–Sergeant Kal Skirata, teaching counterterrorist tactics to Republic Commando companies Alpha through Epsilon, Kamino, three years before Geonosis
Arca Company Barracks parade ground,0730 hours, 371 days after Geonosis
The missile skimmed the top of Etain's head and bounced off the Force-shield she had instinctively thrown up to protect her face.
Jusik skidded to a halt in front of her, sweat dripping off the end of his nose, a flattened alloy rod clutched in one hand. There was a smear of blood across his cheek, and she wasn't sure if it was his.
“Sorry!” He looked elated. “Look, why don't you sit over there? It's safer.”
Etain indicated the blood. “And why don't you use your Force powers?” she said. “This is a dangerous sport.”
“That's cheating,” Jusik said, lobbing the small plastoid sphere back into the knot of commandos. They pounced on the object like a hunting pack and jostled each other ferociously to whack the thing with rods, trying to drive it hard against the barrack wall.
Etain had no idea what the game was called, if it had a name at all. Nor did it seem to have any rules: the ball, such as it was, was being hit, kicked, and thrown as the whim took the players.
And the teams were Niner, Scorch, Fixer, and Darman against Fi, Atin, Sev, and Boss. Skirata insisted that they played in mixed teams.
Several other commandos had paused while crossing the parade ground to watch. The battle was conducted in grim silence except for the clash of rods, gasping breath, and occasional approving shouts of “Nar dralshy'a!”—Put your back into it! —and “Kandosii!”—which, Jusik had explained, had been appropriated colloquially to mean “classy” rather than “noble.”
They had all become much more ferociously Mando since she had first met them. It was a phenomenon that made sense given the specific nature of their duties, but it still left her feeling that they were becoming strangers again. Working so closely with Skirata appeared to have focused their minds on a people who seemed to have the ultimate freedom.
Even Darman had fallen happily into it. He was utterly engrossed in the game, shoulder-charging Boss out of the way and knocking Jusik flat. There was a shout of “Kandosii!” as the ball thudded against the wall, two meters above the ground.
Then Skirata emerged from the doorway. Etain didn't have to take any hints from the Force as to his state of mind.
“Armor!” he yelled. His voice could fill a parade ground. The commandos froze as one. He did not look amused. “I said wear some armor! No injuries! You hear me?”
He strode across to Jusik with surprising speed for a man with a damaged leg and came to a halt with his face centimeters from the Jedi's. He dropped his voice, but not by much.
“Sir, I regret to have to tell you that you're a dik'ut.”
“Sorry, Sergeant.” Jusik was a contrite scrap of bloody robes and sweaty hair. “My fault. Won't happen again.”
“No injuries. Not now. Okay, sir?”
“Understood, Sergeant.”
Skirata nodded and then grinned, ruffling Jusik's hair just as he did his troops'. “You're definitely ori'atin, Bard'ika. Just don't get yourself killed.”
Jusik beamed, clearly delighted. Skirata had not only told him that he was exceptionally tough, but he had used the most affectionate form of his name: now he was “Little Bardan,” and thus one of Skirata's clan. He jogged off after the commandos and disappeared inside the building.
Skirata ambled across to Etain and sat down next to her on the bench. “He's a gutsy little di'kut, isn't he?”
So it wasn't only a term of abuse, then. “If there wasn't a war on, I suspect that Master Zey would have had a serious word with him by now. Bardan's become very attached.”
“Being a loner might make a warrior, but it won't make a soldier.”
“Where were you educated?”
Skirata was looking straight ahead rather than at her, and his eyes creased at the corners for a brief moment. “On the street, on the battlefield, and by a bunch of very smart little boys.”
Etain smiled. “I wasn't being rude. Just curious.”
“Fair enough. I had to analyze and explain everything I taught my Nulls for eight years. It wasn't enough for me to show them the right way to fight. They wanted me to rationalize it. They shredded me with questions. Then they'd feed it all back to me in a way I'd never seen it before. Amazing.”
“Do we get to meet them all? Are they all like Ordo?”
“Maybe,” Skirata said. “They're deployed in various locations.” It was his noncommittal answer: Don't ask. “And they're all of the same caliber, yes.”
“So out of a strike team of twelve, you have eleven tough men—atin, yes?—and me. I can't help feeling I'm not going to be much use.”
Skirata took out a chunk of something brown and woody and popped it into his mouth. He chewed like a gdan, as if he were gnawing off someone's arm. 'Atin'ade,” he corrected. “Oh, you'll be plenty of use. I suspect you'll have the hardest job of all.”
“Whatever it takes.”
“I know.”
“Sergeant, is this going to become clear at the briefing?”
“It's not a secret. I just want everyone to have the full picture at the same time. Then we ship out and disappear.”
“I hear you've done that before.”
“Cuy'val Dar. Yes, I've been 'those who no longer exist' before. You get used to it. It has its plus points.”
He got up and walked toward the barracks, Etain following. His limp was far less obvious today.
“How did you hurt your leg?” she asked.
“I didn't follow orders. I ended up with a Verpine shatter gun round through my ankle. Sometimes you need to learn the hard way.”
“Never got it fixed?”
“I'll get around to it one day. Come on, breakfast before briefing. Some things sound better on a full stomach.”
When the briefing started at 0800, Jusik looked freshly scrubbed, but he was developing a fine black eye. He also seemed delighted. Etain envied him his capacity for finding joy in the most unlikely places, just like Darman did. Omega and Delta appeared to have broken up as squads completely. They took their seats, lounging around in their black body-suits, but they no longer sat in their own tight groups. Atin and Sev still exuded a sense of distance, but Skirata's crash course in being buddies appeared to be working.
There was also the small matter of the Wookiee who had walked in. Skirata directed the creature to a bigger chair and locked the doors. It was the one who'd piloted the taxi.
“Ordo, have you swept the room for bugs?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, this is strictly for those in this room. If anyone wants out, now's the time to say.”
“Observe the complete lack of movement, Sarge,” Scorch said. “Nobody's passing on this one.”
“I didn't think so. From now on, there's no General or sir or Sergeant or designation codes, and no Jedi robes. There is no rank. There is no chain of command beyond me. If I'm otherwise engaged or dead then you answer to Ordo. Got it?” The Wookiee threw him two bundles of clothing and he lobbed one each to Etain and Jusik. She caught hers and stared at it. “Plainclothes, kids. You clone lads are just soldiers on leave, and us mongrels are … well, Etain can pass for my daughter and Bard'ika is a useful deadbeat I picked up on my travels. A go-fer”
The Wookiee emitted a long and contented trill. “This is Enacca, by the way.” Skirata indicated the Wookiee with a polite flourish. “She's our quartermaster and mobility troop—she'll secure supplies and transport for us. You ever worked with Wookiees?”