"About time," said Niner. "We're stretched thin enough to read a holozine through us. Okay, Kal'buir, that's all we need to know. But that still doesn't fully explain why Jilka's a problem."

"Niner, ner vod-shut up, will you?" said Corr.

"No, you need to know this, all of it, because it's going to blow up soon," Skirata said. "I want you to be ready to save yourselves."

It was so quiet in the 'freshers that Darman could hear a faint, distant, distracting drip from a faucet. "Okay, full story," said Niner.

"The extra troops aren't going to be deployed for some months." Skirata held his hand up in front of his chest as if to quell argument that hadn't even started. "Palpatine's holding them back, but they're fully developed. Fast-grown Spaarti clones, we think, mature enough to fight within a year or so, not grown Kamino-style like you-millions and millions of them. He's got a big push planned, and the fact that nobody, Skirata's eyes, oblivious of everyone else. The pressure in his head, right behind his eyes, felt almost like a bad dose of flu that had hit him in just a few moments. He couldn't hold it much longer. "What else don't you tell us? How can I trust you?"

"Dar, I'm sorry." Skirata put his hands on Darman's arms as if to soothe him, but Darman pulled away. "That's why I'm telling you everything now."

"I said, what else?"

"I'm not holding anything back. At least I don't think I am-"You wouldn't even know if you were lying. It's all just one big lie."

Skirata's eyes changed. Something went out of them; light, life, whatever, but Darman had wounded him. "Son, I'm not exactly an Asrat holy man, I admit that. But whatever I did, however stupid it was, I did because I love you boys more than you'll ever know."

"Liar," said Darman. "Liar."

And he punched Kal 'buir in the face.

The shock of the impact traveled up Darman's arm into his shoulder in slow motion. He heard the yells to stop, felt someone grab his arm, but shook them off. Skirata fell against the tiled wall. He started yelling, too; "Leave him, leave him, get out and leave us-" But the feeling didn't stop for Darman, not even when the punch exploded in pain, the feeling that his lungs were going to burst if he didn't get rid of this hammering pulse in his throat. Darman hauled Skirata upright and hit him again. He heard the oof and felt the spit on his face, but Skirata didn't hit back.

"It's okay, son," Skirata gasped, scrambling to his feet, arms held away from his sides. All Darman could see was blood, nothing else. "It's okay. Let it out. I asked for it."

Darman wasn't aware of much else for the next few seconds-maybe minutes, he had no idea-except hitting and hitting and hitting Skirata anywhere he could reach. No focus, no aim; there wasn't even Skirata, not really. There was just this weird rage, half terror, and Darman wanted it out of him because he couldn't draw another breath with it still inside him. Vau was shouting at the others to get out and leave them to it.

Then all Darman could hear was rasping breath. It was his own. Skirata was panting, too. When Darman looked down at his hands, they were raw and bleeding, and his first thought was that he hadn't put his armored gauntlets on, and he was glad. He landed back in reality, shocked. "Kal'buir, I'm sorry, I'm sorry ..." Skirata leaned back against the wall, legs out in front of him. Darman could still only see the blood-not the face, just blood from the old sergeant's nose and mouth. Skirata wiped it with the back of his hand and smeared it everywhere. Darman was almost paralyzed with horror and regret; the smell of the blood made him feel unsteady. But he edged forward and lifted Skirata to his feet.

"Do you want to talk, son?" Skirata paused put one hand on the wall to steady himself, and spat into the nearest basin. He could hardly get the words out. "Or do you ... want to be alone for a while?"

"I'm sorry. Shab, I'm sorry, Buir-" "I'm sorry, too. It's okay. Come here." Skirata embraced him. He actually hugged him, although it felt as if he was also hanging on to him to stay upright. Darman felt he was now in a stranger's body, because he didn't know how he could ever have done such a thing to Kal'buir. He didn't know what had erupted from him. But it had gone away. And Skirata just held him as if he hadn't hurt him at all.

"Now, what do you need son?"

"I don't want to talk," Darman said. "But I don't want to be alone, either."

"It's going to be fine, don't you worry." Skirata spat more bloody saliva. Something hard pinged in the basin. "Everything's going to turn out okay."

Chapter 10.

So what's wrong with being a mercenary? Is your war worth fighting? If it is, then why does it matter who fights it for you? Aren't we imbued with the righteousness of your cause when we take up arms for you? Would you rather your own men and women died to make the point? And if your war is so noble, so necessary-why aren't you fighting it yourself? Think of all that before you spit on us, aruetii.

-Jaster Mereel, Mand'alor, AI'Ori'Ramikade, speaking to the regent of Mek va Uil, ten years before dying at the hands of a comrade he trusted.

Arca Barracks, three hours later, 998 days ABG General Zey filled the corridor, robes flapping as he bore down like a bantha stampede.

At least it looked that way to Scorch. Zey was on the warpath. These quiet days when everyone seemed to be on the brink of screaming anger and nothing was getting shot, vibrobladed, or blown up-Scorch knew there was far worse lurking under the surface. He was fed up waiting for op orders when he could taste the tension in the air.

Vau and Mird walked head-on toward the Jedi as if he was a minor inconvenience.

"Sergeant Vau!" he barked. No Walon, then. "What in the name of the Force happened to Skirata? I've just passed him."

Vau was the only being Scorch had ever seen who could come to a halt grudgingly. "He's fine."

"He is not fine. He's badly injured. He can't even stand up straight."

Vau inhaled slowly. "We were having a philosophical discussion, as Mandalorians often do, and I asserted that the only demonstrable reality was individual consciousness, but he insisted on the existence of a priori moral values that transcended free will. So I hit him."

Zey didn't even blink. "You think you're so witty."

"No, I think you should stay out of Mando clan business. It's for your own good. Now, do you want a report, or not?"

Zey gestured Vau into a side lobby. So the old chakaar really had been spying on Skirata. Scorch was actually surprised, and even a little disappointed but Zey had a point; and it was an inarguable order. Scorch stood to one side, trying to look-and feel-as if he wasn't listening intently.

"I see that arrests have been swift," Zey said.

"Some stupid clerk, General," said Vau. "So Skirata is not your traitor, even though he is a light-fingered little scumbag who'd steal your teeth if you smiled at him. But I don't think you'll see a continuation of his dishonest habits, because he now understands the error of his ways."

Scorch translated into plain language. So Vau had given Skirata a good hiding for causing trouble, and made him swear not to rip off Republic funds and kit again. That was . . . unexpected. Scorch had always had Skirata down as the alpha Mando, even if he had to stand on a box to head-butt Vau.

"I'm relieved." Zey nodded shoulders relaxing visibly. "I didn't want to think I was that far misguided about his motives."

"We still have a job to do, General. The suspect-this tax clerk the RDS is holding. The Chancellor can set up as many internal enforcement agencies as he wishes, but I have no faith in anyone's interrogation ability but my own. I'd like to talk to her."

"Good luck," Zey said. "I'm just the Director of Special Forces. My wishes count for nothing."

"Exactly. So RDS won't share information with us any more freely than Intel does, so I'm planning to stroll over there and extract her if need be."

Zey spread his hands in mock helplessness. "My authorization will get you no farther than the front doors." "No, I mean authorize me for the retrieval." "That's extreme."

"So are the rumors I hear about a big enemy assault coming soon. I'll grab every source I can get."

Zey clasped his hands in front of him in that Jedi way, looking slightly sideways at Vau.

"Trying to sense any dark side in me, General?" Vau asked.

"You don't feel remotely dark. Quite serene, actually."

"I've been told that before, and that should set off your warning bells, jetii. Your senses need recalibrating. None of you can feel darkness right under your noses."

"Okay, agreed. Do it. If it goes wrong-you're on your own."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

It was another nonconversation that had not taken place about a subject that wasn't for discussion; deniable. Zey strode off at high speed boots thudding, cloak napping like wings, a giant hawk-bat of a man.

"What do you want us to do, Sarge?"

Vau summoned Mird back to his side with a silent gesture. "Nothing."

"Sarge, we can-"

"No. You can't. Sorry. This crosses the line from soldier to ... well, I don't want you involved with this. I needed Zey to know what I was doing, but it's better you don't ask why, either."

"Okay, Sarge." Scorch activated his helmet comlink, wondering if Vau didn't think they were good enough to take on RDS. "I'll get the schematics of the security cells, and we'll have you an operational plan inside half an hour."

"Scrap the plan, Scorch, but the schematics would be very welcome. Get some rest. Kashyyyk is going to wring you dry."

"Okay, Sarge." They had time to give him a bit of help. "We wouldn't foul up, honest."

"I know. But this is too dirty and political even for special ops. Concentrate on Kashyyyk. Real soldiering to be done there."

Vau gave him a thumbs-up gesture and walked away toward the accommodation wing. So what did he know about a big assault? There was always one coming, and Vau was good at leaving everyone wondering just how much he knew, just enough revealed to make folks take notice of him.

He knew an awful lot about Jedi, that was for sure.

Scorch slapped down his own curiosity and told it to behave. He didn't care how Vau knew. He was just glad that he did and he trusted him, because Vau's words always came back to him from those first days on Kamino.

Everything I do from this moment on is to make sure you survive to fight. Even if I don't.

"Yes, Sarge," Scorch said. "We know."

Kyrimorut, Mandalore "I want to come with you," Fi said. "I can go, can't I, Parja? Please?"

All Fi knew was that things were going badly wrong back on Coruscant. Jusik was packing up to go back, a day sooner than he'd said. He never broke his word; if he said he'd stay four days, then four days it was.

But he looked preoccupied as he stowed his bag in the burn-streaked Aggressor starfighter he used as a runabout. Jusik's metamorphosis from modest Jedi Knight to Mandalorian bad boy-not just in appearance-had been dizzyingly fast, as if he'd swapped one set of passionate beliefs for another without pausing to think. Maybe that was what being raised in a cult did to a man. He only knew how to surrender himself to an ideal. Fi knew how that felt, and how adrift you could feel when that certainty was snatched away.

Jusik's taste for fast, dangerous transport hadn't changed one bit, though. The Aggressor was the bounty-hunter special, with a decent hyperdrive and even holding cells.

"Your call, F'ika," said Parja. "Just remember that you're a deserter, or you're dead or you're stolen Republic property, whichever way they look at you. So you better not get caught if you do go."

Jusik fastened his bag, seeming not to hear. "One good thing about being a Jedi was that I never owned enough stuff to worry about packing. Now I'm working out what I need to get rid of to travel light."

"Me?" Fi said. I know, I'll slow you down.

"Now, I never said that . . ."

"I swear I won't be a burden."

"I've just commed Kal'buir. We've got a lew problems to sort out. At least Dar knows about Kad now, and . . . well, that's resolved."

"So why are you rushing back?"

"We're in (he final phase now, Fi. We've got a lot to do before we can pull everyone out, and Skirata needs all hands on deck."

"You said I was as fit as an average human." Fi made his mind up; he was going to go, even if he had to make his own way to the Core. "I'm probably as fit as Kal'buir, and you're not stopping him."

Jusik looked at Parja as if he was appealing to her to back him up. She didn't.

"Bard'ika, I'd rather he stayed here with me," she said. "But he can make his own decisions, and I'll still be here when he comes home. No Mando woman ever stopped her man going to war."

"You could come, too," Fi said. "And it's not exactly a war."

"You don't need me holding your hand any longer, Fi. Besides, someone's got to keep this place going, and I've got the workshop to worry about, too."

"It'll be a few weeks. That's all."

Jusik looked over his shoulder for a moment, as if he'd heard something, then shrugged and slammed the cargo hatch shut. "You're not going to give up, are you?"

"No."

"Take him, Bard'ika," Parja said. "I'll worry myself sick about him every minute he's away, but forcing him to sit it out won't help him get better."

Jusik didn't answer. He walked around the blunt tail section of the fighter and looked as if he was checking the airframe, but Fi knew him well enough to see that it was just marking time while something else-not the ongoing argument-was taking his attention.

"What's wrong?" Parja asked, drawing her blaster from her belt.

She did it casually, as if she was going to clean it. But when she flicked the charge button, Fi caught on. They had company. Nobody should have been able to find them here, but Jusik had sensed something.

"Maybe nothing," Jusik said, but he had his hand on his belt, too, and that meant he was feeling for his lightsaber. It was weird to see a Mando in traditional beskar'gam even handling that weapon. Jusik rarely activated it now, but like any soldier he defaulted to what he'd been trained to do. The body remembered; it didn't need the conscious mind. Jedi started lightsaber training when they were four years old.

Fi hadn't drawn a blaster in earnest for a long time, and the short custom WESTAR-20 still didn't feel right in his grip. Jusik turned to face out toward the field, scanning the landscape with slow care.

"Get down," he said. "Fi, Parja, find some cover."

Parja grabbed Fi's sleeve and forced him behind the protection of one of the Aggressor's twin manipulator arms.

"I thought we were hidden here," Fi whispered. "Nobody's supposed to be able to find us."

Jusik took a few steps forward. Fi heard his boots crunching on the gravel.

"There's two of you," he called out. "You're not sure if you're really bitter enough to kill me, or if you're desperate for help. I can even pinpoint your position."

The fields didn't answer. There were no engine or drive sounds, not even in the distance, just the sound of wind hushing the trees, and the distant rhythmic bark of a shatual buck announcing he was in town and looking for does.

It was a shame Jusik wasn't wearing his buy'ce. He could have sent Fi some coordinates to aim at. Come to that, Fi wasn't wearing his, either.

"Come on, I know what a clone feels like in the Force," Jusik called. "You're all different, vode, but I can still sense the things you have in common."

The seed heads on the grass fifty meters ahead rustled and shivered. Parja squinted down the optics of her blaster.