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ordinary troopers-who serve in the army because they don’t know what the Sith Masters and the Brotherhood of Darkness are really like-are just people. But you have to look at the ideals behind this war. You have to understand what each side really stands for.”
    “Enlighten me, Commander.” Des put just a hint of condescension in his voice and casually tossed in some more chips, knowing it would rile up the table even more. He was glad to see that nobody folded; he was playing them like a Bith musician trilling out a tune on a sabriquet.
    “The Jedi seek to preserve peace,” the commander reiterated. “They serve the cause of justice. Whenever possible, they use their power to aid those in need. They seek to serve, not to rule. They believe that all beings, regardless of species or gender, are created equal. Surely you can understand that.”
    It was more a statement than a question, but Des answered anyway. “But all beings aren’t really equal, are they? I mean, some are smarter, or stronger … or better at cards.”
    He drew a small smile from the commander with the last comment, though everyone else at the table scowled.
    “True enough, son. But isn’t it the duty of the strong to help the weak?”
    Des shrugged. He didn’t believe much in equality. Working to make everybody equal didn’t leave much chance for anyone to achieve greatness. “So what about the Brotherhood of Darkness?” he asked. “What do they believe in?”
    “They follow the teachings of the dark side. The only thing they seek is power; they believe the natural order of the galaxy is for the weak to serve the strong.”
    “Sounds pretty good if you’re one of the strong.” Des flipped his cards up, then scooped up the pot, relishing the grumbling and curses muttered under the breath of the losers.
    Des flashed a nasty grin around the table. “For the sake of the Republic, I hope you guys are better soldiers than you are sabacc players.”
    “You mudcrutch, rankweed coward!” the ensign shouted, jumping up and spilling his drink onto the floor. “If it wasn’t for us, the Sith would be all over this pit of a world!”
    Another miner would have taken a swing at Des, but the ensign-even more than slightly drunk-had enough military discipline to keep his fists at his sides. A stern glare from the commander made him sit down and mumble an apology. Des was impressed. And a little disappointed.
    “We all know why the Republic cares about Apatros,” he said, stacking his chips and trying to appear nonchalant. In fact, he was scanning the table to see if anyone else was getting ready to make a move on him.
    “You use cortosis in the hulls of your ships, you use it in your weapons casings, you even use it in your body armor. Without us, you wouldn’t stand a chance in this war. So don’t pretend you’re doing any favors here: you need us as much as we need you.”
    Nobody had anted yet; all eyes were drawn to the drama unfolding among the players. The CardShark hesitated, its limited programming uncertain how to handle the situation. Des knew Groshik was watching from the far side of the cantina, his hand near the stun blaster he kept stashed behind the bar. He doubted the Neimoidian would need it, though.
    “True enough,” the commander conceded, pushing his ante in. The others, including Des, followed suit. “But at least we pay you for the cortosis we use. The Sith would just take it from you.”
    “No,” Des corrected, studying his cards, “you pay ORO for the cortosis. Those credits don’t make it all the way down to a guy like me.” He folded his hand but didn’t stop talking. “See, that’s the problem with the Republic. In the Core everything’s great: people are healthy, wealthy, and happy. But out here on the Rim things aren’t so easy.
    “I’ve been working the mines almost as long as I can remember, in one way or another, and I still owe ORO enough credits to fill a freighter hull. But I don’t see any