"And I want a life." Atin was getting really angry now. "If I survive, then I'm not going to be a soldier forever." He paused for a few moments as if gearing up for something difficult. "I want out. I want to leave."

It was the first time any of them had said that aloud. Maybe it was the first time any of them had wanted it. Fi's departure had somehow opened the door to dissent and real ambition beyond the GAR.

In the awkward silence, Corr seemed to be studiously avoiding the argument. Sometimes he still behaved in a temporary I'm-just-filling-in kind of way, even if it was clear that Fi was never coming back.

Niner had his sergeant's don't-argue-with-me voice on now. "Your mind should be on the operation, not on getting out of the army."

"It is," Atin said, moving up beside Corr and taking a firing position next to him. "I can do both at the same time. In fact, one helps me do the other..."

No, it wasn't Fi's escape. Darman decided it was the arrival of Skirata's grandson that had started it. The child had given all of them the feeling that real life was going on without them and leaving them behind. If they'd been like the white jobs, the regular clone troopers who had limited contact with normal civilian life, then they might have managed to kid themselves that things weren't so bad. But they'd all spent time doing things that nonclones took for granted. By giving them as much freedom as he could Skirata had made them far less satisfied with their lot.

"What about you and Etain, Dar?" Atin asked.

"What, you mean are we going to settle down?"

"Yeah."

Etain would have to leave the Jedi Order. They didn't hold with relationships-attachment, they called it-but they didn't expect Jedi to be celibate, either. That seemed to be asking for trouble, Darman thought. One day they'd get some lovesick Jedi doing something crazy, whatever the training was supposed to knock out of them, and it wouldn't end well. You couldn't turn flesh and blood into unemotional droids, neither clone nor Jedi. It wasn't healthy. It wasn't fair.

"We haven't talked detail," Darman said. "But yeah, that's what I want."

"Kids?"

Darman thought of Skirata's grandson. Babies were all demand and hunger. Force-sensitive babies-well, Etain would have to sort that out. It was all a long way off, if ever, and he didn't have to think about it.

"One day," he said. "But not yet."

"Better get cracking on it," Corr said helpfully. "Before you get too old."

"Talking of cracking on," said Niner, "stand by..."

Darman's gut knotted as it always did before action. He scrambled into a better vantage point and spotted what had grabbed Niner's attention: a thin line of repulsortrucks carrying routine supplies from the port, kicking up dust like a smokescreen. Atin released a reconnaissance remote, tossing the tiny sphere into the air to make its way across the narrow pass and hover, relaying images from the ground beneath.

Corr scrolled through magnifications in his HUD; Darman could see his brother's changing field of view in the point-of-view icons in his own head-up display. It settled on the southern wall of crumbling cliffs that flanked the road and when Darman switched to the same view he could see shapes suddenly emerging from the fissures like insects.

"I still reckon they've got tunnels into those positions," Corr said irritably. "Or we'd have seen them move in."

Niner had a good line of sight down the wadi. "Well, as long as they didn't see us move in ... remember, we're only after Jolluc. Don't waste ammo on anyone else unless you need to."

Each week, a rebel platoon had come along the dirt road to intercept shipments moving to Hadde from the port city of Rishun, and Omega had let them, simply observing and collecting intel. It was Jolluc they needed to take out; smart, resourceful, and the main man for planning, Intel said. Now the rebels were getting lairy, to use Mereel's favorite word. They weren't taking as many precautions.

It still seemed pretty pointless to Darman, seeing as the Mauja tribes weren't actually a threat to the Republic. He doubted they could even spell Separatist. They just liked thieving and didn't like their government, which sounded an awful lot like Skirata. They wanted whatever they could grab. Hadde probably looked like a nice place to pillage.

But they'd fire back when Omega targeted them, so Darman's vague sympathy evaporated faster than spit on the hot rocks around him. He sighted up. The rebels had to assault the convoy at close quarters if they wanted to pillage, because an artillery bombardment would trash everything they wanted to take, and that made them vulnerable. Jolluc would be with them-if Intel was right-and fair game in open ground.

"They could have a warren of tunnels in there." Corr was persistent. "And we won't even dent that if we can't call in air strikes. When we're clear, I say we wander down and run a few scans. See what we can do to shut them down."

Some of the Maujasi spilled down onto the road carrying parts of dismantled repeating blasters, and sprinted across to scramble up the rocks and take up positions on the other side and assemble the weapons; there were now around thirty of them. There was no sign of Jolluc. Darman had various images of the man in his HUD, checking them against each rebel he could get a clear focus on through the DC-17's optics.

"A few more than usual," Atin said. "Maybe there's nothing worth watching on HNE today."

Niner shook his head. "Intel didn't say there was anything different about this supply run."

"Here we go again." Darman sighed. "Intel's as useful as a third nostril. Stop listening to them."

The convoy of repulsortrucks was a few minutes from the ambush point now, their security speeders riding ahead. They knew they'd have company. They always got hit one way or another. It was just a question of how hard, so why didn't the Republic just supply Hadde with air transport to freight supplies into town? They were as stupid as those shabla beetles. It would have stopped this ritual. It just proved to Darman that Palpatine was either running out of creds and resources, or he hadn't a clue how to run a war, or maybe both.

"Stand by," said Niner.

"We should warn the convoy we're here."

"I'm not risking it. One minute they're government sympathizers, the next they're rebels . . . you can't trust any of 'em."

Darman planned to put a grenade or three into the northern face of the slope if things got too hot, starting with the rebels' rotary blaster position. The thing looked ancient. Warfare was a lot less high-tech here, but underestimating it was a good way to end up dead.

There was still no sign of Jolluc.

"Two hundred meters," said Niner. Darman heard the repeater's magazine click into position. "Boy, there's definitely more of them than usual..."

"We could abort," Atin said.

Niner had his finger on the trigger. The rebels were now all between Omega's position and the convoy. "Not now." "I make it thirty-one."

On top of a rock in the middle of nowhere. We're going to have to run for it . . . should have brought the speeder bikes. . .

"When you see Jolluc, take him," Niner said. "If you don't see him, hold fire, shut your eyes, and leave the convoy to look out for itself. No heroics."

It was brutal, but they weren't here to babysit supply chains for civvies. Darman motivated himself with the thought of the jug of iced water back at base and checked the range on the Deece. The reticule lined up on the antique rotary and the grenade's charge glowed red.

The first bdapp of rebel blasters split the heavy afternoon air. The convoy's escort returned fire while the convoy tried to scatter, but there was no open ground.

"No Jolluc," said Niner calmly.

"Give it time..." Atin turned away from the assault below. "Shab, I hate this."

"We're not here to police traffic."

It was still tough to stand back and let the convoy take it. Darman itched for an excuse to open fire. He'd gone charging to the rescue before on Qiilura, breaking cover to save civilians, but he'd been a kid then on his second deployment. The longer you spent fighting, the more cautious you became. Battle hardening meant that you knew how dead you could really get. Darman would leave the derring-do to the new boys now.

What new boys? We're going to run out of reinforcements.

Blasterfire spat and flared; smoke roiled, and Darman made an effort not to react to the screaming and yelling. Niner reached out and put his hand on his shoulder, saying nothing.

"Got him," said Corr. He paused and made a low rumbling noise in his throat for a split second, just like Sev. "By the lead vehicle. Look at that filthy hut'uun."

For a moment Darman couldn't work out why Corr had suddenly taken Haurgab's civil war so personally, but when he magnified his HUD image he understood. Jolluc-yes, it was him-was sporting a few pieces of white plastoid armor, trooper armor. He swaggered through the smoke as if there wasn't a firefight in progress.

There was only one way he could have acquired it, and that made this battle suddenly very personal indeed.

"I wonder what happened to the poor white job he took that from," Corr whispered, taking aim. "Well, shab-face, here's where you find out that trooper armor isn't as hardened as Katarn kit..."

Niner swung back to the repeating blaster. They hadn't bargained on this many rebels showing up, so they'd have to leave it behind. One good shot, and the Maujasi wouldn't be able to pinpoint the location in all this confusion.

"Soon as we're sure he's down, bang out," Niner said. "Got it?"

Corr squeezed the trigger without another word. Darman saw the plume of hot vapor like a puff of smoke rise from Jolluc's head and the rebel leader-nothing special, balding, maybe fifty-seemed to leap for a moment before falling backward against a burning truck.

"Still moving," Darman said.

Atin squeezed off a shot. "Not anymore..."

Niner scrambled to grab his Deece. "Okay, job done-let's go"

They could be down the slope and out into the rocky hills before the Maujasi had worked out what had happened. They could have.

"Sniper! Sniper!"

The shout rang out across the wadi, and the firing paused for a moment. Then something whooshed a meter or so above the crumbling wall of the fort, sending Darman and the others diving for cover. A mortar exploded some distance behind them.

The next one would probably get the range right.

"We're screwed" Corr said wearily, and snapped off his Deece's sniper attachment to replace it with the ion pulser. "They know we're here."

"By the time we get to the bottom they'll be waiting for us." Darman counted again; maybe twenty rebels still standing. "We can take twenty."

Niner knelt down and aimed the repeater. "I'll give them something to think about and you lot bang out."

Darman ignored him and loaded a few grenades. Atin and Corr didn't jump to obey orders, either.

"Don't start that, Sarge," Atin said. "You know we don't do that. Let's go."

Some repulsortrucks had now managed to pull back and were making a run for it back toward Rishun. Another mortar round shaved a meter over the squad's heads, way too close. The air was thick with pulverized rock and smoke from a burning vehicle. Darman switched filters on his visor with a couple of blinks and saw chaos in the haze, more debris than he expected and a lot of bodies.

"Okay, go. Go."

Darman ran at a crouch for the exit point, thinking the others were following, but the faintest movement in Niner's HUD point-of-view icon caught his eye. Through the haze that hung in the narrow pass, there was a growing tide of movement. Shapes-ones and twos at first, then dozens-were pouring out of openings in the sides of the wadi.

"I make that about a hundred..." Niner said quietly, stacking what ammo he still had next to the repeater.

Corr swallowed audibly. "Tunnel network," he said. "Told you so."

The rebels had a lot more troops than Intel-or Omega-had thought, and they were all coming out to play. And they knew exactly where Omega were now.

It was one thing to fight past twenty rebels when you had armor and they didn't. A hundred-that was a different matter.

"Oh . . . shab," said Darman.

Private booth in the Haunch of Nerf cantina, Coruscant university quarter Mandalorians were lying savages, loyal to nobody and congenitally violent. They'd steal anything that wasn't nailed down; they'd kill for a bet.

That was what a lot of folks thought of Mando'ade, and Kal Skirata was now relying on that thuggish stereotype to cover his tracks. The last thing he wanted any aruetii to know was that he needed information for purely emotional reasons. It always made negotiations harder.

"So, can you help me out or not, Professor?" He fixed the biologist with his best I'm-not-just-some-ignorant-grunt expression and leaned back so that the shoulder holster under his best bantha-hide jacket was partially visible. Nobody took much notice of armored Mandalorians on Coruscant, but he preferred to work in plainclothes here. It just provided one connection too many if anyone bothered to join up the dots. "I don't know how much university biology professors make a year, but I'm betting it's not millions."

Gilamar was sitting in on the meeting to add a little medical expertise, and Mereel provided a credible impression of hired muscle. The professor was Dr. Reye Nenilin: he was a gerontologist, the best in his field, and that was the kind of expert Skirata badly needed.

"I have a comfortable lifestyle," Nenilin said. "I'd have to have a very good reason for putting that at risk."

"They say you know more about the aging process than any being alive."

"Do you mind my asking what your interest is?"

Mereel-Null ARC Lieutenant N-7-stood behind Skirata. "My father's not getting any younger."

"He's such a cute kid," said Skirata. "Takes after his mother. Okay, let's just say I have some parts of a puzzle, a puzzle that might make a lot of creds when complete, and I'm looking for someone who can help me work out what the missing parts are."

"Is your interest professional?" Nenilin asked.

"I'm a Mandalorian," said Skirata. It didn't do any harm for the guy to realize what he was dealing with. "Do I look like I might be motivated by a Republic Accolade for Scientific Advancement?"

"Pecuniary, then ... and if the topic is the process of aging, then which parts of the puzzle do you have?"

"I bet I know what you're thinking," said Skirata.

"I'd be very surprised if you did."

The prof was remarkably lippy for an unarmed desk jockey alone in a room with three Mandalorians, even unarmored ones. Skirata thought it was a shame he couldn't slap some respect into him. "You're thinking this is about some rejuvenation scam."

"Most entrepreneurs are on the brink of discovery, if only I can give them a little help ... you'd be surprised how many pharmaceutical opportunities I get offered Master Fal."

Fal. It was an alias Skirata hadn't used before; he wondered why he'd chosen to use the name after so many years. Skirata had been his only reality since childhood.

"Actually, it's an industrial process," he said forgetting about Falin Mattran. The only thing he could remember about Kuat now was a green transparisteel wall in his parents' apartment that made the whole room feel as if it was submerged in shallow tropical water. "If I can resolve one aspect of it, it'd be worth a great deal to the cloning industry."

Mereel was usually the one who skated on thin ice when it came to shaking down a target. Now Skirata heard the Null inhale slowly, carefully, as if he was getting ready to interrupt.

Hide stuff in plain sight, son. I taught you that, didn't I?

"I'm struggling here," said Nenilin. "I don't know much about commercial cloning."

"Well, that's an oversight for a clever boy like you." Skirata smiled all acid. "Commercial cloning's banned now under wartime legislation. That's bad news if your business is based on clones. It means you can't replace them. They age fast, you see. It's partly the mechanism for maturing them fast, but it's also common sense-if you make clones, you want repeat business, so you build in obsolescence. Great for clonemasters, but right now plenty of businesses can't replace clone labor and they want to make the most of the workforce they still have. They'd like to stop them from aging so fast."

Nenilin looked at Skirata long and hard. Skirata decided he didn't like the man much. He wore an old-fashioned tunic, the kind that out-of-touch aristocrats still favored which probably explained why he hung out at the Haunch of Nerf. The place was tricked out to look rough-hewn and ancient, its tables inaccurately imagined replicas of antique rural feasting trestles, and instead of porceplast plates it served its meals on pleek trenchers. The ale was specially brewed to make sure it remained authentically cloudy and full of unidentifiable lumps. Nenilin probably thought this was how the working classes once lived in some bucolic idyll of coarse plenty that never actually existed and that somehow this was a desirable state to revert to.

You've got no idea, chum. You should try the real thing.

"I'm not sure I want to be complicit in the exploitation of cloned sentient beings," said Nenilin. Mereel sat down next to him and gave Skirata a weary look. "It's tantamount to slavery."

What a great time to find an aruetii with half a conscience. Skirata decided it was one he only wore in public, and looked to Gilamar to pick up on the technical stuff. It wasn't his area of expertise, but he'd been a proper doctor once, and he knew how to phrase the science stuff.