Republic Commando: Triple Zero

5

To: Officer Commanding SO BCE, HQ Coruscant: CO Fleet Protection Group.

From: CO Majestic, off Kelarea: 367 days after Geonosis.

I regret to inform you that we have recovered the wreckage of TIV Z590/1 and the body of pilot CT-1127/549. Perlemian Traffic Control reports that Republic civilian freighter Nova Crystal logged that it fired on a vessel it described as a “pirate” attacking its convoy to dislodge it from the hull. I also regret that due to security restrictions, I am unable to tell PTC that-the freighter killed a special forces pilot on active service, and so PTC regard Nova Crystal's skipper to be something of a hero.

Fleet Ops HQ, Coruscant,0600, 368 days after Geonosis: the first anniversary of the battle

Skirata walked out of the Fleet Ops lobby and into a cool, moist morning that he wasn't expecting to welcome.

It was over, for the time being. Omega had survived, and they were coming home. They needed a break from continuous deployment in the badlands and he was certain they were needed here. CSF couldn't handle a big terror operation in the capital system, not even with Obrim around.

The question was how to work that past Arligan Zey. The Jedi was reluctant to commit men to what he saw as security work at a time like this.

But it was what Ordo and the Nulls were ideally suited for—if they had a few commandos to deploy as well.

Skirata stood on the steps for a few minutes inhaling fresh air, eyes stinging from fatigue, and raked his fingers through his crew cut. He could sleep now. Omega was safe; Ordo was here with him; and his five brothers were accounted for, safe and well.

Mereel was on Kamino. If Zey was heard to mutter that the Nulls were Skirata's private army, he wasn't entirely wrong.

There were still ninety of the men Skirata had trained from small boys on active service, and he worried about them, too. But Omega had become as much his closest family now as the Null ARCs. He would move the galaxy for them if he had to.

The gold-veined marble fountain in the center of the plaza beckoned to him. He stopped as he walked past it and simply leaned over and plunged his head in the icy water, holding it there for a few painfully refreshing moments before jerking upright and shaking the water off like a mott.

A couple of early-morning pedestrians stared at him and he returned the stare until they looked away. It was rare for anyone to even notice him: he made a habit of being inconspicuous. But today he didn't care. Did they have any idea what was going on around the galaxy on hundreds of battlefields? He resisted the urge to grab them, shake them, and make them listen to what was happening in their name.

It was the first anniversary of Geonosis. Nobody seemed to be marking that.

Ordo walked up behind him. “You should get some rest, Kal'buir”

“I'll sleep when you sleep.”

“I have more good news.”

“I could do with that.”

“Darman's explosives profile. The reading from the prisoners matches up with the manufacturing characteristics of at least a quarter of the devices detonated so far. We got a break.”

“Good work. And good old Dar.” He smiled at Ordo, reminded again of how well his boys had turned out. “Tell you what, Ord'ika, fancy some breakfast while the system gets on with unpacking that data? They do a disgustingly greasy fry-up in the Kragget. It's not the Skysitter, but it sets you up for the day.”

Ordo shrugged and tilted his head in a conspicuously self-conscious glance down at his spotless white armor. “I don't think we're the Skysitter's type of clientele, anyway.”

Skirata couldn't see the expression behind the visor, but he knew Ordo was amused. It was good that a man who'd had an unimaginable nightmare of a childhood could find anything funny. “They have napkins. And I'll try not to splash sauce over you. Deal? Just to celebrate the fact that we're both still here a year on.”

Ordo started walking. “What were you doing a year ago today?”

“Wondering where all my boys had gone.”

“Sorry, Kal'buir. It was a very rapid deployment. I should have woken you.”

“You did fine. I should have shaped up and realized you had a job to do.”

“We certainly accounted for a number of enemy positions,” Ordo said.

“I never said good-bye to the lads who didn't come back, that's all. I lost nine out of my batch.”

“But the last time you saw them, you left them feeling confident, respected, and loved. That's enough for any buir to achieve.”

“Thanks, son.” How did he ever grow up this normal? “Let's enjoy ourselves for a change, shall we?”

For a few brief hours Skirata and Ordo did what normal civilians did and took an Easy Ride to the city's lower levels to have a dangerously unhealthy but comforting breakfast.

Skirata had never used public transport with Ordo in tow before, and the reactions of other passengers fascinated him. They sneaked sideways glances. Ordo's custom holster with its twin blasters probably focused them somewhat. The ARC trooper armor was spectacular even in a city jaded by the everyday presence of a thousand exotic species.

Skirata regularly forgot how few of the capital's civilians had ever seen a clone soldier face-to-face. Apart from the heavily publicized display of massed GAR battalions boarding assault ships at the military staging area a year ago, the vast majority of Coruscanti had no contact with them whatsoever.

And never without their helmets.

“Ord'ika,” he whispered. “Do me a favor. Take off your bucket, will you?”

Ordo paused for a moment and then popped the seal on his collar and lifted off his helmet. Skirata kept an eye on the other passengers' reactions. It was a revelation. Some looked blankly surprised. Others went a little farther.

“Oh no, they're human!” one man whispered. “And they're so young!”

Did anyone know how young? He hated using Ordo like this, but it had to be done. Skirata, tired and permanently irritable, bit back his retort and became a diplomat for a few moments.

“No sir, the war isn't droids fighting droids,” he said. “May I introduce Captain Ordo?”

Ordo nodded politely at the man in the seat across the aisle and extended his hand; Skirata had taught his little Nulls to act like nice boys when they needed to. The man hesitated and then reached across to shake Ordo's hand, surrendering soft pale civilian fingers to a black gauntlet. The look on his face said clearly that he hadn't expected to find flesh and blood inside the droid-like shell, or to retrieve his hand un-crushed afterward.

“My pleasure, sir,” Ordo said.

It was unusually quiet in the EasyRide after that. At least the reality had registered on them. Skirata nudged Ordo to get off when they reached the Kragget level, and the ARC replaced his helmet.

“You like to shock,” said Ordo.

“I like to educate,” said Skirata. “Sorry, son.”

Strolling around Coruscant with a fully armored ARC captain was hardly blending in, but it got him a good table in the Kragget, which meant one that the service droid actually wiped clean before they sat down. A couple of CFS officers acknowledged them. Police and security officers liked eating here because it was right on the edge of their “manor,” as some of them called the rough territory where they plied their trade, handy for a quick response to a call but far enough away to be a haven.

Ordo took his helmet off again to tuck into the plate of fried smoked nerf slices. The eggs were from something Skirata couldn't identify and knew he didn't want to. He concentrated on the seductively unctuous sensation of hot fat and salty yolk in his mouth and washed it down with several cups of caf.

“We can't leave this to the boys in blue any longer,” Skirata said. They both knew what this was without being specific in a public place. “They're hampered by having to do stuff by the book, and we don't know if they're all playing for our team anyway. This is one for us. I'm going to make Zey see sense about it. Once everyone's back in town, it'll be a lot harder for him to say no.”

“If the cryptography droid extracts some relevant data from Atin's little haul, it might be even harder.”

“Which reminds me. I haven't paid my respects to Vau.”

“Promise me you won't pull your knife on him again.”

“I'll behave.”

The server droid seemed to have been replaced by a female Twi'lek waitress, who looked past prime dancing age but who still distracted Skirata for a second or two. She put another plate of nerf strips in front of Ordo, who—like every clone soldier Skirata had ever known—would eat anything and everything put in front of him.

She smiled and lingered. Ordo froze and returned the smile in the nervous way of a small boy, then busied himself with his breakfast and the waitress moved away.

Skirata reflected on the careless power of youth and looks, and how incomplete a teacher he had been of social skills. “Somehow I don't think she's mistaken you for a droid.”

Ordo looked uncharacteristically flustered for a moment. “Er … I've been assessing our requirements.” He cleared his plate again, and Skirata slid his unwanted eggs onto the man's plate and watched them disappear. “Kit is an issue. We need to discuss this before you see Zey. This is going to take some serious resources—vehicles, safe houses, special surveillance equipment, and ordnance?”

Skirata had been doing the calculations at the same time Ordo had.

They'd need two squads, at least, and a couple of Nulls. But two squads of Republic Commandos in their distinctively bulky, bad-boy Katarn Mark III kit and Ordo and Mereel in their spectacular red and blue would be noticeable as unusual activity.

They might need to wear that armor sooner or later, even if they could be deployed in civilian clothing the rest of the time.

Skirata chewed the last overdone piece of smoked nerf he saved the delectable crunchy bits for last—and a solution blossomed as his jaw worked.

Hide in plain sight.

He was good at that. He could become so mundane—unkempt hair, scruffy clothing—that he was almost invisible. And so could his lads, by being the opposite.

All they had to do was be one of a number of clone personnel wandering around Coruscant in full armor. And if occasionally they took off that armor and went about in fatigues, then who would really recognize them as individuals?

They all looked the same to most people, other than a few Jedi who cared about them as men, and their own brothers.

Skirata considered it a very productive working breakfast.

He opened his comlink and keyed a meeting request to General Zey. Then he leaned across the table, seized Ordo two-handed by his shoulder pauldron, and gave him a noisy and exaggerated paternal kiss on the top of his head.

“Sorted!” he said. “Plain sight!”

The Twi'lek waitress watched, fascinated. “Hey, can I try that, too?”

“He's just a boy,” Skirata said, and left her a very generous tip. Ordo got up to follow him, pocketing a couple of meal-bread sticks for later. “My son.”

RAS Fearless hangar deck

“Good grief, here comes the armored division,” said Commander Gett. He strode toward the Neimoidian vessel. Its casing was streaked and pocked with scorch marks. “RCs look like tanks, don't they?”

Republic Commandos did look fearsomely bulky alongside the clone troopers. The first four to clamber out of the seized Trade Federation craft were a riot of color, their battered armor daubed with green, yellow, red, and orange markings.

The second squad was armored in matte black, utterly featureless and grim. But Etain knew instantly who they were and which man was which. She needed no battle livery to distinguish them: their forms in the Force were almost like trails of phosphorescence in a tropical ocean, and they were instantly familiar, instantly old friends.

I was only with them for a few days and I haven't seen or talked to them for months. But it's as if we were never apart.

Fi—oh yes, she knew it was Fi even before he spoke—saluted, lifted his helmet, and winked.

“Ma'am, you look like the back end of a bantha,” he said sympathetically. “Are they looking after you properly here?”

“Fi!” She knew she was supposed to remain dignified and aloof, and she'd felt comradeship with many clone troopers in the intervening months, but her first reluctant command with Omega had utterly changed her. “Fi, I've really missed you. What happened to the gray armor?”

“You know how much Dar griped about being too visible on Qiilura. Anyway, he's brought you a present.” He gestured over his shoulder. Darman was helping a group of troopers haul the prisoners out of the Neimoidian landing craft while Gett examined it. “They're all in one piece, too. We've been really good boys this time.”

Delta Squad had simply disappeared. When Etain looked around, she saw they had settled in a tight knot in a corner of the hangar deck, helmets on, obviously talking intently. She knew the body language now. They didn't feel like Omega in the Force at all. They were a concentrated well, a bottomless pool of something unyielding, and totally enmeshed with each other. The general impression they made on the Force was one of triumphant high spirits.

Niner and Atin approached and clasped hands with her. It didn't feel at all inappropriate. They looked tired and anxious, and she wanted very badly to make things right for them. They were her friends.

“I bet you'd like something to eat,” she said.

“Any chance of a hot shower and a few hours' sleep first, please, General?” Niner looked apologetic and shoved Fi gently in the back. “Me first. I'm pulling rank.”

“He's not really a sergeant, General,” said Fi. “He just helps them out when they're busy.”

“Any news on our pilot?” Niner asked.

“Yes. I'm so sorry.”

It was never easy. She tapped her datapad to bring up the copy of the signal that Majestic had sent to Fleet and handed the 'pad to him. Niner glanced at it, blinked, and passed it to Fi. Fi parted his lips briefly as if to say something, and then his slight frown almost crumpled into grief. He composed himself and just looked down at the deck.

“He's not the first,” Fi said, suddenly grim, and Etain had never seen that aspect of him surface visibly before. “And he won't be the last.”

Etain watched them disappear through a hatch on the aft bulkhead, trailing after a trooper. Fearless shivered slightly under the soles of her boots, making top speed back to Coruscant, and she waited while Darman spent what seemed like an interminable time fussing about with the prisoner hand-over. She wondered if he was reluctant to talk after choosing not to remain on Qiilura with her. Perhaps he was just concerned that nothing else went wrong.

She gave up waiting and walked carefully between the troopers still trying to catch some sleep on the hangar deck, curled up wherever they could find a relatively comfortable space.

“Well done,” she said, hoping that some were awake to hear her.

Darman had changed.

He bent his head to ease off his helmet, popping the seal, and then shook his hair and smoothed it flat with one glove. And although he smiled, he wasn't the Darman she had been through hell with.

He looked older.

Clones aged faster than normal men. He was eleven going on twenty-two going on—fifty. When she had first sensed him as a child in the Force, his square, high-cheekboned face had been both man and boy, at the stage of life when—had she been able to manipulate time—the slightest push backward would have revealed the child he had so recently been. But now he was a man, quite solidly, and with no hint of the boy about him.

It wasn't simply that he had aged two years in one. The look in his eyes said he was much, much older, as old as the battlefield, maybe as old as war itself. She had seen it in the face of every clone trooper and commando and ARC she had commanded. She knew that she had that same look, too.

But Darman smiled anyway, and the smile broadened into a grin that made the rest of the ship—even the galaxy—utterly irrelevant to her.

“You always cut it fine, don't you, ma'am?”

“It's good to see you, Dar. Whatever happened to Etain?”

“She turned into a general and we're on the hangar deck.”

“You're right. I'm sorry.”

“Is it definitely confirmed that we're going back to base?”

“Unless you want to argue with the officer of the watch, I believe so.”

“Good. We need a break. Just a day or two, maybe.”

He never did ask for much. None of them did: she wondered if they didn't know what the world had to offer them or if they were just honed down to basic needs, too overwhelmed to think beyond recovering enough to do the job over again the next day.

She patted his armored shoulder and held her hand there for a few seconds. He looked as if he suddenly remembered something and was embarrassed by it in a way he quite enjoyed.

“It must be nice to be able to reach out to someone through the Force,” he said.

So he'd felt it. She was glad.

“Get yourself off to the 'freshers,” she said. “Come and find me afterward if you're not too tired, and I'll show you over the ship.”

“Have you met Sergeant Kal yet?”

“No.” Kal was always there for Darman, somewhere, even at times like this when she wanted to say so much to him. “When we dock, perhaps you could introduce me.”

Darman beamed, clearly delighted. “Oh, you'll like him, General. You'll really like him.”

Etain certainly hoped so. And if she didn't, then she'd try, for Darman's sake.

SO BrigadeHQ, Coruscant, 369 days after Geonosis

The smell hit Ordo long before he reached the meeting room. It was a familiar blend of wet wool, mold, and a pungent oily musk.

Skirata reacted visibly. He straightened his right arm by his side out of old, old habit and let the blade slide into his hand, fall a fraction until the handle touched his palm, and then snatched it.

“Kal'buir, it would be better if I shot it,” Ordo said. He put a restraining hand on Skirata's arm. “I won't let it near you.”

“I've often wondered if you're telepathic, son.”

“I can smell the strill, you have your knife ready, and we're meeting Sergeant Vau. Telepathy isn't required to work that one out.”

Ordo would have been quite content to shoot the strill without a second thought because it upset Kal'buir. But it wasn't the strill's fault that it stank, or that it had a master who cherished cruelty, or that it had become savage itself. It had been selected by nature and then trained by people to hunt for pleasure rather than for food, and nothing else had ever been allowed to cross its mind.

He felt some pity for it. But he would still kill it without a moment's hesitation.

The doors slid back. Ordo placed his right hand discreetly on the grip of one of his repeating blasters. His attention went instinctively to Vau, then to the strill lying on his lap, and then to the fact that he had a clear shot at both. It took less than a second to process the information and then to subdue the impulse.

Behind Vau's head, the walls of General Zey's meeting room were a beautiful soothing shade of aquamarine, but they weren't working. Skirata wasn't soothed.

And Captain Maze was sitting at the table beside Zey, arms folded across his chest and looking none too impressed, either. There was an ugly purple bruise at the point of his chin, more discoloration around one eye, and a cut on the bridge of his nose.

I didn't think I hit him that hard, Ordo thought. Unfortunate.

Zey motioned Skirata to enter just after the man strode in of his own accord, and indicated chairs at the lapiz-topped table. Bardan Jusik sat beside him, hands clasped on the tabletop in an attempt at serenity.

“Well,” Skirata said, and sat down. He ran his hand across the luxurious polished surface. “This is nice. I hope I never hear anyone complaining about the GAR's expenditure on armor and weapons.”

“Kal,” Vau said politely. “It's good to see you again.”

Vau was settled in one of the deeply upholstered hide chairs with the strill draped across his lap on its back, all six of its legs flopping in an undignified sprawl while he scratched its belly. Its huge fanged mouth was slack, tongue lolling, and a long skein of drool hung almost to the floor. Its body was a meter long, lengthened by a whip of a tail covered in more loose skin.

The strill was still prettier than Vau, though. The man had a long square jawed face that was all bone and frown lines, and graying dark hair cut brutally short. Faces rarely lied about the soul within.

“Walon,” Skirata said, nodding.

Zey gestured to Ordo to sit but he remained standing and simply removed his helmet. He transferred the bead-sized comlink connector to his ear, noting Zey's expression without looking directly at him.

Skirata looked up. “Take a seat, Captain.”

Ordo obeyed only one man's orders, and that man was Kal'buir.

Zey was visibly thrown—again. No doubt all other ARCs and commandos jumped when he said so, but he should have known Ordo by now. Maze certainly did. He was staring at his brother ARC as if one snap of Zey's fingers would give him permission to jump up and return that punch.

“Maze, perhaps you'd like to go and have a break;” Zey said. “This is just going to be a tedious administrative matter.”

Maze paused for one beat, his eyes never leaving Ordo's. “Yes sir.” He grabbed his helmet from the table and left.

Zey waited for the doors to close behind him. “Let's hear your plan, Sergeant.”

“I want to deploy Delta and Omega on Coruscant to identify and neutralize the Sep network here, because it is here,” said Skirata. “It has to be in order to strike us so easily. And CSF doesn't have the expertise or personnel to deal with this, and there might even be someone inside the CSF passing intel to the terrorists.”

Zey's eyes were locked on him. “Commandos are a military asset. Not an intelligence one. Nor police. We have theaters of war across—”

“I wasn't planning to arrest anybody. This is a shoot-to kill policy.”

“I wasn't aware we had one.”

“You haven't, so you'd better get one fast.”

“I can't ask the Senate to authorize use of special forces against Coruscant residents.”

“Don't ask them.” Skirata became pure ice at times like this: Ordo watched him carefully, anxious to learn more nuances of the part of soldiering that required no weapons beyond nerve and psychology. “Is the Jedi Council squeamish about that sort of thing, too?”

“Sergeant …”

“Then don't ask them, either. In fact, we never had this conversation. All you've done is tell me you can't ask the Senate to give its blessing to a change in the GAR'S terms of reference.”

“But I know what you're suggesting,” Zey said.

Skirata was fidgeting with his blade. Ordo could see it: it was a tiny movement, but he could detect the flex of his forearm muscles through his jacket. Skirata had the point of the blade resting on his curled middle finger and was pressing it ever so slightly up and down, a preparation for dropping and catching the grip.

“The Jedi Council is pretty adept at turning blind eyes,” Skirata said. “For an organization that knew it was taking on an army with an assassination capability, you do send out conflicting signals to simple soldiers like me.”

Vau was watching the exchange like a man being mildly amused by a holovid. The strill yawned with a thin, high-pitched whine.

“The difference the Senate will see,” Zey said, “is that this is Coruscant.”

“General, the days when wars were fought elsewhere while the home fires were kept burning are long gone.”

“I know. But there are armies, and there are … bounty hunters and assassins. And the Senate will be wary of crossing that line on home ground.”

“Well, that's what tends to happen when you let a bunch of … bounty hunters and assassins train your army.”

“We didn't know we even had an army until a year ago.”

“Maybe, but the fact that you're sitting here now with a general's rank means you've accepted responsibility for it. You could have objected, collectively or individually. You could have asked questions. But no. You picked up the blaster you found on the floor and you just fired it to defend yourself. Expedience ambushes you in the end.”

“You know what the alternative was.”

“Look, General, I need to clarify a few things, being just a simple assassin and all that. Answer a few questions for me.”

Zey should have been furious that a mere sergeant was treating him as if he were an annoyingly pedantic clerk rather than a battle-hardened general. To his credit, he seemed more intent on a solution. Ordo wondered where expedience ended and pragmatism began.

“Very well,” said Zey.

“Do you want to stop attacks on vulnerable targets that are starting to compromise the ability of the GAR to deploy and are destroying public confidence in the Senate's ability to defend the capital?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it's a good idea for some of our hard-pressed special forces lads to have an unprecedented break on Coruscant after months in the field?”

Zey paused, just a breath. “Yes.”

“Do you need to ask anyone else to authorize that purely administrative matter?”

“No. General Jusik is responsible for personnel welfare.”

Ordo kept his face utterly blank. Leave? There was never any leave for the GAR, or their Jedi command in the front line. Neither would have known what to do with free time anyway.

Jusik looked pinned down. “I do believe some R and R would be a good idea, actually.” Skirata smiled at him with genuine warmth. Jusik was all right, one of the boys, all desperate courage and desire to belong. It was hard to tell if he was now playing the game or just being a decent officer. “I'll look into it.”

“And sir,” Skirata said, “is it true that you knew all along that I was a complete chakaar who could never follow orders, who kept you in the dark, who treated his squads like his own private army, and was generally a Mando lowlife just like Jango and the rest of that mongrel scum?”

Zey leaned back in his seat and pinched the end of his nose briefly, staring hard at the blue stone table.

“I do believe I might realize that at some time in the future, Sergeant.” The corners of his eyes crinkled for the merest fraction of a second, but Ordo spotted it. “I have my suspicions. Proving them is hard, though.”

Zey was all right, too, then.

Vau had been watching the exchange with mild interest, and Ordo had been watching him, because he knew the man all too well.

“Sergeant Vau, do you have any view on this … ah … leave situation?” said Ordo.

“Oh no, I'm just a civilian now,” Vau said. The strill rumbled. Vau, apparently distracted, fondled its ghastly, stinking head, his slightly narrowed eyes revealing a doting affection that he never seemed to spare for any other living creature. “I'm just hanging around. When those detainees are released, I'll offer them a room for a while, and I'll have a conversation with them. Nothing to do with the GAR or the Senate at all. Merely a private citizen doing what he can to welcome visitors to Coruscant.”

Jusik was watching the exchange with an expression that suggested he was both excited and aware that the stakes had just been raised. They were subverting democracy in one sense, but they were also saving their political masters from a decision they could never be seen to take, yet had to.

“That's the worst thing about having chakaare like us around,” Skirata said. “We just wander off, find someplace that you don't know about, and hole up in it and get into all sorts of mischief that you also know nothing about. And then we bill you for it. Dreadful.”

“Dreadful,” Zey echoed. “Is this the kind of thing that CSF might notice?”

“Were we to get a little out of hand, I imagine very senior officers in CSF might need to be reassured, but not by you.”

“Dreadful,” Zey said. “Hypothetically, anyway.”

Language was a wonderful thing, Ordo thought. Skirata had just told Zey that he was about to go bandit, as he called it, running an unauthorized shoot-to-kill operation in a civilian location and simply sending Zey the bill. Vau planned to interrogate the prisoners. CSF senior command would be placated by Skirata should anything go wrong, without any need for Zey to be involved. And yet Zey had authorized it all.

And the subject had still not been discussed.

“I wonder if anyone will notice our commandos on leave here,” Jusik said, apparently catching on.

“Probably,” said Skirata. “And wouldn't it be nice if we also extended that home deployment to honest ordinary clone troopers, lots of them? That'd be good for morale.”

“And reassuring for the public to see soldiers in armor around the capital.”

“I wonder how I can persuade the Senate officers that it's a good idea?”

Zey cut in. “Have you met Mar Rugeyan, the Senate's head of public affairs? Just asking.”

Skirata nodded. “I do believe I've had some contact with him, yes.”

“Excellent,” Zey said. “I know you two will get along very well.”

And the conversation that had never taken place was over.

Skirata stood to leave, and Vau gave the strill a gentle shove to persuade it to drop to the floor. It complained in a gravelly rumble but settled at his feet, looking up at Skirata with red-rimmed gold eyes. Skirata's hand was still cupped, arm at his side, in that way Ordo knew often preceded a fight.

“Kal, I hear Atin's returning,” Vau said.

Skirata walked out of the room, head down, Ordo right behind him. Jusik followed.

“You stay clear,” Skirata said quietly. “I'm meeting them all straight off Fearless. That includes Delta. And they're not yours to run anymore, remember? You just sit tight at the barracks and wait for me to give you a location.”

Ordo wasn't fooled by Vau's restrained politeness. Seven years ago Vau had loomed over him as a figure of authority in his black Mando armor for the first time, the strill at his heels. Its name was Lord Mirdalan. Ordo, like all the Nulls, had perfect recall; he sometimes wished he hadn't. But at least it gave him clarity, and he knew the source of all his fears and anxieties. Lord Mirdalan—Mird—had lunged at him at Vau's command, snapping.

Ordo had drawn the little hold-out blaster that Skirata had let him keep and would have killed the animal had Kal'buir not yelled, “Check!” and brought him to a frozen halt as his blaster aim came to rest between Mird's eyes. Vau, Ordo recalled, had laughed: he said that Ordo was ge'verd—almost a warrior. And Skirata had aimed a kick at Mird to drive it off, saying there was no “almost” about it.

Ordo watched the strill carefully. The creature trotted ahead of them, sniffing noisily in crevices and leaving behind a waft of pungent scent and a trail of drool.

“If that thing's going to accompany you on jobs,” said Skirata, “you'd better keep it under control, or find a use for a strill pelt.”

He drew up his arm and flicked his wrist before even Ordo could react. The three-sided blade shaved past Mird and thudded into the polished pleekwood floor a pace ahead of it. The knife vibrated to a standstill.

Mird squealed, leaping sideways. Ordo stepped between Vau and Skirata ready to defend Kal'buir in yet another confrontation with the man he loathed.

But Skirata just turned to fix Vau with a stare that said he wasn't joking. Vau stared back, his long hard face suddenly a killer's again.

“It's not the strill's fault,” Skirata said. He walked a few paces forward and pulled the knife from the floor. The strill backed away from him, lip curled back to reveal its fangs. “But you have your warning, both of you. We need to get this job done, and that's the only reason I haven't gutted both of you already. Understood?”

“I've moved on,” said Vau. “And it's time you did, before I end up having to kill you.”

Ordo really didn't like that. He ejected the custom vibroblade in his gauntlet, a better weapon at close quarters than his blasters.

Skirata gave him the palm-down gesture: Leave it. “Stay useful, Walon.” He beckoned Jusik and Ordo to follow him. “And I hope that Atin's moved on too, because I won't stand in his way now.”

“How far is too far, Kal? Can you answer that? How far did you go?” Vau called after him. “I made that boy a warrior. Without me, he wouldn't be alive today.”

With him, Ordo thought, Atin very nearly wasn't.

“Why didn't you mention to Zey that we might also have a leak within the Grand Army?” Ordo asked.

“Because,” Skirata said, “I can't assume I know who it isn't. The leak might not even know that they're the one, either. Until then, only the strike team will know we're looking.”

“What about Obrim? He's an ally.”

“I hope so. But in the end, who are the only people we can really trust?”

“Ourselves, Kal'buir”

“So we make sure we know who's watching our back kar'tayli ad meg hukaat'kama.”

It was good advice to live by. Ordo knew who always watched his.

RAS Fearless, inbound, to Coruscant Sector Control, 369 days after Geonosis

“I really should make a holo of this,” Commander Gett said. He reached into the assortment of pouches clipped to his belt and took out a small recorder. “It doesn't happen that often.”

Etain and the commander of the assault ship stood on the gantry that ran around the upper hangar bulkhead and watched the extraordinary spectacle beneath them on the deck. She had heard of this thing, but never seen it. It was the Dha Werda Verda—aMandalorian ritual battle chant.

Men from the Forty-first Elite and some of the ship's company—about fifty in all, helmets off—were learning to perform it with some instruction from Fi and Scorch. Sev easy to spot by the blood-red streaks daubed on his helmet, sat on an ammunition crate nearby, cleaning his sniper attachment and looking as if he wasn't interested in joining in.

He was, of course. Etain could sense it, and she wasn't even properly attuned to Sev's presence in the Force.

The Dha Werda looked fearsome. General Bardan Jusik a young man who barely came up to a clone commando's shoulder—said he loved to see it, and drew so much courage from it that he learned to perform it with his men. It was Kal Skirata's legacy; Jusik explained that the veteran sergeant wanted his men to know their heritage and taught them the rite along with Mandalorian language and culture.

The commandos were layering rhythm upon rhythm, hammering first on their own armor and then turning to beat the complex tempo on the plates of the man next to them. Timed precisely, it was spectacular: timed wrong, a soldier could break the next man's jaw.

It was irresistible, ancient, and hypnotic.

The chant rose from the hangar deck in one solid communal voice. She recognized words like Coruscanta and jetiise: Coruscant, Jedi. That couldn't have been in the original Mandalorian chant. Even their heritage had been remolded to serve a state in which they had no stake. It was, Etain recalled, something to do with being shadow warriors and forcing traitors to kneel before them.

They were supremely fit warriors displaying their discipline and reflexes: any flesh-and-blood enemy would have been adequately warned of the power of the forces that awaited them.

But droids didn't have the sense to be scared. That was a pity, really.

Etain winced. The blows looked real. They were putting all their weight behind every one.

Astonishingly, none of the initiates had yet timed the movements badly enough to receive an accidental blow in the face. Fi and Scorch demonstrated another sequence. Armor clashed. Sev abandoned his feigned disinterest, took off his helmet and joined in. Then Darman appeared and they formed a line of four in the front.

It was strange to watch Darman actually enjoying himself, oblivious to his surroundings: she had no idea that he had' such a powerful voice or that he could—for want of a better word—dance.

“Jusik always talks about this,” said Etain.

“I've seen a few squads do it,” Gett said. “It came via Skirata, I hear.”

“Yes.” Etain was wondering how she would ever measure up to that man. Halfway would have been enough. “He taught all the commandos to live up to their Mandalorian heritage. You know—customs, language, ideals.” She was mesmerized by the unconscious precision of men who were all exactly the same height. “It's very weird. It's like they have a compulsion to do it.”

“Yes, we do,” Gett said. “It's very stirring.”

“I'm sorry. That was rude of me.”

“No problem, General. It certainly wasn't part of our trooper training on Kamino. It gets passed on from man to man now.” He looked restless. She knew what he was thinking. “General—”

“Give me the recorder,” she said, and smiled. “Go ahead.”

Gett touched his glove to his brow and shot off down the ladder to the deck, sliding the last three meters on the handrails. It was delightful to see the mix of armor—yellow-striped commanders and pilots, plain white troopers, and the motley mix of commando colors—drawn together in one ancient Mandalorian ritual, every face the same.

Etain felt adrift, excluded.

She had never truly felt this degree of bond with her Jedi clan. The connection in the Force was there, yes, but … no, the real strength here was attachment, passion, identity, meaning.

She thought of Master Fulier, the man who insisted she have a second chance as a Padawan and not be consigned to build refugee camps because she lacked control. The man who was also passionate and prone to taking on causes: the Jedi who lost his life because he couldn't stay out of a fight when Ghez Hokan's militia roughed up the locals on Qiilura.

Etain thought that wasn't such a bad sort of Jedi to be. Not textbook, but centered on fair play and justice. The clone soldiers were worth that, too.

She was suddenly aware of Darman looking up at her, grinning, and if it hadn't been for his armor and surroundings he could have been any young man showing off his prowess to a woman. She smiled back.

She still envied him his focus and discipline, especially as he had somehow managed not to lose it after being exposed to a galaxy that didn't quite resemble the ideal he had probably been taught about on Kamino.

But Kal Skirata had largely been responsible for his training. She didn't know Skirata yet, but one thing she was certain of was that he was—just like a Jedi—a pragmatic man who dealt in reality.

The Dha Werda went on for verse after repeated verse. Then the klaxon sounded and the pipe came over the address system.

“Port duties men close up. Damage and fire control parties to stations. Prepare to dock.”

Commander Gett broke out of the ranks and came bounding back up the ladder, wiping sweat from his face with a neatly folded piece of cloth.

“General, will you come to the bridge to see the ship alongside?”

“I won't be much help, but I'd like that, yes.”

It was as if she were leaving a ship after a long association, a retiring captain. She was only a temporary officer, but still Gett treated her as if she actually had some importance to the crew, and she found that touching. She stood at the command console and watched as the docking grapnels and platforms slipped past the viewscreen and the crew maneuvered Fearless on instruments. Gett had the con. “Stop reactor.”

“Stop reactor, Commander … reactor stopped.”

Fearless's secondary propulsion shivered into silence. The vessel slipped gradually into dock on the power of tugs bringing her alongside port-side-to, as Etain had now learned to call it. She walked slowly across the bridge to watch the dockside team getting a brow in place to disembark those members of the crew being transferred and to allow maintenance and replenishment teams to board.

There was the slightest of jarring sensations as the ship came to rest against huge dock fenders. Fearless was back safely in her home port—for the time being.

Etain held out her hand to Gett. “Gloves off, my friend.”

He shrugged, smiling, and slipped off the entire gauntlet. They shook hands as equals. Then she pressed a key on the console, opening the public address system that reached every cabin and flat and hangar and mess deck in the huge warship.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “It's been an honor.”