Skirata decided he'd have no trouble treating her as his daughter. He forgot his real, estranged daughter all too often. He'd enjoyed returning to little Ruusaan's excited welcome, but each time he came home from a war, wherever home happened to be, she was unrecognizably older and less excited to see him, as if she didn't know him at all.

But I have sons.

“That's why I stick to causes nobody can take from me,” Skirata said.

A Mandalorian's identity and soul depended only on what lived within him. And he relied only on his brother warriors—or his sons.

10

Clone troopers are well disciplined. Even the Alpha-batch ARC troopers—surly though they are—are predictable, in the sense that Fett gave them precise orders that they continue to obey. But the commando batches are almost as unpredictable as the Nulls, and the Nulls are as good as being Skirata private army. That's the problem with having intelligent clones trained by a ragbag of undisciplined thugs—they've turned out at best idiosyncratic, at worst disobedient. But they'll probably win the war for us. Tolerate them.

–Assessment of Republic Commando cadre by Director of Special Forces general Arligan Zey, explaining discrepancies in stores and armory inventory to General Iri Camas

Qibbu's Hut, entertainment sector—strike team operationalhouse—early evening, 371 days after Geonosis

“This is plain unnatural,” Boss said. He stood in front of the mirror. “I can't help noticing what this body armor doesn't cover.”

“It covers your torso and thighs, and that's where your major blood vessels and organs are.” Atin tugged at his tunic. They had all defaulted to GAR-issue fatigues, the standard red tunic and pants. Outside the barracks, the casual rig made Fi feel ludicrously naked. “That's all you need. See? Doesn't show under fabric.”

“You can live without an arm,” Fi said. “They can always bolt on a new one.”

“What about my head?”

“Like I said, they can always replace nonessential parts.”

Boss didn't even look up from the inspection of his tunic. “I love this guy. He'll make such great target practice.”

He had a point: they were fighting without helmets. That was going to be tough. Everyone from clone trooper to ARC captain lived by his bucket. The buy'ce was a command and control center in itself.

Fi picked up a coil of razor-sharp wire and stretched it out between his hands. Skirata had taught him to use this: a garrote, flicked around the neck—if your target had a neck—and pulled tight to slice or choke. There were all kinds of interesting devices and techniques that Skirata recommended. Other instructors had their own favorites, according to their commando training batches, but Kars were clearly close-range, personal ones. What was it he used to say? You need to be able to fight if you're cornered in just your underpants, son. Nature gave you teeth and fists.

Sergeant Kal sounded as if he knew exactly how that felt. He certainly knew his techniques.

The main room at the top of the seedy hotel—hastily soundproofed with a micro-anechoic coating over the walls and windows—was filling with jostling bodies. Jusik bounced in, clearly pleased with himself, and laid out a row of small beads and devices on the scratched black duraplast table. Atin wandered over and peered at the haul.

“Where'd you get all that, Bardan?”

Jusik trapped one of the beads on his fingertip and held it out to Atin. Fi moved in. Whatever it was, he wanted one, too. “ARC trooper aural stand-alone comlink. One each. No need for your buy'cese or anything too obvious—just stick it in your ear. Plus …” The Jedi took out a small transparent sac of what looked like powdered permaglass. “Tracking marker.”

“Never seen it before.”

“Brand new from the labs. It's called Dust. Microscopic transmitters. Scattered on a battlefield for pretty much invisible monitoring. You never know when you might need it.”

“You liberated all that from stores?” asked Fi.

“And Procurement Development. It all ended up in my pockets somehow.”

“Captain Maze is going to go spare.”

“That's okay. Ordo can explain the necessity to him later. He listens to Ordo.”

“Where's Skirata?” Sev asked. “Maybe they're having trouble cracking the prisoners.”

“Not Vau.” Fixer pocketed a comlink bead.

“Why did he need Etain, then?”

“Maybe to show her how it's done.”

Fi watched Darman bristle. He waited for his brother to say something, but Dar swallowed whatever retort was forming and went on fussing with the fit of the armor plates under his tunic. It wasn't exactly a secret that he had a soft spot for Etain, but nobody teased him about it, either. It was one of those aspects of life that Skirata had taught them about, but that none of them entertained much hope of pursuing.

It was easy back on Kamino, where the real world had never intruded—not beyond the risk of getting killed in training, of course. But the last nine months' exposure to people outside the tight fraternity had made ordinary life feel much more dangerous than combat itself.

Because other people's lives were not ordinary at all.

Fi went to the window, now obscured by a fine film of anti-surveillance gauze, and watched the promenade of tourists and locals along the walkways facing Qibbu's Hut. He didn't envy them their day-to-day existence: Skirata had told his commando batch just how grim and dreary it could be to earn a living, and how much cleaner it was to have a clear purpose in life.

But he hadn't told them how it might feel to watch couples and families of all species. Skirata stuck to the basics. I've been kicked out by so many females that I can't tell you anything useful about relationships, so just avoid them if you can. Again, it struck the class as something he said and didn't mean—like the way he called them Wet Droids and said they were here to fight, not socialize. It just meant it was a painful topic for him to face.

He also called them Dead Men. But they were not Dead Men any longer. They had learned to be Mandalorian, and that, Kal said, meant they had a soul and a place in the Mando eternity. Fi thought that was probably worth having.

The doors opened and all eight commandos spun around to train a motley collection of modified civilian blasters on the opening. Security code or not, you could never be too careful. Skirata entered with Ordo and Etain at his heels. The squads lowered their weapons.

“Been shopping,” Skirata said cheerfully. And he meant it. Fi expected it to be his usual euphemism for acquiring illicit weapons—or worse—but it seemed he really had been buying things. He tipped a bag of assorted fruit, candies, ices, nuts, and other delicacies that Fi couldn't identify onto the table next to Jusik's haul. “Go on. Fill yer boots.”

Delta hung back. Omega didn't. Then Delta appeared to remember that fill yer boots meant “eat your fill.” Fi peeled bright green wrapping from something that smelled of sour fruits and found it to be frozen and covered in something appetizingly crunchy.

But Etain looked tired. Jusik was watching her warily as if something unspoken was going on between them. Jedi could do that kind of thing, just like soldiers on helmet comlinks, silent to the outside world. Then Etain muttered something about having a hot soak in the 'freshers and disappeared into the next room.

“We have a drop location,” Skirata said. “And a few thousand or so clone troopers on leave for a few weeks thanks to our totally unexpected friend Mar Rugeyan.”

“Mmm, crushed nuts,” Fi said, identifying the topping on the ice. “That was very helpful of him.”