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"Yes?"

"I...forgive you."

"Thank you." Mace hauled him up onto the gunship's roof. Nick wrapped both arms around the sensor dish mount. "You go on ahead," Nick told him.

"I think I'll just lie here and shudder."

Using the Force to steady himself on the spinning ship, Mace worked his way forward on hands and knees until he could peer into the cockpit over the rim of the wide lightsaber-cut that opened it to the air.

Chalk sat in nav; she looked up and swore. Vaster stood behind the cockpit chairs: his stare was cleanly fierce. Depa reached up to him from the pilot's chair with a warm welcoming hand on his. Her eyes were glazed with exhaustion and pain, but no surprise. "I thought you told me I'd only have to save your life once more."

He said, "Excuse me."

He rolled onto his back and reached behind his shoulders to grab the rim of the cut with both hands, then jackknifed and swung himself smoothly inside feet-first, without waiting to see if Vaster had gotten out of the way.

He had.

"Nick is on the roof," Mace said. "Open one of the bay doors for him."

The troop bay doors of a Turbostorm swing out and down so they could be used as landing ramps. Depa keyed the starboard door to open halfway, making it into a kind of chute down which Nick could slide, then worked the controls to cancel the gunship's spin.

Mace nodded to the lorpelek, who now filled the cockpit doorway. "Kar: help him in."

Why should I?

Mace was not interested in debate. He gave his head an irritated shake and waved Vaster aside. "I'll do it my..."

His voice trailed away, because Vaster had stepped aside, and Mace had moved to the doorway, and now he could see into the troop bay.

It was crammed with dead bodies.

Mace sagged sideways; only his shoulder against the jamb seal held him upright.

Depa had chosen a full ship.

His numbed brain couldn't count them properly, but he guessed there must have been twenty corpses in the bay: an infantry platoon. The pilot must have been young, excited, confident, sure of a glorious kill-so eager to get into the fight that he had sailed into battle without discharging his passengers. He had paid the price for that confidence; his corpse lay crumpled on top of what must have been the navigator's, just inside the cockpit door.

Mace's jaw hardened. He found his balance again, and stepped over their tangled lifeless legs to move deeper into the bay.

All of the corpses in the troop bay wore the militia Graylite body armor; most of the armor had been burned through in several places by close-range blaster bolts. Mace could too easily imagine inexperienced militia men-boys-turning their weapons on Depa as she moved from the cockpit into the bay. The effect of opening fire with energy weapons, point-blank upon a master of Vaapad, was mutely testified to by every charred ring around a finger-sized hole in the armor, and by the burned and lifeless flesh beneath.

Between surprise, panic, and cramped quarters, half of them had probably shot each other.

Several of the bodies bore the characteristic blackened gapes of lightsaber wounds, instantly cauterized by the blade that had opened them. Depa's handling of the ball-turret gunners had been more elegant than Mace's; brutally efficient, she had simply stabbed directly through the durasteel of the hatches, killing the men in their chairs.

The corpses still sat there, dead hands locked around the dual grips of their quads.

And, of course, the smell: seared flesh and ozone.

There was no blood. No blood at all.

Every single one of these men had been dead before she'd ever picked up Chalk and Kar Vaster. Twenty-four men.

In less than a minute.

Mace turned around, and found Kar Vastor staring at him, fiercely triumphant.

He growled simply: She belongs here.

Mace silently turned away and climbed the half-open door to help Nick into the troop bay.

Sliding down the door into that compartment full of dead men struck