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certain circles, and her warm, inviting smile had probably started more tavern brawls than a bad-tempered Gamorrean. Anyone who crossed Veema, however, soon realized that she had dimples of duracrete and a talent for holding grudges that a Hutt might envy.
    “Last I heard, Anakin went to the Yavin system, alone, against orders from Skywalker
and
Borsk Fey’lya,” Veema continued. She let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a purr. “Young, handsome, reckless, and maybe a little stupid—definitely my kind of man! Care to introduce us, Kyp?”
    “Why should I? I’ve nothing against the kid.”
    “He’s not the only one taking action,” observed Octa Ramis, the only other Jedi in Kyp’s group. A somber woman whose solid frame spoke of her origin on a high-gravity world, Octa had been shifting to an increasingly militant position for some time. She was the first Jedi to join forces with Kyp—that is, if you didn’t count Jaina Solo’s temporary and Force-assisted cooperation at Sernpidal.
    “I heard about a few hotheaded Jedi who take, shall we say, a very proactive approach to the Peace Brigade,” Ian Rim said.
    “What if they do?” Octa said, snarling. “Who cares what happens to those Sith-spawned cowards? Jedi for Jedi—I’ve no quarrel with that!”
    “But others do,” Kyp observed with a sigh. “I knowthe three Ian’s talking about. Maybe I should try to reel them in a bit.”
    He switched off the comm and addressed his astromech droid. “What would that make me, Zero-One—the voice of reason?”
    I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO APPRECIATE IRONY.
    “Bring on the Vong,” Kyp muttered as he switched back to his squadron.
    “Talk to me, Dozen.”
    “For highest kill count, I’ve got two credits on Veema,” Ian Rim offered. “No one can go through males of any species like she can!”
    The woman’s laughter tinkled, but Kyp heard the edge beneath the shimmering sound. “Better plan on using some of your winnings to buy me a drink.”
    “You’re on. Anyone else want to get in on this?”
    The chatter flowed over Kyp, fading into perceived static as he reached out with the Force, trusting his instincts and emotions to take him through the coming battle, as they had so many times before.
    “You’re pretty quiet, Kyp,” a disembodied voice observed.
    “Only on the outside.”
    He spoke without thinking. His comment was met with a moment’s silence, then some uncertain laughter. None of the pilots had actually seen Kyp’s darker side unleashed, but all of them had heard stories. No one dared speak of what he’d been, and what he’d done.
    But it was always there.
    “Five credits on Octa,” Kyp said lightly. “And if you beat Veema’s score by more than three, Octa, I’ll throw in Zero-One as a bonus.”
    “I’ll keep the margin down to two,” Octa said somberly.
    The Q9 unit let out an indignant bleep. This drew a burst of genuine laughter—partly because Octa’s ripostebroke the sudden tension, and partly because every pilot in the squadron recognized her humor as unintentional.
    Most commanders Kyp knew wanted their pilots silent and focused as they approached battle. Kyp encouraged banter. It kept their minds occupied and allowed emotions to rise to the surface. He didn’t know of any pilots—not live ones, anyway—who
thought
their way through a battle. The speed and ferocity of ship-to-ship combat was a matter of instinct, reflex, and luck. No one would ever mistake Han Solo for a philosopher, and he’d been flying longer and better than anyone Kyp knew.
    When it came right down to it, what was there to think about? The Yuuzhan Vong had to be stopped: it was that simple. After today’s fight was over, let the dithering old folks debate how the enemy had managed to move on Coruscant. He’d be off fighting the next battle.
    Kyp glanced at the navigation panel and gave the order to go to lightspeed. Once the jump was complete, he settled down into the silence and darkness.