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"Worth several," Jos replied quietly. "However many it takes to forget it."

"He killed those three mercs," Zan said, outrage in his voice. "With his bare hands. He could be court-martialed and sent to prison for that!"

"Not likely," Dhur said. "They were mercenaries, pretty much the scum of the galaxy, on a battlefield, and it was three against one. Except for this recording, there were no witnesses, and who would trust an enemy cam droid? Everybody knows how easy it is to fake such things. They could have left this here for just that purpose, for all we know."

"Cold-blooded murder," Zan said. His voice was thick.

"People die in wars, Captain," Dhur said. "If Ji had shot them down, nobody would blink twice at it. En-emy troops, on a field of battle, looting the bodies of our dead? Even though he killed them with his bare hands, there are a lot of Republic officers who would say ’More power to him!’ and put him up for a medal."

Zan finished off the last of his drink and set the glass down carefully. "I hate this war," he said. "I hate every-thing about it. What kind of people are we that such things can go on and nobody is outraged? What does that say about us?"

Nobody had an answer to that.

Zan stood, carefully, for he had drunk enough to make him unsteady. You couldn’t tell unless you knew him, but Jos could see it. "I am going to bed," the Zabrak said. "Don’t wake me until the war is over."

After he walked away, Dhur sipped at his own drink. "There’s a good story here, though I doubt the censors will let it by. The citizens back home might find it... disturbing." He paused. "Your friend’s too sensitive to be here. He’s an artist. They never do very well in wars."

"Does anybody?" Jos asked.

Dhur nodded at the frozen holoproj image. "Some do. Where else can you legally beat people to death and get paid for it?"

On her way back to her quarters, Barriss thought about the recording she had seen. It was night, warm and muggy, and wingstingers and scavenger moths swarmed the glow lamps, casting giant, ghostly shad-ows. A late thunderstorm grumbled in the distance, heat lightning flashing in the darkness. The rain would be welcome if it got this far-it would cool the smother-ing, sticky air somewhat, and the sound of it on the foamcast roof of her cubicle would be comforting. She could certainly stand some comfort-there was little enough to be found on Drongar. Tropical worlds had their beauty, and humans were at their core tropical, or at least temperate, creatures, but she preferred cooler worlds. A walk in the snow was, for her, far more in-vigorating than one in broiling sunshine.

The Jedi part of her had been impressed by Phow Ji’s efficiency as a fighter. His moves had been fluid and powerful; against an opponent unaided by the Force, he would be formidable indeed.

But the part of her that lay deep beneath her Jedi training was repulsed by the violence.

It had been mur-der, for it was obvious that the three mercenaries had not had much, if any, of a chance of defeating Ji. Even three against one and barehanded, the odds had still been in his favor-and, of course, he had known it.

How many trophies did he have hanging on his wall? She did not really want to know, but again, a part of her was curious. Back in the Temple, she had once listened to Mace Windu tell a group of students that killing somebody was easy-you could do it with a single swipe of your lightsaber. But living with the knowledge that you had killed somebody would change you for-ever. The Jedi Master had been right-it had certainly changed her. Killing was not a thing you did lightly, not if you had any kind of compassion, or even minimally decent moral and ethical codes. Sometimes, to protect the innocent, or one’s own life, justice and survival de-manded a Jedi strike with enough power to lay an at-tacker low.

But the fact that it was necessary did not absolve you from seeing the faces in your dreams, or hearing the anguished cries of the fallen late in the silent night. How could a person with any humanity at all de-liberately