There was still the operation itself, of course.
And keeping an eye on Atin, Vau, and Sev.
And introducing Etain to an element of war that wasn’t remotely noble.
And making sure that everyone came out of it alive. Skirata reached over the back of the seat and gave Sev and Scorch a playful swat, then nudged Ordo beside him.
“I promised you all a night out,” he said. “When we get this cleaned up, Zey’s going to get a really big mess bill from the officers’ club.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t wait until then,” Scorch said. “You never know what’s around the corner.”
No. You didn’t. You never did.
9
When the enemy is a droid or a wet with a weapon, then killing them is easy. But in this game you’re operating among civvies, on your home ground. You could be working right next door to the enemy. They might even be people you know and like. But they’re still the enemy and you’ll have to slot them just the same. There’s no Mandalorian word for “hero,” and that’s just as well, because however many lives you save in black ops, you will never, ever be a hero. Deal with it.
-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.