glove sank into  something
soft.

He didn't need to ask what it was. He looked down despite  himself.  In
the way of men exposed to  memory  triggers,  he  was  immediately  back  in
training, crawling through  a  ditch  filled  with  nerf  entrails,  Skirata
running alongside and yelling at him to keep going because this was nothing,
nothing compared to what you'll have to do for real, son.

They called it the Sickener. They weren't wrong.

Fatigue made nausea inevitable. He  almost  vomited,  and  that  wasn't
something he wanted to do in a sealed suit.  He  fought  it,  panting,  eyes
shut. He bit the inside of his lip as hard as he could, and tasted blood.

"I'm okay," he said. "I'm okay."

Atin's breathing was ragged. He had to be feeling it,  too.  They  were
physiologically identical.

"You can straighten up now," Jinart said.

Darman flicked on his spot-lamp to  find  himself  in  a  chamber  that
wasn't just larger; it was big enough to stand up in. The walls  were  lined
with what looked like tiny terraces spiraling up around the chamber from the
floor. There were scores of twenty-centimeter tunnels leading off them.

"This is where the gdans retreat if rain  floods  the  warren,"  Jinart
said. "They're not foolish."

"I'll thank them one day," Atin said. "How close are we to  the  drain?
Can you locate it?"

Jinart put a paw against the wall  where  there  were  no  tiny  escape
tunnels. "The gdans know there's a solid structure behind this." She paused.
"Yes, there's water trickling back there. The  soil  feels  a  meter  thick,
perhaps a little more."

Darman would have removed his helmet, but thought  better  of  it,  and
settled for letting his pack  drop  off  his  shoulders.  He  took  out  his
entrenching tool and made an exploratory stab at the chamber  wall.  It  was
about the consistency of chalk.

"Okay, I do five minutes, then you do five," he said to Atin.

"And me," Jinart said, but Darman held up his hand to stop her.

"No ma'am. You'd better go back to Niner. We're on our own now, and  if
this all goes wrong he'll need your assistance even more."

Jinart hesitated for a moment, then raced back up the tunnel without  a
backward glance. Darman wondered  if  he  should  have  said  good-bye,  but
good-bye was too final. He planned on coming out that front door  with  Atin
and Uthan.

He scraped out a guide circle with the tip of the tool and hacked  into
the hard-packed soil. It felt like slow going and he was surprised when Atin
tapped him on the shoulder and took over. A man-sized hole began to emerge.

"Should we shore this up?" Darman said, wondering what he might have to
sacrifice as a pit prop.

"We should only be going through it once. If it collapses  after  that,
it's too bad."

"If we have to blast our way in, it might collapse. Alternative exit?"

"You want to be pursued through  those  tunnels?  They'd  fry  us.  One
flamethrower volley and we'd be charcoal."

Atin was slowing. Darman took the other side of the  opening  and  they
worked together, removing progressively damper and darker  soil,  flattening
out the sides of the excavation so that they had  access  to  drill  through
without having to  lean  through  a  short  tunnel.  It  was  weakening  the
integrity of the soil wall: Darman willed it to  hold  together  until  they
were through.

Maybe he should have brought Etain. She could have held

the wall with that Jedi power of hers. Suddenly  he  realized  that  he
missed her. It was amazing how fast you could form a bond with someone  when
you were under fire.

Atin's tool hit something that made a distinctive chink noise.

"Drain," he said. "Drill time."

A few quick rounds from the Deece would have blown a good-sized hole in
the thickest clay pipe. It would also have brought down  the  chamber  roof,
Darman suspected, and summoned a lot of droids. It was time  for  the  slow,
quiet route. A hand drill was part of their basic rapid entry kit, and  they
each took half the  rough  circle,  drilling  at  five-centimeter  intervals
around the circumference, starting from the top. It wasn't  until  they  got
down to the bottom that the ooze started appearing from the holes.

It had taken them an hour to excavate and drill. Darman couldn't  stand
the sweat trickling down his face any longer and took off  his  helmet.  The
stench really was worse than ever. He shut his mind to it.

Atin took a swig from his water bottle  and  held  it  out  to  Darman.
"Hydration," he said. "Five percent fluid loss stops you thinking straight."

"Yeah, I know. And above fifteen percent kills you." Darman drank  half
the bottle, wiped the  sweat  away,  and  scratched  his  scalp  vigorously.
"Another thing to tell Rothana's geeks when we get back-up  the  temperature
conditioning in these suits."

He lifted the ram and took a side-on stance to the disc  of  clay  pipe
visible through the soil. He gripped hard, fingers tight around each handle.
He had to swing carefully this time or he might collapse the pipe. "Ready?"

"Ready."

One, two-

"Three," Darman grunted. The ram hit with a couple of  metric  tons  of
force and the perforated section fell inward as a waterfall of stinking dark
slime shot out and splashed across Darman's legs and boots.

"Oh, that's just great," he sighed. "Definitely matte black next  time,
okay?"

Atin took his helmet off and Darman realized he was struggling  not  to
laugh. Now that the drain was open to the air, it was a perfect conduit  for
sound to the building above. Atin put his  hand  to  his  mouth,  bent  over
slightly, and appeared to be biting down hard on the knuckle plate.  He  was
actually shaking. When he straightened up, tears  were  streaming  down  his
face. He wiped them away and gulped, then bent over again.

Darman had never even seen the man  smile.  Now  he  was  in  hysterics
because Darman was spattered with the accumulated waste of total  strangers.
It wasn't funny.

Yes, it was, actually. It was hilarious. Darman felt his stomach  begin
to shake in a completely involuntary reflex. Then he wasn't certain that  it
was funny, but he still couldn't stop. He shook in painfully silent laughter
until his abdominal muscles ached. Eventually, it subsided. He  straightened
up, inexplicably exhausted.

"Shall I let Niner know we're through?" he said, and they both  managed
to stay completely calm for a count of three before  the  hysteria  overtook
them again.

Once you knew what laughter  really  was,  and  what  primitive  reflex
triggered it, it wasn't funny at all. It was the relief of danger passed. It
was a primeval all-clear signal.

And that wasn't the reality of their situation at all. The real  danger
was just starting.

Darman, suddenly his usual self again, replaced his helmet  and  opened
the comlink.

"Sarge, Darman here," he said quietly. "We're  into  the  drain.  Ready
when you are."

Niner and Fi set up the E-Web repeating blaster half a  kilometer  from
the front of the facility. That was pretty  close.  If  anyone  had  spotted
them, they weren't reacting.

"Copy that, Dar." Niner checked the chrono on the forearm of  his  left
gauntlet. "Can you see the drainage cover yet?"

The comlink crackled. Niner was yet again faintly pleased with  himself
that he'd decided to take that trip to Teklet. They'd  never  have  stood  a
chance of pulling this off in comm silence. There were too many unknowns  to
do it by op order and chronosynch.

"I just followed the trail of crud and  there  it  was,"  Darman  said.
"Want a look?"

Niner's HUD flashed up a grainy green image of huge dripping tubes that
could have been a klick wide or just a centimeter. Come to  that,  it  could
have been an endoscopic view of someone's guts. It  didn't  look  like  fun,
either way.

"What's above you?"

"Dirty square plate and it's not a drain. The water's feeding down here
from other pipes." The image jerked as Darman's head lowered to look at  his
datapad. It threw up eerie ghost images of the building. "If they  stuck  to
the blueprints, then this is a hazmat filter  and  the  maximum  containment
chambers are above it." There  was  a  scraping  noise.  "Yeah,  the  serial
numbers match the schematic. If they had to hose  down  after  a  mishap  in
there, this is where the screened water or solvent would come out."

"Are you going to need to blow it?"

"Well, it doesn't look as if I can unscrew  it  with  a  hairpin.  It's
permacreted in place. It's not the sort of thing you want  coming  loose,  I
suppose."

"Good timing for a spot of pyro at the villa,  then.  Let's  sync  that
up."

"Okay. Give me a couple of minutes to set the charges."

Two minutes was a long time. Niner counted it down in seconds.  He  was
aware of Etain pacing up and down behind him-but you didn't tell a commander
to pack it in and stop fidgeting. He focused on Fi, who was kneeling  behind
the E-Web tripod, checking the sights, utterly  relaxed.  Niner  envied  him
that ability. His own stomach was churning. It always did  on  exercise:  it
was much worse now. His pulse was pounding in his ears and distracting him.

Darman responded eleven seconds late. "All done. I'll count  you  down.
We're moving back out of the drain now. If we bring the outer chamber  down,
then we might take a little time to work our way back in."

"What's a little time in your book?"

"Maybe forever. It might kill us."

"Let's avoid, that, shall we?"

"Let's."

Etain was hovering at Niner's shoulder. He glanced at her, hoping she'd
take the hint.

"You've never worked as a complete team before,  have  you?"  she  said
unhelpfully.

"No," Niner hissed, and withheld the ma 'am.

"You're going to do fine," she said.  "You're  the  best-trained,  most
competent troops in the galaxy and you're confident of success."

Niner was close to responding with a few words of pithy Huttese, but he
suddenly saw her point. His stomach  settled  into  a  peaceful  equilibrium
again. He could hear Darman clearly. His drumming pulse had  faded.  He  was
perfectly content not to think how she had achieved that reassurance.

"In ten," Darman said. He still had  his  forward  helmet  cam  patched
through to Niner's HUD. He was scrambling through  a  tunnel.  Niner  had  a
sensation of rushing down a flume and half expected to splash  into  a  deep
pool at the other end.

"Five .. ." It went dark. Darman had his head tucked  into  his  chest.
"Three . . ." Niner felt for the remote detonator. "Two . . . go go go."

Niner squeezed the remote.

For a fraction of a second the landscape was picked out  in  brilliant,
gold, silent light. Niner's antiblast  visor  kicked  in.  Then  the  ground
shook, and even at two klicks the roar was deafening. It seemed to go on for
several seconds. Then he realized he was hearing two blasts-one at the villa
and one below the facility.

As the fire blazed and clouds of amber-lit smoke roiled into  the  air,
the droids on watch outside the facility started reacting.

"Hold, Fi." Niner swallowed to clear his ears. "Dar, Atin, respond."

"Was that us or you?"

"Both. You okay, Dar?"

"Teeth are a bit loose, but we're fine."

"Nice job with the custom ordnance, you two. I think the villa's got  a
new indoor swimming pool."

"The chamber's holding down here, just about. Going in."

Silence had fallen on the  countryside.  It  was  as  if  everyone  was
waiting for the next move. Fi moved the five-pack of  energy  cell  clips  a
little closer to him. Niner aimed his Deece to get  a  better  view  of  the
front of the villa, and saw droids milling around  and  an  Umbaran  officer
with binocs scanning left to right across the fields.

"Ready, Sarge."

"Wait one."

A few more droids came out of the farmhouse door. If Niner hadn't  seen
the plans, he would never  have  believed  what  was  concealed  inside  and
beneath the convincingly shabby wooden siding. Etain stood to  one  side  of
him.

"Ma'am, you might want to duck and cover."

"I'm all right," she said.  She  looked  longingly  at  the  Trandoshan
concussion rifle. "Let me know when I'm needed."

Darman's voice cut in on the comlink. "We're about to enter  the  drain
cover," he said. "Time for distraction, Sarge."

"Got it." He knelt beside Fi and touched him on the  shoulder.  "Put  a
couple down a little short of that barn. Just to say  hello.  Then  fire  at
will."

Fi hardly moved. The characteristic  whoomp  of  the  energy  cell  was
followed by a ball of fire and a  fountain  of  splintered  wood.  The  barn
rained back down, burning as it fell.

"Oops," Fi said.

It got the droids' attention, all right. Six formed a  line  and  began
marching down the field.

Fi opened up. Niner could feel the roar of noise in his chest as  droid
shrapnel rained down on them and incoming fire whisked over their  heads.  A
large chunk of metal flew in an arc: Niner heard it fizzing in the air as it
cooled while it fell. He didn't see where it landed, but it was  close.  His
night vision saw  the  sprays  of  shrapnel  as  brilliant  white  irregular
raindrops. A few tinnies were getting through. Niner picked off two with the
grenades.

The next rank of droids advanced. Fi was firing in short bursts;  Niner
picked off whatever was still standing. Hot metal shrapnel continued to rain
down on them. At the E-Web's rate of fire he was going  to  run  out  if  he
simply hosed them, and they were only minutes into  the  engagement.  They'd
dropped around twenty droids. That meant twenty more inside the facility, at
least. Then the tinnies stopped coming.

The field fell silent, and it rang in Niner's ears  as  loudly  as  the
cacophony of battle.

"I hate it when they work  out  what's  happening,"  Fi  said.  He  was
panting from the effort.

"They'll sit tight."

"If it's just twenty or so in there, I say we go in now."

"Let's make sure we haven't got  guests  arriving."  Niner  opened  the
long-range comlink. "Majestic, Omega here, over. Majestic-"

"Receiving you, Omega. That was some fireworks display. Got  trade  for
us?"

"'Majestic, extra target for you. Have you got a visual between targets
Greenwood and Boffin?"

"If you've got a remote you can patch us into."

Niner slipped off his pack and took out a remote, releasing it into the
air. "Droids, estimated strength no more  than  fifty.  If  they're  heading
toward us, do me a favor and spoil their day, will you?"

"Copy that, Omega. Sitrep?"

"We've breached the facility and we've got twenty or thirty droids  and
an unknown number of wets holed up in there."

"Say again?"

"Two of our squad are inside. Ingress via the drainage system."

"You guys are off your repulsors."

"The thought did cross our minds."

"Okay, some fireworks coming your way, Omega. Be advised we still  have
a Techno Union vessel standing off, and we're expecting a response  when  we
train the lasers."

"Watch how you go," Niner said. "Omega out."

Apart from the ticking of  cooling  metal,  it  was  silent.  Even  the
chatter and whistling of Qiilura's nocturnal species had stopped. Smoke  was
billowing across the field from the wrecked barn.

"You okay, ma'am?" Fi said.

Niner glanced around and  expected  to  see  Etain  in  some  state  of
distress, but she wasn't. She was  kneeling  in  the  grass,  alert,  as  if
listening to something. Then another huge  explosion  shook  the  ground  to
their north.

She closed her eyes.

"Ma'am?"

She gave a little shake of her head as if loosening stiff neck muscles.

"It's fine," she said. "It just took more out of me than I imagined."

"What did?"

"Diverting all this debris. Droids  make  a  terrible  mess  when  they
explode."

Niner hadn't a clue what she was talking about. It  was  only  when  he
turned around that he saw the meter-long jagged sheet of metal right  behind
him. It had almost given him an unwanted haircut. Etain managed a grin.

"Can you open doors as well, ma'am?" Niner asked.

Darman and Atin looked around the plastoid-lined  chamber  and  decided
not to remove their helmets.

"This is one way to find out if a nanovirus can breach  our  filtration
masks," Atin said.

Darman checked  the  cupboards,  looking  for  booby  traps  and  other
surprises. "I don't feel dead yet. Anyway, they don't leave this stuff lying
around. It'll probably be sealed in something."

He checked the room. It was exactly like a medic's station  on  Kamino,
except it was completely constructed from  plastoid  ceramic.  Some  of  the
cupboards had transparent fronts; he could see racks of vials  in  them.  In
the  middle  of  the  room  there  was  a  separate  sealed  booth,  running
floor-to-ceiling, with a glove box in it. It was empty.  There  was  also  a
refrigerated cabinet full of flasks and small boxes. He  had  no  idea  what
might be live virus and what might be the lab  technician's  lunch,  and  he
wasn't going to open everything to find out. This was another case of  using
P for plenty.

"Seeing as they're not helpful enough to label this stuff with a  skull
and crossbones, I'm going to set an implosion device in every room, to be on
the safe side." He ran his hands over the walls, testing for signs of  metal
substructures that might block his signal. The  HUD  showed  zero  from  his
glove sensors. He checked his comlink to be sure that he could get a  signal
outside. "Darman here. Anyone receiving, over?"

"Fi here."

"The inner chamber's clear. I'm setting charges and then we're going to
move out into the rest of the building."

"We're approaching the front. It's gone quiet out  here  and  we  think
you've still got up to thirty tinnies for company."

"Is that you shaking the ground?"

"Majestic."

"Good to know the navy's here."

"Leaving the helmet comlink channel, by the way. Make sure you leave us
your visual feed."

"We'll let you know if it spoils our concentration. Darman out."

He gave Atin a dubious thumbs-up and took the implosion charges out  of
his  pack.  He  could  improvise  most  devices,  but  these  were  special,
guaranteed to create such a high-temperature fireball and  shock  wave  that
they would destroy not only everything standing in a half-klick radius,  but
also every microorganism and virus as well. They were disappointingly  small
for such massively destructive power, a  little  smaller  than  the  average
remote.

Darman still had two. It was  overkill,  and  overkill  made  him  feel
safer. He picked up the lidded boxes in the refrigeration  unit  and  tested
each for weight-very carefully-before finding a lighter one  that  suggested
it was half empty. He set it on the table, held his breath,  and  eased  the
lid off.

It held a few metal tubes with sealed caps, and enough space for one of
the devices. He  placed  the  thermal  carefully  inside  and  replaced  the
container.

"Go careful," Atin said, indicating the boxes.

"I will." He found another lightweight box and peered  inside.  "There.
And if they get to searching, they might  even  stop  after  they  find  one
device." He closed the refrigerator door.

"That won't reduce the blast any, will it?" Atin asked.

"Not so you'd notice, believe me."

'Time for the tour of the building, then."

There were status panels to the right of the door,  set  to  warn  some
monitoring system if the chamber was opened, and a hand-sized button  marked
emergency close, a smart precaution if you  were  handling  deadly  viruses.
Opening the door would advertise the fact that they had gained entry to  the
building. Atin moved in and carefully unclipped the control plate.  He  took
out a disruptive device about the size of a stylus and held it just clear of
the exposed circuits. It was much the same technology as a  mini  EMP,  only
with a less powerful electromagnetic pulse. Nobody  wanted  a  full-strength
EMP going off a few centimeters from their HUD, hardened or not.

"Next big bang," Atin said. "Then they might think they've just taken a
hit."

The ground shook again, and Atin  touched  the  mini  EMP  against  the
control panel. Status lights winked out; the door gave a sigh as it lost its
safety vacuum seal. A thin vertical gap opened in the smooth ceramic.  Sound
now  filtered  in  from  outside:  explosions,  shouts  from  officers,  the
occasional monotone responses of tinnies. He  stood  back  and  gestured  to
Darman.

The gap was big enough to admit a flat endoscope, as well as the  claws
of the ram. He slid the probe cautiously through and checked  the  image  it
was receiving. The corridor lights were flickering. There was no movement.

"I'll force the doors and you stand by. I'll be ready to lob in an  EMP
grenade and a flash-bang."

"Both?" Atin said.

"Yeah, I don't want to waste  any,  either,  but  we've  got  wets  and
tinnies out there somewhere."

Darman wedged the ram's claws into the  gap  and  locked  the  bars  in
place. It was more awkward to configure it as a spreader than  as  a  simple
ram, but he didn't want to blow  it  open.  He  pumped  the  ratchet  handle
furiously. An eight-metric-ton force slowly pushed the doors apart.

Atin checked outside with the endoscope again, then stepped through the
opening with his Deece raised. "Clear."

Darman dismantled the  ram  and  hurriedly  hooked  it  back  into  his
webbing. "Room by room, then. Killing House time."

That was something they'd done many, many times before. Each time  they
entered the Killing House on Kamino for an exercise, the walls and doors had
been reconfigured. Sometimes they knew what they were  going  to  find,  and
sometimes it was like a real house clearance, a sequence of nasty  surprises
that they had to take as they came.

But there was a lot more at stake now than their individual lives.

Atin gestured left. The inner corridor was a ring  with  doors  leading
off it and a single passage to the front entrance. At least  there  were  no
stairs or turbolifts to cover. They moved almost  back-to-back,  pausing  at
the corner to slide the endoscopic probe out far enough to check.

"Oh boy," Atin said, just as the first droid swung around and  blasted.
Darman heard the clatter of metal feet from exactly the opposite  direction,
and for a frozen moment he found himself staring down his scope  at  a  very
surprised Umbaran officer.

Darman fired. So did Atin. They both kept firing down their  respective
ends of the corridor.

"Okay, plan D," Atin said. "Niner, we're pinned down here, over."

"We're concentrating fire on the front." Niner's voice cut back in with
a background of explosions both near and farther away. That was  why  Darman
didn't like a having a four-way open comlink during an engagement. The noise
and chatter were overwhelming. "They've pulled  back  inside.  But  nobody's
coming out."

"We haven't located Uthan yet."

"Can you hold the position?"

"Can you see where we are? West side corridor, left of the entrance."

Atin emptied a clip into two droids that came around the  corner.  Then
there was no noise except for their respective panting.

"Dar?"

"Still here, Niner." Back-to-back with Atin, he waited and stared  down
the polished hallway twenty meters ahead. There were two doors on the right,
unconventional hinged doors. He glanced up at  the  ceiling  to  locate  the
emergency bulk-heads: one was on the other side of Atin, and  the  next  was
be-tween them and the inner chamber. If those were activated, they'd be  cut
off on both sides, boxed in and waiting to be picked off.  And  then  anyone
could easily enter the biohaz chamber and defuse the implosion device.

It seemed that someone had the same idea  at  the  same  time,  because
there was an uh-whump noise and then the quiet whine of a small motor.

The bulkheads were descending from their housing.

"Atin, chamber, wow!" Darman yelled, even though he didn't need to, and
they both sprinted back toward the chamber. The bulkhead was down  to  waist
level when they reached it and skidded under on their knees.

It sealed with a clunk behind them. It  was  suddenly  so  silent  that
Darman knew another bulkhead had closed somewhere along  the  ring,  sealing
them in.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  door  unlocking  manually,  a  real
clunk-click noise, and then nothing.

"Start again," Darman sighed. "Let's see what's around there."

Atin moved forward and edged out the scope. He paused. He sat  back  on
his heels and shook his head.

"Show me," Darman said,  and  switched  his  HUD  to  the  scope  view,
expecting disaster.

"I think it's called irony."

Darman crawled up to him and patched the endoscope into his own helmet.

Yes, irony was a good word for  it.  He  almost  laughed.  Between  the
corner and the next bulkhead, he could see two doors,  one  closed  and  one
partly open. Someone-someone humanoid-was peering around the edge of it.

"Women don't half look different, don't they?" Atin said.  "That's  the
most amazing hair I've ever seen."

Darman agreed. They hadn't seen a lot of  females  in  then-lives,  but
this one would have been memorable even  if  they  had  seen  millions.  Her
blue-black hair was streaked with brilliant red stripes. They  were  trapped
with Dr. Ovolot Qail Uthan.

And she was clutching a Verpine shatter gun.

17

CO Majestic to Coruscant Command

Techno Union vessel is now drifting. Damage  assessment  is  incomplete
but it is no longer returning fire. Vengeance is standing by to  dispatch  a
boarding party. Will continue to provide turbolaser gunnery support to Omega
Squad.

"Who activated the emergency systems? Which di'kut hit the button? Tell
me!" Ghez Hokan found himself shouting. He had abandoned dignity. "Open this
di'kutla bulkhead!"

Captain Hurati's voice was strained. They were both on the  wrong  side
of the first safety bulkhead, in a single unforgiving corridor that  led  to
the entrance, and the main doors were jammed shut.  It  was  a  very  secure
building: and, as Uthan had said, it was  designed  to  stop  anything  from
getting out if things went wrong. It was doing that well.

"We've been infiltrated, sir."

"I worked that out for myself, di'kut." He was interrupted by a grenade
exploding against the front wall. "How in the name of-"

"I don't know  yet,  sir,  but  the  bulkheads  activated  because  the
containment chamber doors weren't registering on the system as  closed,  and
it triggered the emergency systems."

"Stuck open, in other words."

"Yes."

Hokan swung around on the nearest droid. "Anyone up on the surface  see
signs of entry?"

A pause. "Negative."

Oh, how he longed for decent communications again. He could guess  from
the strength and direction of some of  the  explosions  that  the  area  was
coming under laser cannon fire, which meant the Republic  assault  ship  had
finally showed its hand. It could even be landing more troops.

But that wasn't his immediate concern. The bad news was  that  somebody
had already managed to get in, and not through the front door. They couldn't
have come in through the drains. They shouldn't have been there.  But  there
was firing, and droids were reporting casualties.

There were Republic commandos inside the facility.

Hokan had never  thought  himself  infallible,  but  he  had  at  least
imagined he was exceptionally competent. He'd locked down the  facility  and
they'd still found a way in. His first thought was that Uthan had  wanted  a
live subject so badly that she was prepared to lure them in  and  trap  one,
but that was ludicrous: she hadn't the means or the  opportunity  to  bypass
security.

The nanovirus was out of Hokan's reach behind bulkheads  that  wouldn't
yield. Droids patiently fired blasters into the face of the alloy.  But,  as
in his earlier test, they were  making  no  impression  beyond  heating  the
sealed corridor to tropical temperatures.

"Do we know if all the bulkheads are down?" he  asked  the  droid.  Its
comlink with its peers made it suddenly a lot more useful than Hurati.  "All
of them?" Hokan was trying to work out if he had any way of getting to Uthan
or the nanovirus. The control board in the office off the main corridor  was
showing red throughout, but he didn't know whether to believe it or not.

"All of them.  Droids  trapped  in  sections  four,  five,  seven,  and
twelve."

It felt like being in the middle of a brawl and then  finding  yourself
dragged off your opponent. The  enemy  couldn't  get  at  him,  but  now  he
couldn't get at them, either. And if the bio-hazard chamber doors were open,
then both the nanovirus and  Uthan  were  on  the  commandos'  side  of  the
barrier. If they had managed to get in, they could probably get out the same
way.

The front wall shuddered.

Even if any droids had survived the assault on  the  villa,  how  would
reinforcements help him now?

Hokan turned to Hurati. "Can you get into the system and  override  the
safety controls?"

"I'll do my best, sir." Hurati's face said that he doubted it, but he'd
die trying. He retreated to the office with Hokan, and they rummaged through
the cabinets and drawers looking for operating instructions, tools, anything
that might be used to release the bulkheads. In one cabinet  Hokan  found  a
crowbar.  But  its  edges  were  too  thick  to  get  any  purchase  in  the
flimsiplast-thin gap between the two sections of the front door or the lower
edge of the bulkhead. He flung it  to  the  floor  in  frustration,  and  it
clattered across the tiles.

The doors needed a blast of some magnitude.  And  he  didn't  have  the
ordnance.

Hurati removed the cover from the alarm panel and began poking the  tip
of his knife experimentally into the maze of circuits  and  switches.  Hokan
took out the lightsaber and took a  swipe  at  the  bulkhead,  more  out  of
frustration than any expectation of success.

Vzzzmmm.

The air took on  an  oddly  ozonic  smell,  almost  irritating  in  its
intensity. He stared at the bulkhead's previously smooth surface. There  was
a definite depression.

He made another pass with the blade, more slowly  and  controlled  this
time. He pressed his face close  to  the  cooling  metal  at  one  edge  and
squinted across the flat surface, one eye closed.  Yes,  it  was  definitely
warping the alloy.

But at this rate it would take him hours to cut through.  He  suspected
time was a luxury he couldn't afford.

Something thudded into the wall of the corridor.

Darman didn't even hear the shatter gun fire.  The  Verpine  projectile
was never in danger of hitting anyone, but he suspected  they'd  have  known
all about it if it had.

"Wow, that's some dent," Atin said. "I don't think the good  doctor  is
going to come quietly, though."

"Niner, are you picking this up?" Darman said. "Found  her.  Just  like
that."

There was a faint sound of movement in his earpiece. He'd switched  off
the video feed. Niner sounded almost relaxed. "That's the first bit of  luck
we've had."

"Yeah, but she's got a Verpine on her."

"They're fragile weapons and they don't bounce. Give her a fright."

"I've got a few frighteners ready."

"If you need a hand, we're going to have trouble getting in.  I  reckon
all the emergency doors have shut tight."

"All quiet out there?"

"Apart from Majestic getting too on-target for comfort, yes.  We  don't
want to take the whole building out with you still inside."

"Can you go back for the other ram and try to force the front doors?"

"Do you need us to?"

"We'll try getting Uthan out via the drains. If we can't, it's plan D."

"Cheer up, still got E through Z plans," Fi's voice said.

"One day, Fi, I'm going to give you a good slap." Darman said.

Atin held up his hand for silence. Darman heard the faint sibilance  of
whispered conversation, and then the door slammed and the lock  clunked.  So
it wasn't an automatic safety door. Uthan had company.

"She really doesn't know me, does she?" Darman said, and peeled  off  a
few centimeters of thermal tape. He  checked  around  the  corner  with  the
probe, loath to test his armor against a Verpine. "It's going to  take  more
than a lock to keep me out, sweetheart."

He hugged the wall. He was nearly at the door when  it  opened  and  he
found himself face-to-face with two Trandoshans who seemed pretty  surprised
to see him. Maybe it was the armor. It seemed to have that effect.

There was nowhere to run.

There were times when you could pull your rifle and  times  when  you
couldn't, and Deeces weren't much good at point-blank range unless you  used
them as a club. Darman aimed an instinctive punch before  he  thought  about
what he would do with the explosives in  his  hand.  Even  with  an  armored
gauntlet, it was like hitting a stone block in the face. The Trandoshan fell
back two paces. Then his comrade came at Darman with a blade.  There  was  a
frozen second or two of bewilderment as the Trannie looked at his knife, and
then at Darman's armor.

"Atin, want to give me a hand here?" Darman said  quietly,  taking  one
step back with vibroblade extended.

"What do-oh."

"Yeah. Oh."

The nice thing about a fixed vibroblade was that nobody could knock  it
out of your hand, not unless they took your arm off  with  it.  The  Trannie
seemed to be considering that as an option before taking a huge  lunge,  the
blade of his weapon skidding off Darman's arm plate.

Darman ran at the Trannie headfirst and cannoned into him, throwing him
against the wall  and  pinning  him  there  while  he  tried  to  drive  the
vibroblade into soft tissue. He tried  for  the  throat-big  blood  vessels,
quick effect-but the Trannie had his wrist  clamped  tight.  It  was  taking
Darman all his strength to keep the enemy's blade from his  own  throat.  It
seemed like deadlock.

The bodysuit was stabproof. Wasn't it? He couldn't see Atin. He had  to
concentrate on his own predicament, and he wasn't getting anywhere fast with
the Trannie. It was time for one of those  bar-brawl  tactics  that  Skirata
made sure they all learned. Darman scraped his boot along the Trannie's shin
and brought it down hard on his instep. It gave  him  the  split  second  of
loosened grip he needed, and he plunged the vibroblade in up  to  its  hilt,
over and over, not sure what he was hitting, but noting that the Trannie was
shrieking and that the shrieks were gradually getting fainter.

Skirata was right. Stabbing someone was a slow way  to  kill  them.  He
pressed his forearm against the Trannie's neck and held him pinned while  he
slid down the wall. Darman

followed him all the way down and finally knelt on his  chest  to  make
sure he didn't move while he jammed the blade up under his  jaw  and  across
his trachea.

He waited for him to stop moving, then scrambled to  his  feet  to  see
Atin standing over the other Trandoshan, still cursing. There was a  lot  of
blood, and it didn't look like Atin's.

"I could have done without that interruption," Darman said.

"Ruins your concentration," Atin said. "Where were we?"

"About to use my universal key." Darman  retrieved  the  ribbon  charge
from the floor, wiped it on his  sleeve,  and  set  it  with  its  detonator
against the lock. They moved quickly to the hinge side, and  Atin  drew  the
Trandoshan array blaster he'd been so unwilling to abandon.

"Atin, it's capture alive, remember?"

"She's got company."

"You make sure  you  need  to  use  it,  then.  If  they'd  wanted  her
disintegrated they'd have said." Darman took out the stun  grenade  and  the
mini EMP: she might have droids in there, too. He juggled  both  spheres  in
one hand. "Okay, I blow the lock, and in these go.  They're  down  for  five
seconds. I take Uthan and you shoot anything else still moving."

"Got it."

"Cover."

Whump. The door exploded, showering kuvara splinters, and Darman leaned
forward     and     threw     in     the     surprises.      A      blinding
three-hundred-thousand-candlepower white light and 160 decibels of raw noise
flooded the room for two seconds, and Darman was inside before  he  realized
it, pinning Uthan flat to the floor as Atin pumped the array blaster  across
the room.

The dust and smoke settled. Darman had cuffed Uthan. He didn't actually
recall doing it, but that was adrenaline working. For  some  reason  he  had
expected a fight, but she was simply making an odd  incoherent  groan.  He'd
become used to Etain's resilience. Uthan was  a  regular  human,  untrained,
unfit, and-apart from her intellect-nothing special.

Darman picked up the Verpine and aimed it at a wall. It

made the faintest of whirring noises, then  jammed.  Niner  was  right.
Verpines didn't bounce, or maybe the mini  EMP  had  temporarily  fried  its
electronics.

"Darman here. We have Uthan, repeat, we have Uthan."

Fi's whoop hurt his ears. Niner cut in. "Are we done here?"

"Let's check we haven't missed anything. Atin?"  He  glanced  over  his
shoulder. Atin was cradling the array blaster, staring down at  four  bodies
on the floor. It was all a bit of a mess, as Fi would say.

Three of the  dead  were  Trandoshans,  and  the  fourth  was  a  young
red-haired woman who wasn't pretty any longer, or even recognizable.  Darman
wondered if the girl was Uthan's daughter. Then he had another thought.

"How many staff do you have here, ma'am?" He took his  helmet  off  and
rolled her over so they were face-to-face. "How many?"

Uthan  seemed  to  be  regaining  her  composure.  "You   murdered   my
assistant."

"She had a blaster," Atin said, almost to himself.

Darman shook her. "Ma'am,  I'm  going  to  detonate  an  awful  lot  of
ordnance under this building very soon, and your staff,  if  you  have  any,
will be dead anyway."

She was staring up into his face, seeming totally  distracted  by  him.
"Are you really a clone?"

"I'd like to say the one and only, but you know I'm not."

"Amazing," she said.

"Staff?"

"Four more. They're just scientists. They're civilians."

Darman opened his mouth,  and  Kal  Skirata's  voice  emerged  unbidden
again. "Not all soldiers wear uniforms, ma'am. High  time  those  scientists
took responsibility for their role in the war effort."

Yes, it was personal. War didn't get much more personal  than  a  virus
aimed specifically at you and your brothers. "Darman  here.  Sarge,  Uthan's
staff members are somewhere in the building, too. What do you  want  to  do?
Retrieve them as well?"

"I'll check with Majestic. Wait one." Niner's link went dead for a  few
moments and then crackled into life again. "No, not required. Get her  clear
and let us know when you're going to detonate."

"They were just following orders," Uthan said.

"So am I," Darman said,  and  trussed,  gagged,  and  hooded  her  with
salvaged parasail cord and a section of sheeting. He replaced his helmet and
heaved her over his shoulder. It was going to be a  tough  job  getting  her
down those tunnels. Atin followed.

They slipped back down the drain. Darman hoped  that  they  could  find
their way back to the surface without Jinart as their guide.

Hokan  could  feel  the  sweat  stinging  his  eyes.  He  withdrew  the
lightsaber and examined the substantial dent in the bulkhead.

It wasn't deep enough  or  fast  enough,  and  he  knew  it.  This  was
displacement activity. He was little  help  to  Hurati,  so  he  vented  his
frustration on the alloy and all he seemed to  succeed  in  was  making  the
stale atmosphere even hotter and more suffocating.

Then he heard a hiss of air,  and  he  wondered  if  it  was  the  seal
breaching: but it wasn't.

It was Hurati.

Hokan ran the few steps along the corridor to  the  office.  He  feared
that the young captain had electrocuted himself, and whether  he  wanted  to
admit it or not, he actually cared what happened  to  him.  But  Hurati  was
intact. He was leaning over the desk, both hands braced on the surface, head
down, shoulders shaking. Then he looked up, and his face was a  big,  sweaty
grin. A bead of perspiration ran down his nose and hung there for  a  moment
before he batted it away with his finger.

"Check the status board, sir."

Hokan swung around and looked for the board. The unchanging pattern  of
red lights had now become a pattern of red and green.

"Bulkheads two, six, and nine, sir," he said.  "Now  I  can  clear  the
rest. I had to try every sequence. That's a lot of permutations."  He  shook
his head and went back to carefully prodding a piece of circuit  board  with
the tip of his knife. "They'll be jammed open, though."

"Better than jammed shut."

As Hokan watched, the lights changed from red to green, one by one, and
a cool draft hit his face.

The front doors had opened.

Hokan expected a missile or blaster volley to punch through  them,  but
all that entered was the silent, refreshing, fire-scented night air.

"Hurati," Hokan said, "Right now, I couldn't love you more if you  were
my own son. Remind me I said that one day." He drew his  blaster  and  raced
down the corridor, past droids, stumbling over shattered  metal  plates  and
the body of an Umbaran, and into the room where he had left Uthan  with  her
Trandoshan guards.

He had half expected to see her lying dead on the floor with them. In a
way he had hoped for it, because it would mean the  Republic  hadn't  stolen
her expertise. But she was gone. He picked up the Verpine and tested it  for
charge: it made a faint whir and then ticked. Either Uthan hadn't managed to
get a shot off or they'd used an EMP grenade.

Hokan worked his way down the passage to the biohazard chamber, pausing
on the way to check inside prep rooms and storage cupboards, wary  of  booby
traps. As he opened one door,  he  heard  whimpering  in  the  darkness.  He
switched on the light.

The remaining four members of Uthan's research team-  three  young  men
and an older woman-were huddled in  the  corner.  One  of  the  men  held  a
blaster, but its muzzle was pointed at the floor.  They  blinked  at  Hokan,
frozen.

"Stay here," he said. "You might  be  all  that's  left  of  the  virus
program. Don't move." There seemed little chance that they would.

When Hokan reached the central chamber, the  only  sign  that  anything
untoward had taken place was that the concealed drain in the center  of  the
floor was now a charred, gaping space.

He looked around the walls, shelves, and  cupboards.  A  mistake.  He'd
made a mistake, a terrible oversight. He hadn't taken the time to check what
the virus containers looked like, or how many there had been. He  could  see
gaps on shelves through the transparent doors; he pulled on the handles, but
they were still locked.

He ran back up the corridor and grabbed  one  of  the  young  men  from
Uthan's team. "Do you know what the nanovirus looks like?"

The boy blinked. "It has a structure based on-"

"Idiot." Hokan jabbed fiercely toward his  own  eye,  indicating  look.
"What does the container look like? How many? Come on. Think."

He hauled the scientist to his feet and dragged him down  the  corridor
to the biohazard chamber.

"Show me."

The boy pointed to a plain-fronted cabinet. "Fourteen  alloy  vials  in
there, inside their own vacuum-sealed case."

"Open it and check."

"I can't. Uthan has all the security codes and keys."

"Is it conceivable that the enemy could have opened it and simply  shut
it again?"

"Normally I'd say that was impossible, but  I  also  remember  thinking
that it was impossible for anyone to breach this building."

The hole where the drain had been was now a jagged fringe of  scorched,
broken tiling and twisted metal frame. Hokan looked down into the  void  and
saw debris.

For a moment he wondered if he was actually dealing with  human  beings
and not some bizarre, unknown life-form. He knew where they'd gone.  Now  he
had to hunt them down and stop them from taking Uthan off  the  planet  with
whatever was left of the nanovirus project.

If this was what a handful of clone  soldiers  could  achieve,  he  was
almost afraid to think what millions might do.

18

You never have perfect knowledge in combat, gentlemen.

It's what we call the fog of war. You can either sit around

worrying what's real and what's not, or you can realize the

enemy hasn't got a clue either and fire off a few rounds of

psychology. A truly great army is one that only has to

rattle its saber to win a war.

-Sergeant Kal Skirata

Omega to Majestic. Check check check. Cease firing."

Niner waited several minutes before moving. There had been trees to the
northwest of the facility that weren't there  anymore.  You  couldn't  stake
your life on the accuracy of  gunnery  support.  He  edged  forward  on  his
stomach and propped himself on his elbows to check the area, first with  his
binoc visor and then through the scope of the DC-17.

Nothing was moving, although  nothing  with  any  sense  would  present
itself in a bright-lit doorway anyway.

The facility was now stripped completely of its wooden farmhouse shell,
and its alloy doors were wide open. For a few seconds, Niner almost expected
to see Darman and Atin walk out into the yard, and for Kal Skirata to  shout
Endex, endex, endex-end of exercise. But there were no more  exercises,  and
this night wasn't over, not by a long shot.

Behind him, Fi switched to his Deece and trained the sniper  attachment
on the entrance, waiting to pick off anything insane  enough  to  walk  out.
Niner wasn't sure if Fi

would pause for thought if anyone did come out, even with raised hands.

"Dar, Atin, can you confirm your position?"

Niner waited.

"Somewhere pitch black and smelly, and dragging a  semiconscious  woman
behind me," Atin said.

"Sounds like happy hour at the Outlander," Niner said, although he  had
no idea what a nightclub was really like,  and  probably  never  would.  The
comment sprang from his subconscious. "Is Uthan injured?"

"Dar got fed up with her struggling and sedated her."

"How long before you can detonate?"

Muffled noises filled  Niner's  helmet.  It  sounded  as  if  Atin  was
conferring with Darman without the comlink. Maybe he'd removed his helmet to
sip some water. A woman  was  making  incoherent  noises,  and  Niner  heard
Darman's voice clearly: "Shut up, will you?" He didn't need a medic to check
Dar's stress levels.

Atin was back on the link. "At this rate, half an hour."

"Fi, how fast could you cover one klick right now?"

"Unladen and suitably motivated? 'Bout three minutes."

Now it was the timing that was giving them grief. They needed  to  keep
whoever was in the facility right  where  they  were  until  Darman  was  in
position to detonate the implosion device. Niner wondered how long  Majestic
could wait, and how long it would  be  before  they  had  more  company.  He
decided to ask.

"Omega here, Majestic. What's that Techno warship doing?"

"Listing to port and smoking a bit, Omega."

"You've been busy."

"If we get busier, we'll let you know. We're  dispatching  the  gunship
now. It'll be waiting when you reach the extraction point."

Niner crawled back to Fi's position and nudged him. "You might as  well
make a move for the EP now with Etain. I can hold this position."

"No."

"Can I give you an order?"

"I might call you Sarge, but right now I'm ignoring you."

Etain  appeared  on  the  other  side  of  Fi,  with  Jinart.   "What's
happening?"

"The gunship's on its way. I suggest you and Fi head out and meet it."

"Where's Darman?"

"About fifty meters down the tunnel. It's heavy going."

"It's still the quickest path through the warren," Jinart said.  "Short
of digging them out."

"Digging through five meters of soil without power tools or  explosives
is going to take a long time." Niner turned to Etain. "Is there anything you
can do, ma'am?"

Etain pushed her tangled hair back from her face. "If Jinart  can  find
the shallowest point of the tunnel, I can try  to  part  the  soil.  If  you
explain to me what needs to happen, I can picture it. The more accurately  I
can picture it, the better my chances of bringing the Force to bear. I  have
to see what's happening in my mind."

"I can find their position," Jinart said.

"By all means bring your lightsaber, ma'am," Fi said. "But only use  it
if you miss with this." He handed her his blaster.

Etain shoved it in her belt. "You persuaded me."

Jinart was fast. Etain had trouble keeping up with  her  when  she  was
running on all fours, her snout  to  the  ground.  The  Gurlanin's  rhythmic
sniffs were in counterpoint to Etain's gasping breath.

They were moving in a square search pattern across  the  field  to  the
east of the facility, trying to locate the  exact  section  of  tunnel  that
Darman and Fi had taken. Etain could sense Darman now. They were close.

"Are you following scent?" Etain panted.

"No, I'm listening for echoes."

"With your nose?"

"Where I keep my ears is my own business." Jinart stopped

dead and pressed her snout into the  soil  with  a  few  short,  strong
snorts. "Here. Dig here."

"I hope they know we're right above them."

"We aren't. They're about  ten  meters  back  up  the  tunnel.  If  you
excavated where they are you could bury them completely."

Etain wasn't sure if Jinart was making a  general  point  about  rescue
procedure, or commenting on her competence. She didn't care. Darman was down
there and he needed her help. Atin was down there, too, but the  thought  of
Darman focused her because ... because he was a friend.

She could almost imagine him advising her  that  sentimentality  was  a
luxury that a commander could never afford.

"Here we go," she said, more to herself than to Jinart.

Etain knelt to one side of the line of the tunnel and placed her  hands
flat on the ground. When she closed her eyes,  she  visualized  the  warren,
seeing its uneven walls with tree roots  emerging  from  them  like  knotted
rope. She saw small stones and seams of amber clay.

Then her focus became more intense. She saw smaller roots, and then the
individual grains of mineral and veins of organic  material.  She  felt  her
breathing slowing, changing, as if her lungs weren't moving within  her  but
rather the air outside her body was  pressing  and  relaxing,  pressing  and
relaxing, slowly and rhythmically.

And she finally saw the space around each microscopic grain. It  wasn't
empty. It was invisible, but it was not a  void.  Etain  felt  it.  She  had
control of it at a fundamental, subatomic level. She could feel the pressure
throughout her body.

Now all she had to do was shape it.

At the sides of  the  tunnel,  she  pictured  the  space  thinning  and
reducing,  compacting  the  walls,  strengthening  them  against   collapse.
Overhead-and she now felt like she was lying flat on her back looking up  at
the vault above her-she saw the space expand.

The grains moved farther apart. The space flowed in to

displace them. The space flowed upward to lift them. And then the space
was suddenly all there was.

Etain was aware of something cold and slightly damp across the backs of
her hands and opened her eyes. She was kneeling in fine,  friable  soil.  It
looked as if a patient gardener had sieved it to prepare for planting seeds.

She was looking down into an open trench. There was  a  domed  line  of
soil along both sides, as neat and regular as if an excavator had  done  the
job.

"That," said Jinart's voice beside her, "was quite extraordinary."  The
Gurlanin's tone was almost reverent. "Quite extraordinary."

Etain knelt back on her heels. Instead of the exhaustion  she  normally
felt after using the Force to shift  objects,  she  felt  refreshed.  Jinart
slipped down into the  trench  and  disappeared.  A  few  moments  later,  a
familiar blue-lit, T-shaped visor popped up from the darkness below, and  it
didn't alarm her at all.

"There's  always  a  career  for  you  in  the  construction  industry,
Commander," Darman said.

He scrambled out of the trench, and Etain threw  her  arms  around  him
without thinking. Her blaster clunked against his armor plates. It  was  odd
to hug something that felt like a droid, but she was overwhelmed  by  relief
that he'd made it. She let go and stepped back, suddenly embarrassed.

"Yeah, I've been in a sewer," he said, all guilt. "Sorry."

Atin's voice carried from the trench. "Dar,  are  you  going  to  stand
there all night posing for the commander, or are you going to help  me  lift
this?"

"As if I could forget," Darman said.

After some grunting and cursing, the two commandos managed  to  lift  a
thoroughly trussed body onto the edge of the trench. Etain  pulled  off  the
hood and stared into the half-closed eyes of Dr. Uthan. She was drifting  in
and out of consciousness.

"How much did you give her?" Etain asked.

"Enough to shut her up," Darman said.

Etain hoped the woman didn't vomit and choke to death.

It was always a risk with heavy sedatives. They hadn't come this far to
lose her. Atin leaned forward, and Darman heaved Uthan onto his back.

"Ten-minute shifts," Atin said. "And I'll be counting."

"I hope she's worth the effort," Etain said.

"So do I," Jinart said. "You must make your own way now. I've done  all
I can. Remember us, Jedi. Remember what we have done for you,  and  that  we
expect your help in reclaiming our world. Honor that promise."

Jinart looked the Padawan up and down as if measuring her, and then the
Gurlanin lost her outline and became black fluid again, vanishing  into  the
undergrowth.

"To think I nearly shot her," Darman said, shaking his head. They moved
off toward the extraction point across country remarkably empty of gdans.

Ghez Hokan lined up the young scientists on the other side of the door.
He gestured to Hurati.

"On my mark," he said. "Kill the lights."

"Sir, if the speeders have been destroyed, what are we going to do?"

Hokan thought it an unusually stupid question for such a fine  officer,
but perhaps he was thinking about just how far untrained civilians might get
on foot before falling to the enemy.

"Run," he said. "Just run."

He turned to the four biologists, hoping terror would speed them up, as
it often did. "What's your name?" he asked the woman.

"Cheva," she said.

"Well, Cheva, when the lights go out, hang on to me and run like crazy,
understand?"

"Yes."

"And if the captain or I shout drop, you drop down flat. Got that?"

"I can assure you I have."

"Hurati, you take the rear. Don't lose any of them."

Hokan was expecting more laser bombardment. It was

quiet outside, but he felt that it would begin again as  soon  as  they
emerged. He couldn't defend a facility with its doors jammed open. There was
at least one squad of enemy commandos still out there. His last  chance  was
to make a run for it with  the  remnants  of  Uthan's  team  and  hide  them
somewhere. Then he would look for Uthan.

One way or another, he would salvage what he  could  of  the  nanovirus
program. Beyond that, he hadn't made plans.

"Ready, Hurati?"

"Ready, sir."

Hokan  slid  on  his  Mandalorian  helmet,  as  much  for  comfort   as
protection.

"Lights!"

19

CO Majestic to Coruscant Command

Standing by to retrieve LAAT/i from Qiilura. Be aware we have  detected
two Trade Federation warships approaching from the Tingel Arm  to  reinforce
Qiilura. Vengeance is moving to protect our flank.

"We're almost at the one-klick line," Darman's voice said. "Ready  when
you are."

Niner clapped his glove to the left side of his helmet.  He  feared  it
was becoming a nervous tic. "Good. See you at the EP."

"Give me a few minutes."

Fi made a casual thumbs-up gesture and  adjusted  his  shoulder  plate.
Five minutes felt like forever right then.

"Whoa, what's happening here?" Niner said. "Dar, hold off. Wait one."

The light from the front doors had died,  and  his  night-vision  visor
kicked in.

He thought he saw Darman or Atin, another odd flashback  now  that  the
stims were wearing off, but then he realized the T-slit visor coming out the
door was Hokan's. He opened fire. The hesitation had cost him half a second,
an eternity, and he didn't see anyone fall.

Fi laid down a burst of plasma bolt rounds, and they  waited.  Nothing.
Then there was another flurry of movement and someone yelled "Drop!" but the
three shapes didn't, at least not until the plasma rounds hit them.

It was silent again. Niner paused. As he and Fi began edg-

ing forward to check, someone got up from the blast-cratered ground and
sprinted around the far side of the building.

Niner and Fi sprayed more rounds and paused again.  But  there  was  no
more movement.

"If there's more  inside  that  lobby,  Sarge,  can  I  put  a  bit  of
anti-armor in there? I don't fancy running with droids behind us."

Standard grenades wouldn't trigger the thermal detonator. "Lob in six,"
he said. "And then set the E-Web to self-destruct."

Fi lined up the blaster, easing it a little on its tripod. Niner  heard
a high-pitched noise like a repulsorlift drive starting up, but then it  was
drowned out by the whump-whump-whump of the first three  grenades  launching
and exploding.

The doorway of the facility belched black, rolling flames and smoke.

"Now that's endex," Niner said, and they  ran.  They  ran  over  rutted
fields and crashed through two hedges and were into the trees  before  Niner
managed to open his comlink and  gasp  out  the  take-take-take  command  to
Darman.

The white flash illuminated the track  before  them  a  second  or  two
before the shock wave smacked Niner hard in the back. It threw him  forward.
His mouth smashed against the interior of the visor  and  he  tasted  blood.
When he turned his head and tried to get up, Fi was also flat on his  chest,
arms out in front, head turned toward him.

"No, Sarge," Fi said, still seeming totally pleased  with  life.  "That
was endex."

Ghez Hokan found himself on the ground with his speeder  bike  upended,
its drive still running. The blast was ringing in his ears. He  froze,  head
covered, waiting for incoming cannon fire. But only silence followed.

He struggled to his feet and  managed  to  heave  the  speeder  upright
again. A steering vane was slightly bent, but it was serviceable. He  dusted
himself down and then swung back into the rider's seat.

He could see his hands gripping the bars. The tan  glove  on  his  left
hand looked black; it was still wet. Cheva had hung on to him. She'd run, as
he'd told her. Her blood had sprayed over him when she was hit. It  was  the
closest he had come to feeling pity in many years.

Enough of this. You 're going soft, man. Concentrate.

"Sir." It was hard to identify the voice from  a  single  shout.  Hokan
turned to check, but there was really only one man who would have  struggled
to stay with him. "Sir!"

Hurati rode up from behind and stopped his speeder level with  his.  He
had no second rider. Hokan didn't need to ask.

"I'm sorry, sir," Hurati said. "They froze when the  shooting  started.
They didn't even drop."

"Civilians tend to do that," Hokan said wearily.

"That blast was  the  facility.  Judging  by  the  color,  that  was  a
high-temperature implosion. Not laser cannon."

"Does it matter?"

"Nothing could have survived that, even in a blastproof  container.  If
there were any samples of the nanovirus, they're gone now."

So there was now no nanovirus in Separatist hands,  and  no  scientists
with any degree of expertise in the program, either. That made it imperative
to retrieve Uthan.

Given the blast area of an implosion device, they were using  sensitive
remote detonators. Hokan was relieved that he had some EMP grenades  in  his
cargo pannier.

"Find them," Hokan said.

He couldn't even trace their route from the drainage system now.  Where
would he start? The enemy would need to leave Qiilura.  They  would  have  a
vessel somewhere. If intelligence from Geonosis was any  guide,  they  would
have gun-ships to extract them and evacuate wounded.

It was a quiet, backward, rural  planet.  You  could  hear  motors  and
drives for kilometers, especially at night.

Hokan powered down the speeder and waited, listening.

Etain could feel it long before she saw or heard it.  She  hadn't  been
able to detect droids, or so she thought, but she could feel  something  big
disturbing the Force, and it

was getting nearer. She wasn't sure if it was  mechanical  or  organic.
And it didn't communicate any sense of threat beyond a mild anxiety.

Then she  heard  the  rushing  air  and  steady  drone  of  a  vessel's
propulsion drive. She stopped and craned her neck. Atin and Darman  stopped,
too.

"Oh, I love that sound," Darman said.

"What is it?"

"The sound of us getting out of this cesspit in one piece. A  larty.  A
gunship."

The sound was practically right overhead. As Etain  scanned  the  night
sky she picked out a silhouette against the stars. The vessel wasn't showing
any navigation lights. It dipped slightly, its  drive  changing  pitch,  and
Darman reacted as if someone were talking to him. He  gestured  and  nodded.
Then he waved. The gunship picked up speed and lifted higher before shooting
away.

"They tracked us by our comlink transponder," Darman  said.  "Good  old
Niner. Bless him for knocking out Teklet."

Atin jerked his shoulders to heave Uthan a little higher on  his  back.
"Your carriage, princess," he said to her, far more cheerful than Etain  had
imagined him capable of being. His presence  felt  almost  healed,  but  not
entirely. "Want to sit up front?"

Uthan had recovered from the sedation enough to squirm. Etain  realized
that the scientist was the only person she had ever seen  who  could  convey
such rage just by writhing. She didn't envy the soldier  who  had  to  untie
her.

"Your turn, Dar," Atin said.

"Okay." He seemed elated as well as edgy. Etain could feel it.  It  was
nearly over: they'd pulled it off. She wanted to ask him what he  was  going
to do when he got back to base, but she could guess that it involved  a  lot
of sleep, a hot shower, and food. His dreams were modest. She  thought  that
was a fine example to set, even for a Padawan.

She just hoped that she could become a competent  officer.  She  wanted
Darman's respect.

"Come on, Dar," Atin said irritably. "Uthan's starting to weigh a  ton.
Your turn."

"Try this," Etain said, and lifted with the Force. Atin half turned  to
check what was relieving the weight on his back. Darman had almost caught up
with him.

Crack. Atin pitched forward.

Etain thought he had merely tripped, but Darman was  now  down  on  the
ground, and she followed suit. He was sprawled across Atin  with  his  rifle
raised. Atin wasn't screaming, but he was making a rhythmic  ah-ah-ah  noise
as if he was trying to gulp air. Uthan was lying in a heap on the grass.

"Man down," Darman said, unnaturally calm. Etain heard him clearly:  he
still had the voice unit open. "Sarge, Atin's hit."

Whatever Niner's response was,  Etain  didn't  hear  it.  Darman  fired
rapidly and she saw the brilliant rounds fly over her head.

Why hadn't she felt anyone behind her? Because she'd  been  distracted.
This was her fault. If Atin died, she would have him on her  conscience  for
the rest of her life.

The firing stopped. It was over inside thirty seconds.  The  world  had
somehow gone back to the way it was before, except for Atin.

Darman could obviously see something through his rifle sight that Etain
could not. She watched him get up, run forward, and aim at an object on  the
ground. He switched on his helmet lamp.

"One of Hokan's officers," Darman said. "A captain."

"Is he dead?"

A single shot. "He is now," Darman said.

This time Etain wasn't quite as appalled as she had  been  when  Darman
had dispatched the wounded Umbaran. She was wrapped up in concern for  Atin.
Her perspective had shifted radically.

Atin was now worryingly quiet. When Darman turned  him  carefully  onto
his side, there was a  shattered  hole  in  his  armor  plate  about  twenty
centimeters below his right armpit that was leaking  blood.  Darman  took  a
small, gray oblong container with rounded edges from his  belt  and  emptied
the contents on the ground. He shoved what looked like a field  dressing  in
the gaping hole and taped it to the armor.

"Get on," Atin said. His voice was shaking. "Go on. Leave me."

"Don't go all heroic on me or I'll smack you one."

"I mean it. Get Uthan out of here."

"Atin, shut up, will you? I'm not leaving anyone anywhere." Darman  was
working with all the precision of someone who'd been drilled  repeatedly  in
combat first aid. He nodded at Etain. She grasped Atin's hand  and  squeezed
it hard. "That's what a Verpine projectile can do to  Katarn  armor  .  .  .
easy, brother. I've got you." He removed one of Atin's thigh plates,  peeled
back the section of bodysuit, and  exposed  the  skin.  He  held  two  short
single-use syringes in his hand. "It's going to hurt a bit, okay? Steady."

Darman stabbed both needles into Atin's thigh in quick succession. Then
he scrawled something on Atin's helmet with a marker and replaced the  thigh
plate.

Etain stared at the letters p and z now written on the forehead of  the
helmet.

"P for painkiller," Darman said. He laid Atin flat on his back. "And  Z
for blood-loss control agent, because B looks too much like P when you're in
a hurry. It's for the medics, just in case they don't scan him, so they know
what I've dosed him with. Now, this is going to look really odd,  but  trust
me ..."

Atin was flat on his back, breathing heavily. Darman  slid  on  top  of
him, back-to-chest, then slipped his arms through Atin's webbing and  rolled
both of them over so he was lying underneath. Raising himself on  his  arms,
he drew his legs to a kneeling position and then stood up with  Atin  secure
across his back. He tottered slightly. But he didn't fall.

"Easiest way to lift and carry a heavy man,"  Darman  said,  his  voice
sounding a little strained.

"I could have done that for you," Etain said.

"Yeah, but he's my brother.  Besides,  you're  going  to  carry  Doctor
Uthan."

Etain felt momentary guilt for not checking on her. But  the  scientist
was still lying there trussed, quite silent, and no doubt bewildered.  Etain
leaned over her.

"Come on, Doctor," she said. She  went  to  lift  her,  but  her  hands
touched something cold and wet. There was  a  jagged  sliver  of  pale  gray
plastoid alloy protruding from just under her ribs.  It  was  shrapnel  from
Atin's armor. The doctor was bleeding heavily.

"Oh no. Not this. Look. Darman, look."

"Fierfek After all this rotten-"

"No, she's alive."

"Just get her to the extraction point. They  better  have  a  medic  on
board."

The disappointment was sudden and crushing. Etain felt  it.  It  almost
made her stop in her tracks, too overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all  to
move, but it didn't stop Darman, and so she was determined  to  go  on.  His
absolute discipline was tangible. In a few days she had  learned  more  from
him than she had ever been able to learn from  Fulier.  Being  seconds  from
death so many times drove the lessons home that much harder.

Etain also knew it had forged a bond that would cause her enormous pain
in years to come. It was worse than  falling  in  love.  It  was  a  totally
different level of attachment: it was shared trauma. Master Fulier said  you
could fall out of love, but Etain knew you could never  fall  out  of  this,
because history could never change.

She lifted Uthan across her back by her own arm and jerked her  forward
until she was comfortably across her shoulders.

"Let's move it, Darman," she said, and hardly recognized her own voice.
For a moment, she didn't sound like a Jedi at all.

Hokan was still on the loose. Niner knew it. He'd seen him-or at  least
someone in his armor-come out of the facility. The officer whom  Darman  had
shot had just been a young captain. And Hokan was probably  doing  what  the
dead captain seemed to have done, and tracked them  by  the  gunship.  Their
salvation might also prove to be their undoing.

"About one more klick," Fi said. "Any word on Atin?"

"Haven't you got your long-range switched through?"

"No. It's one more distraction I can't face right now."

Niner was beginning to understand how Fi coped: the man  just  switched
off, sometimes literally. He wondered who or what had taught him to do that,
because it wasn't Skirata. Kal Skirata felt, all too visibly sometimes.

"I hope we get an  urban  deployment  after  this,"  Niner  said.  Stay
positive. Look ahead. "A nice, noisy, confusing city with places to hide and
lots of running water. Surveillance. Data extraction. Easy Street."

"Nah, jungle."

"You're sick."

"Jungle's like a city. Lots going on."

"You're worried about Atin."

"Shut up, Sarge. I'm just worried about me, okay?"

"Of course you are."

"Why didn't we just pound this whole region from space?"

"No intel. Virus could have been at several  locations.  We  might  not
have hit them all and we'd never have known until it was too late."

"Just when we were making a good team."

"He's still alive, Fi." Niner began walking backward, playing the  tail
role. "He's still alive. Jedi can heal. Darman's done all  the  right  first
aid-"

Niner never did like being tail on  patrol,  especially  at  night.  He
liked it even less when the point man shouted, "Down!"

He dropped flat in the grass and looked where Fi was aiming his Deece.

"Speeder," Fi said. "Guess who. Crossing right-to-left ahead. It's  got
to be Hokan."

"Can you take him?"

"Clear shot when he passes the trees."

"Don't hang about, then."

Niner counted the seconds, following the speeder bike  with  his  rifle
scope. The speeder's movement behind the avenue of kuvara created  a  strobe
effect. A flare of energy lit up his night vision and the rider  was  thrown
off the vehicle in a cloud of vapor.

"That's the way to do it," Niner said.

They waited the mandatory few seconds to check  that  Hokan  was  truly
down. There was no movement at all. Niner could see the glint of gdans' eyes
in the grass, a sign that at least someone thought the fighting was over and
that it was safe to come out again.

Niner was on his feet and Fi was up on one knee when  Hokan  rose  from
the grass like a specter. He staggered a few steps and raised his weapon.

Niner didn't hear him fire. But he heard a projectile whistle pass  him
and hit something with a loud crack. Verpine shatter guns were  silent,  and
they were accurate. If Hokan hadn't been winded by Fi's  round,  then  Niner
would have had the same hole blown in him as Atin."Sarge, when I  kill  him,
can I have his armor?" Fi asked.

"You get to take it off him personally."

"I needed that motivation. Thanks."

"Still see him?"

"No..."

A blaster round hit the grass a meter in front of Fi  and  sent  sparks
swirling. Their enemy wasn't a mindless tinnie or a stupid Weequay. He was a
Mandalorian, a natural-born fighter, dangerous even when wounded.

He was very much like them.

"You think that gunship's going to wait?" Fi asked.

"Not once they have Uthan."

"Fierfek." Fi snapped on the grenade attachment and  aimed.  "Maybe  we
shouldn't have ditched the E-Web." The night lit up with the  explosion.  Fi
raised his head a little and blasterfire flowed back, a  meter  farther  off
target than before. "You go right of him while I keep him busy."

Niner edged forward on his elbows and knees, Deece crooked in his arms.
He'd moved about ten meters when the

air above him made a frying noise and a  blaster  bolt  took  the  seed
heads off the grass above him.

If it hadn't been for that  Verpine,  things  would  have  been  a  lot
simpler.

Majestic wouldn't wait much longer. The stims had worn off  fully  now,
and Niner was feeling the impact of days of hard tabbing, little sleep,  and
too much noise. He made himself a promise there  and  then.  If  he  and  Fi
weren't getting off Qiilura, then neither was Ghez Hokan.

But Mandalorian or not, Hokan was just one man, and he was  facing  two
men who were at least his match. Niner didn't underestimate him, but the end
result was almost certain: sooner or later he would deplete the power cells.
Still, time wasn't on their side right then.

"Not good at  all,"  Niner  said.  "Darman,  Niner  here.  What's  your
position?"

He sounded out of breath. "Slow going, Sarge. About  ten  minutes  from
the EP."

"Ask them if they'll keep the meter  running,  will  you?  Just  saying
good-bye to Ghez Hokan."

"I'll drop Atin off and-"

"Negative, Dar. We can handle this once we crack his armor. Stand by."

Fi was edging forward looking for a clear shot. Niner, running  out  of
patience, looked about for some cover he could use to get a position to  the
side of Hokan. The flash of a weapon discharge caught his eye but he  didn't
hear anything except Fi beginning to say something over the comlink and then
a very brief searing peak of high-pitched noise.

Then everything went silent and black.

For a moment Niner thought he'd been hit. He couldn't hear  Fi  and  he
couldn't see the data from his HUD. There was no green image  of  the  field
and the trees behind it in his night-vision visor. But  he  could  feel  his
elbows squarely braced in the soil and he could feel his Deece still in  his
hands. No pain-but if you were hurt badly enough you sometimes didn't feel a
thing.

It took him several slow seconds to realize his helmet's

systems were totally dead. His face felt hot. He wasn't getting air.

He pulled off the helmet and squinted through the scope of  his  DC-17.
The night-vision scope picked up his image; Fi had  taken  his  helmet  off,
too, and had his hand inside it, pressing controls frantically.

EMP grenade, Niner thought. Hokan's droided us.

You used electromagnetic pulse charges against droids.  But  they  were
equally  effective  against  delicate  electronics  attached  to  wets.  The
enhanced Katarn helmets, three times the  price  of  an  ordinary  trooper's
version,  were  packed  with  sophisticated  prototype  systems,  vulnerable
systems.

Niner crawled slowly and carefully toward Fi. A couple of blaster bolts
went wide. He lay flat, head-to-head with him.

"He's fried our helmets," Fi whispered. "Don't they test  these  things
properly?"

"I bet some civvy thought nobody would use EMPs against wets."

"Yeah, I might look him up when we get back."

"They should reset."

"How long?"

"No idea. Deece still works, though."

"As long as he puts his head up."

"I could do with one of Dar's flash-bangs."

"Doesn't fit the Deece anyway."

"Can you see him at all?"

"No ... no, wait. There he is."

Niner had to track back and forth a couple of times before  he  spotted
Hokan through the scope. "Got any of the IEDs in easy reach?"

"Six."

"How far can you throw?"

"Far enough."

"Wide as you can. Scatter them across him."

Niner laid down suppressing fire while Fi bounced up and down,  lobbing
the little makeshift bombs and dropping flat again. Niner took the detonator
control.

"When I hit this, you go wide that way and try to get side-on to him."

Fi rolled slightly to one side, bracing on his right arm  for  a  quick
start. Niner hit the det. Fi bobbed up.

Nothing happened. A blaster round seared the grass between them, and Fi
threw himself down again.

"We really must talk to procurement about hardening  our  electronics,"
Fi said mildly.

"I fear we might be back to old-fashioned soldiering."

"I'm fresh out of bayonets."

"Sergeant Kal would have an idea."

"You got his number on you?"

"I'm going to scream."

"What?"

"Don't laugh. This man's a  nut.  If  he  thinks  I'm  down  and  badly
injured, he won't be able to resist coming over and slitting my throat."

"And then I give him a surprise party?"

"Anything that resolves this fast."

"Okay, kid. Off you go."

Niner suddenly realized he didn't actually know how to scream. But he'd
heard enough terribly wounded men to make a fair stab at it.

He threw back his head and let go.

20

I don't know who the good guys are anymore. But I do know

what the enemy is. It's the compromise of principles. You

lose the war when you lose your principles. And the first

principle is to look out for your comrades.

-Kal Skirata

The gunship was the most beautiful craft Darman had ever seen.

It came into view as he staggered through the line of bushes  and  into
the newly plowed field. Its cockpit bubbles gleamed like  a  holo  of  Cloud
City,  and  its  cannon  turrets  had  the  symmetry  of  the  finest  Naboo
architecture. He even loved its rust and the dents in its wings.

"Look at that, Atin," he said. "Sheer art... Atin?"

"... yeah."

"Nearly there."

"... uh."

White trooper armor came running toward him with a Gran  in  a  medic's
uniform just behind them.  Atin's  weight  lifted  from  his  back,  and  he
struggled to pull his arms free of the webbing. He followed  the  stretcher,
trying to talk to the medic.

"Verpine projectile, right side of his chest,"  he  said.  "Painkiller,
five ccs of-"

"I can see," the Gran said. "Neat job, Private. Now get in that ship."

When he looked around, troopers had taken Uthan from Etain and she was
walking toward the gunship, stopping to look over  her  shoulder  every  few
steps. General Arligan Zey stepped down from the troop cabin and  bowed  his
head very slightly in her direction. She slowed down and stopped  to  return
it.

It  struck  Darman  as  a  remarkably   formal   greeting   under   the
circumstances. Behind this tableau of Jedi etiquette  was  a  scene  from  a
nightmare, with medics working on  both  Atin  and  Uthan,  removing  armor,
cutting garments, hooking up transfusion lines, calling for more  dressings.
It was like watching two parallel  worlds,  each  wholly  oblivious  to  the
other.

Zey didn't look at Darman at all, but the ARC trooper who  jumped  down
beside the general took off his helmet and simply stared at him in  silence.
Something black moved in the shadows of the ship and then emerged slowly  to
sniff the air with a long glossy snout.

It was Valaqil. He had come home.  Darman  could  hardly  say  that  he
recognized the Gurlanin, because  this  one  looked  indistinguishable  from
Jinart. But he could guess.

"Private Atin is still collecting scars, I see," Valaqil said. "And  my
consort is impatient and waiting for me. I have to go."

"Jinart?" Darman shrugged, embarrassed. "She's  been  an  extraordinary
help to us, sir. A fifth-a sixth member of the squad, in fact."

"I'm sure she will tell me all the details of what has made her so very
excited for the past few days."

And then he was gone, loping across the  field  and  into  the  bushes.
Darman hoped the Republic wouldn't disappoint the Gurlanins.  They'd  served
as well as any soldier.

"You've done remarkably well, Padawan," Zey said.  "Especially  without
the guidance of a Master. Quite exceptional, in fact. I think that this  may
hasten your progress toward your trials as far as the Council is  concerned.
With the supervision of a Master, of course."

Darman expected delight or embarrassment or something equally  positive
to soften Etain's expression. He knew she believed she was  unfit  to  be  a
Jedi Knight, or even a Padawan at times. He knew it was the  one  thing  she
lived for.

But the elevation didn't appear to move her at  all.  She  didn't  even
appear to hear what Zey had said.

"Master, where are Niner and Fi?" Etain asked.

Zey looked bemused. "Who?"

"Sorry, Master. The two other men from Omega Squad."

Darman felt the scrutiny of the ARC even more  keenly  now.  He'd  only
seen ARCs a couple of times before, and they came as close to scaring him as
anyone supposedly on his side ever could. Zey shook his  head.  "You're  the
first to make it here."

"They'll  be  here,  sir,"   Darman   said.   He   flicked   open   his
helmet-to-helmet comlink. If the ARC was  listening  in,  it  was  too  bad.
"Sarge? Fi? Time to get a move on."

There was no sound at all in his ear, not even static. He  switched  to
the alternative frequency, and still there was nothing. "Niner, Fi, are  you
receiving?" He checked the diagnostics mode of his HUD: his helmet was fully
functional. He could see the crevasse on Geonosis again, standing behind the
cooling, ticking E-Web, trying to raise Taler, Vin, and Jay. He couldn't see
the biometric data from their suits on his HUD.

No, not again. Not again, please . . .

"Ma'am, I'm not getting any response."

"What does that mean?"

He could hardly bear to say it. "Their helmets  are  offline.  I  don't
think they made it."

"They're dead?" Zey asked.

"They're not dead," Etain said firmly.

"Ma'am, I can't raise them at all."

"No, I don't care, they're alive. I know they are."

"You have to go," Zey said. "If you don't go now, you could  be  flying
straight into a battle with Trade Federation vessels. We've attracted a  lot
of attention." The general turned back to the two medics working  on  Uthan.
"Is she going to survive?"

"She's in a very bad way, sir. We need to move her."

"Keep her alive any way you can. Prepare to lift off. Etain-"

"Master, there are two men still out there."

"They're dead."

"No, I can feel them. I know them, sir, I know where they are.  They're
not even hurt. We must wait for them."

"We must also save Uthan and get you two out of here."

"They've destroyed the  virus.  Isn't  that  what  matters?  You  can't
abandon them now."

Darman could see she was at that point where she would either  collapse
or do something extreme. Her face was  drawn  tight,  and  her  pupils  were
dilated. It was an expression that scared him. He'd seen it a few  times  in
the last few days.

The gunship's drives were throbbing now. Etain still had  one  boot  on
the platform and the other firmly on Qiiluran soil.

Etain swallowed hard. Oh, Darman thought. Just  bite  your  tongue,  ma
'am. Don't react. But he felt what she  was  feeling.  All  that  sweat  and
terror and pain for nothing. All that,  when  they  could  have  bombed  the
facility and gone home. All that-and Atin fighting for his life,  and  Niner
and Fi either dead or marooned here.

"I will not leave without them," Etain said. "I regret disobeying  you,
Master, but I must."

Zey registered visible annoyance. "You will do as  I  order,"  he  said
quietly. "You're compromising the mission."

"We need these men. They are not expendable."

"We are all expendable."

"Then, sir, I'm  expendable,  too."  She  lowered  her  head  slightly,
looking up at Zey, more challenging than coy.  "An  officer's  duty  is  the
welfare of her men."

"I see that Master Fulier taught you little about obedience but a great
deal about sentimentality-"

Darman dared to  interrupt.  He  couldn't  stand  seeing  Jedi  Masters
arguing. It was painfully embarrassing. "Look, I'll stay, ma'am,"  he  said.
"Go with Atin. See he's okay."

Despite Skirata's frequent assurances that  their  lives  had  meaning,
Darman had accepted the hierarchy of expendability: it was not only  natural
in the Grand Army, but also necessary and inevitable. His life  was  a  more
valuable defense asset than a clone  trooper's;  the  ARC's  life  was  more
valuable than his. But the mirror that Etain's loyalty and care held  up  in
front of him had made him see himself as a man. Yes, Niner and  Fi  deserved
better. They all did.

Zey ignored Darman. "You must go. More Separatist vessels  are  heading
this way, and I know how this pains you, but-"

Etain bounced off her back heel into the troop cabin in one move. For a
moment Darman thought she had changed her mind, but  that  wasn't  Etain  at
all. She took out her lightsaber and held the glowing shaft a handspan  away
from the power conduit running along the spine of the  airframe.  She  could
ground them with one move. Zey's jaw was set. Nobody else moved  except  for
the Gran medic working on Atin, who seemed oblivious to the drama, a quality
Darman suspected was honed by working under fire.

"Master," Etain said, "either all of  Omega  Squad  leaves  Qiilura  or
nobody does."

"This is a foolish act, Etain." His tone was very calm. "You  must  see
the necessity of this."

"No, Master. I don't."

He's going to do some of that Jedi stuff on her,  Darman  thought.  No,
no, please ... He couldn't see the ARC's expression but he  could  guess  it
was one of astonishment.

"Etain, this is precisely why you must resist attachment."

Oh, he doesn't know her at all, Darman thought. If only he'd-

Her lightsaber was still ready to slice through the conduit.  "As  Jedi
we say we revere all life. Are we prepared to live that  belief?  Are  these
soldiers' lives worth any less  than  ours  because  we  had  them  created?
Because we can buy more of them if these are destroyed?"

"They are soldiers, Etain. Soldiers die."

"No, Master, they're men. And  they've  fought  well,  and  they're  my
responsibility, and I would rather die than live with the knowledge  that  I
abandoned them."

It was so silent that time seemed to have frozen. Zey  and  Etain  were
locked in a wordless argument. Then Zey shut his eyes.

"I feel your certainty has its roots in the Force," he said. There  was
a sigh in his voice. "What's your name-Darman? So you have  names,  do  you?
Darman, go where she directs you. She values your lives more than she values
becoming a Jedi Knight."

Etain made as if to follow him. "You stay, ma'am. Please."

"No," she said. "I won't leave you, any of you." She  was  holding  her
lightsaber as if she were part of it now,  not  like  something  she  feared
would bite her. "I realize this is gross disobedience,  Master  Zey,  but  I
really don't think I'm ready to become a Jedi Knight yet."

"You're completely right," Zey said calmly. "And we do need these men."

Darman followed her, looking back for a second at the general.

He looked as if he was smiling.  Darman  could  have  sworn  he  seemed
almost proud.

Ghez Hokan had expended almost every round he had. He was down  to  his
vibroblade, the lightsaber, and the last two projectiles in his Verpine now.
He pressed his glove hard into his thigh and checked again  to  see  if  the
wound was weeping fluid.

He couldn't feel any pain. His glove came away wet:  the  blaster  burn
had gone deep through skin, nerves, and fat, cauterizing blood  vessels  but
exposing raw tissue that wept plasma.

He wondered what kind of injury was making  the  commando  scream  like
that, a high-pitched, incoherent, sobbing scream that trailed off  and  then
started up again.

Hokan couldn't see the man's comrade. He knew he had one because he had
been hit from two separate positions. Maybe the other was dead. He  listened
a little longer. He'd heard many men die. Whatever their  species,  whatever
their age, they almost always screamed for their mothers.

Clone soldiers didn't have mothers as far as he knew. So this  one  was
screaming for his sergeant. The sergeant was called Kal  or  something  like
it. It was hard to tell.

For some reason that made it unbearable.  For  once,  Hokan  could  not
despise weakness. Whatever he thought of the  Republic  and  the  loathsome,
sanctimonious Jedi, this was a  Mandalorian  warrior  out  there,  used  and
discarded.

He would finish him. It was the decent thing to do. A wounded man could
also return fire, so he wasn't going soft, not at all. He was simply  ending
the battle.

Hokan knelt and looked around. It was clear. Even so, he  struggled  to
crawl with his head down toward the direction of the screams.

They were quieter now, a series of gulping sobs.

"Sarge ... don't leave me ... Sargeant Kal! Sarge!  Uhhh  it  hurts  it
hurts it hurts ..."

How dare the Republic use Jango Fett to create  this  abomination.  How
had Fett let this happen? Hokan edged closer. He could see  a  body  in  the
grass now. He  could  see  light-colored,  dirt-caked  metallic  armor  very
similar in design to his own, but bulkier and more complex.

And now he was close enough to see the face with the mouth  wide  open.
The man had his arms folded tight across his chest. He was sobbing.

It was Jango Fett, many years before.

Hokan drew himself up on his knees and knelt a couple  of  meters  from
the wounded commando, absolutely astonished.

"I'm sorry, my brother," he said. The lightsaber would have been  fast,
but it was a disgrace to use a Jedi weapon to kill a Mandalorian man. It was
too much like reenacting Jango's fate at Geonosis. Hokan drew his vibroblade
instead. "It's not your fault. They made you like this."

The commando opened his eyes and focused at a point just past  him,  as
Hokan had seen many dying men do. They all seemed to see ghosts at the final
moment.

It was only then that Hokan heard the sound of a lightsaber. And it was
too late.

"You cut that fine," Niner said.

It was the only time Darman had ever seen him look  shocked.  He  wiped
his face with the palm of his glove.

"And where were you, Fi? Thanks a bunch. I could  have  been  filleted.
You were suppose to slot him."

Fi searched through the decapitated Hokan's jacket. "Ah,  I  could  see
Dar and Commander Etain behind him. I  knew  you  were  probably  okay."  He
paused, and the rifling grew more vigorous. "Here you go, ma'am. I think you
ought to have this." Fi handed a short cylinder back to Etain. It was Master
Kast Fulier's lightsaber. It was a matter of honor to return  it.  "They  do
work well against Mandalorian armor, don't they?"

Etain didn't seem remotely triumphant. She took the hilt and turned  it
over in her hand before placing it in her pocket. Darman wondered  how  long
it would be before she sheathed her own lightsaber. She was still  clutching
it in one hand, its blue blade humming and shimmering as she  trembled.  She
wasn't focusing. Darman willed Fi not  to  make  the  obvious  comment  that
killing someone with a lightsaber was nice and clean, no guts, no mess.  For
once he kept his gallows humor to himself, and simply  walked  a  few  paces
away  to  recover  the  genuine  Mandalorian  helmet  he  had   decided   to
appropriate.

"You want to put that away now, ma'am?" Darman said gently. "We're done
here."

Niner got to his feet and saluted her in best  formal  parade  fashion.
"Thank you, Commander. You don't mind me calling you that now, do you?"

She seemed to come back to the here and now. The shaft  of  blue  light
vanished.

"It's an honor," she said.

Darman called back on the comlink: General Zey had kept his  word.  The
gunship was still waiting. They set off in column, picking  up  speed  until
they broke into a trot.

The gunship was surrounded by a skirt of billowing dust. Its drive  had
been idling so long that the heat of the down-draft had dried the top  layer
of soil.

Etain didn't care if the ship had taken off. She hadn't  abandoned  her
squad. Nothing else mattered after that. And although she knew it had been a
deliberate decoy, the sound of Niner screaming would haunt her  forever.  He
must have heard that for real at least once in his life to have mimicked  it
so horribly well. She felt sick, and it was not because she had killed  Ghez
Hokan, and that filled her with shame.

She understood fully now why attachment was forbidden to Jedi.

The ARC trooper was pacing a slow, regular square, hands clasped behind
his back, head down, and Etain would no longer make the assumption  that  he
was lost in thought. He was  probably  listening  to  comm  traffic  in  the
private world of his helmet.

General Zey was sitting patiently on  the  ship's  platform.  "Are  you
ready now?"

She held out Master Fulier's lightsaber to him. "Omega Squad  recovered
it. I felt I should return it to you."

"I know what you're going through, Padawan."

"But that's no comfort, Master."

"A concern for those under your command is essential.  But  it  carries
its own pain if you identify too much with your troops." Yes, it  did  sound
as if Zey had known that dilemma. "There are always casualties in war."

"I know. But I also know them now as individuals, and  I  can't  change
that. No clone trooper, no commando, not even an ARC trooper will ever be an
anonymous unit to me now. I'll always wonder who's behind  that  visor.  How
can I be a true Jedi and not respect them as beings, with all that entails?"

Zey was  studying  his  hands  a  little  too  carefully.  "Every  good
commander in history has had to face that. And so will you."

"If I'm a commander, then may I accompany them on their next mission?"

"I suspect that would not be for the best."

"And what do I do now? How can I  go  back  to  everyday  duties  after
this?"

"There are no everyday duties now we're at war. I will not be  leaving.
I have come to do what work I can here."

"Work?"

"What will happen to our allies-the Gurlanins-if we abandon  them  now,
with enemy forces in the area? I'm here to operate with them,  and  try  and
make Qiilura as inhospitable to Separatists as we can."

"I'm glad we're honoring our commitment, Master."

"You know this land better than anyone now. You  would  be  a  valuable
asset here."

"And when will more troops join you?"

"I'm afraid we'll have to continue the covert work for the time  being.
We would need to disappear."

We. Etain could think of nothing worse than staying  on  Qiilura,  with
its terrible memories and uncertain future. The nearest she had  to  friends
was a squad of commandos who would be deployed  on  another  mission  within
days. She would be working with a Master she  didn't  know.  She  was  alone
again and scared.

"Etain, you have duties," Zey said quietly. "We all have. We talk about
duty when it's easy, but living it is hard." And he didn't need to add  what
she knew he was thinking-that she needed to be separated from the object  of
her recent and desperate wartime attachment. She needed to let her squad go.

It was no different from what was asked of soldiers every day.

"I-I would like to play  a  useful  role  in  the  future  of  Qiilura,
Master." She hoped Darman wouldn't think she was turning her back on him and
that he was after all just a glorified droid to her, an asset to be used  in
battle and expended if necessary. "But I would still find it a  comfort  one
day to know how Omega Squad is faring."

"I understand," Zey said. "The choice is yours, though. You can go with
Omega Squad. Or you can stay. You might even request that one of  the  squad
remain here."

One of the squad. Maybe he thought she was just a girl who'd become too
attached to a young man when neither of

them would ever be able  to  take  the  relationship  farther.  He  was
testing her, challenging her to make the choice a proper Jedi Knight  should
make. Yes, she had become close to Darman: he'd been the making of her.  But
she cared at an inexplicably fundamental level about all of them.

"I don't think caring about your troops is a weakness," she said.  "The
day we stop caring is the day we turn our back on the Force."

She dug her nails into her palms. Zey was right,  though.  And  it  was
going to hurt. She sat on the platform beside Zey in silence,  eyes  closed,
composing herself.

The ARC  trooper  suddenly  jerked  his  head  up.  "General,  sir,  we
absolutely must go now."

"General Zey," Niner said, and touched his glove to his temple.  "Sorry
we kept you. Are we ready to lift?"

"We don't have time for a mission debriefing, but perhaps you'd like  a
moment with your commander," Zey said,  and  beckoned  the  ARC  trooper  to
follow him. It was a gracious gesture. Etain watched him walk to the rear of
the ship to offer her some privacy, apparently supervising the offloading of
equipment. She wondered if  they  had  managed  to  land  Zey's  starfighter
somewhere.

She'd worry about that later. She beckoned the commandos to her.

"What's going to happen to you now?" she said.

"Next mission. Have they assigned us to you?"

She wondered whether a lie might be in order.  She  looked  at  Darman.
"Not exactly," she said. "I'm staying here with General Zey."

Darman and Niner both  averted  their  eyes,  looking  at  the  ground,
nodding as if in agreement. Fi raised his eyebrows.  "I'm  really  going  to
miss you, Commander. Just when we were shaping up. Typical of the army, eh?"
He rapped his knuckles on Niner's back plate, pushing him a fraction  toward
the gunship. "Make a move, then, Sarge."

"Hope to serve with you again, Commander," Niner said, and saluted her.
"And don't ever think you didn't earn that rank, will you?"

Etain wished they hadn't left her alone with Darman. She wanted a quick
exit with no time to think and make a stupid, emotional comment.

"I chose to stay," she said. "I really would have liked to have  stayed
part of the team, but I'm not the officer you need."

Darman said nothing. Of course: how could he ever have learned  how  to
take his leave of a friend? All his brief life had been spent among his  own
kind, immersed in warfare real or  virtual.  This  was  where  he  became  a
ten-year-old child again. His embarrassment and confusion were palpable.

"You could remain here with me and General Zey," she said. And I'd know
you were safe. "You have that choice."

He really was a child now. His eyes were fixed on the  ground.  He  was
flicking one of the switches on his rifle, back and forth, over and over.

"Just me, ma'am?"

She felt she was testing him now. "Yes."

The gunship's drive rose in frequency, a high whine: the pilot was more
than impatient to leave.

"I'm sorry, Commander," Darman said at last. For a  moment,  he  really
did seem to be considering it seriously. "I have a job to do."

"I can't pretend I won't miss you," she said.

Darman's gaze didn't flicker. "I've got about ten years left. But  I'll
be with my brothers, doing what I do best. It's  all  I've  ever  known-like
going home, really." He bent his head and snapped on  his  helmet,  becoming
one of the faceless again. "You take care, Commander."

"And you," she said, and watched him run to the platform and grasp Fi's
outstretched arm to be hauled inboard.

The drive roared into higher gear, and the gunship shook slightly.

Etain turned and walked away in a crouch to steady herself against  the
downdraft. She speeded up into a hunched run until she found a tree and  sat
down in the lee of it with her back to its trunk.

And she let the tears run down her face.

All that she was, and all that she would be in the future, was  because
a clone soldier had put such undeserved faith in her  that  she  had  become
that Jedi he imagined she was. She could now harness the Force in a way  she
had never been able to at Fulier's side.

She thought of that look of complete faith. She thought  of  his  stoic
acceptance of his duty and of the fact that his  life  would  be  brief  and
bright, whatever happened. He had never known a moment of self-pity. She had
learned the most important lesson of all from him.

She wiped her eyes with the heel of  her  hand  and  hoped  Zey  wasn't
watching.

Etain didn't know if she would ever see Darman or  Omega  Squad  again.
She did know, though, that in days to come, every clone trooper or  commando
or ARC that she might have to order into battle would be neither  anonymous,
nor meaningless, nor expendable. Under that grim helmet was a  man,  someone
just like her, a human being, but one without the freedom or the  life  span
afforded to her.

Etain Tur-Mukan stood up and walked back into the clearing at the  edge
of the field to watch the gunship lift into the early-morning sky.