Part 4 (2/2)
”What's Kal's view on this?” She didn't even have to ask if Kal Skirata knew. The Nulls didn't seem to take a breath without asking him first. Their allegiance was to him, not the Republic; but while she could understand the power of his aggressive charisma, she wasn't sure if it was a good idea. ”And what happens if I get caught?”
”One-he trusts you,” Mereel said, deadpan. ”Two? They'll probably shoot you.”
He wasn't joking now. She knew it.
”Okay,” she said. ”I'll make a start in the morning. How do I contact you?”
”Comlink.” He held out his hand, and she dropped her com-link into his palm. Then he cracked open the case, frowned at the device's entrails, and took out a tiny tool kit that looked like a toy in his palm. ”Once I've made it secure... dear oh dear . . . ma'am, tell me you haven't called Ordo on this.”
”No, I haven't.” She felt useless and naive. ”I thought it might compromise his safety.”
Mereel looked up for a moment, eyebrows raised. ”Right answer. That's why we trust you.” He prodded and poked in-side the comlink for a while and then snapped the case shut again. ”Totally secure now, at least once you use the prefix I'm going to give you. You can even call Ordo.”
”He might be defusing a bomb or something when I call.” Besany always thought things through in meticulous sequence, which made her all the more horrified to see how easily she took this dangerous leap of faith. ”I'll wait for him to call me, thanks.”
”See? Kal'buir said you had the right stuff.”
”Common sense.”
”Got a sister?”
”No.”
”Shame.” He replaced his helmet and suddenly became just another Galactic City cop. ”Anyway, got to go. Any mes-sage for Ordo?”
Should have thought ahead. Stang. What can I say? She and Ordo weren't exactly a romantic role model. They'd just had a drink in the CSF bar and then a string of awkward, embarra.s.sed conversations when everything was implied and not much said. But the bond was strong, and so was her duty to do the right thing for his brothers. ”Tell him I miss him. Ask him what his favorite meal is and tell him I'll cook it for him when he comes back.”
”It's roba sausage with gravy, and he's fussy about the pepper oil.”
”Hang on.” Besany looked around for something to send him, but there was nothing in a woman's apartment that would be of any use or amus.e.m.e.nt to a soldier. There was food, though. Clones were always peckish, all of them. She rummaged in the conservator and hauled out a family-sized cheffa cake whose top was paved with glittering candied nuts, something she'd kept just in case unexpected guests showed up, but they never did. ”Have you got room for something small?”
”How small?”
She was nothing if not exact. ”Okay, twenty-five-centimeter diameter.”
”I'll warn him not to swallow it whole.” Mereel tucked the container under one arm, then reached inside his jacket. He withdrew a small blaster. ”Kal'buir insisted I make you carry this. Go careful, ma'am.”
Besany took it, numb, while a voice at the back of her mind asked if she'd lost her senses. He stepped out onto the platform, and a few moments later the police speeder lifted into the evening sky, vanis.h.i.+ng in a blur of taillights.
She locked the balcony doors and drew the blinds, the blaster still gripped in her hand. She felt observed. There was no other word for it. But that was her conscience nagging. When she looked at her fingers curled around the weapon, it seemed like someone else's hand, and nothing to do with her at all.
So he thinks I might need to use this.
Better work out how I'm going to cover my tracks.
She was a forensic auditor. She knew how to uncover the hidden tracks of others, all the places they hid data or salted away credits or blew smoke across the audit trail. It was just a matter of reversing the process to cover her own.
The only complication was that the trail might lead to the very highest level of government.
She'd never been so scared-and alone-in her life.
She could only begin to imagine what Ordo and the rest of the commando forces faced on a daily basis.
Calna Muun, Agamar, Outer Rim, 471 days after Geonosis ”So, Mando, you like her?”
A gently curved transparisteel bubble bobbed on the surface of the water, looking like one of those little transparent submersibles that showed tourists the wonders of the Bil Da'Gari ocean floor. But then it lifted slowly to reveal some-thing much, much larger, and not very leisure-oriented at all.
Sergeant Kal Skirata watched the water stream off the rising hull and wondered if he'd lost his mirshe, coming all this way to buy a submersible. The price was more than he'd budgeted for. But if you hunted Kaminoans, you needed aquatic capability, however much it cost. And he was hunting an elusive one: Chief Scientist Ko Sai.
”Not to your taste?” asked the Rodian merchant.
Skirata grunted behind the impenetrable mask of his sand-gold helmet. The handy thing about being a Mandalorian doing business was that you didn't need to keep a straight face, and only the terminally stupid ever tried to dupe you. They only tried it once, too.
” 'S'okay, I suppose.”
”It's a beast,” the Rodian said, bouncing around on the quayside like a demented acrobat. Rodians always struck Skirata as looking comically harmless, totally at odds with their true nature, which was why he had an extra blade ready in his sleeve-just in case. ”Every one unique and hand-crafted, Mon Cal's finest. Won't take much work to make this a-”
”It's a freighter. I asked for a fighter.”
”I can throw in a few extra cannons.”
”How long's that going to take?”
”Is this for the war effort?”
Skirata could see the Rodian mentally hiking the price in the expectation that the bill would be met by one government or another. Profiteering and war went hand in hand.
”No,” said Skirata. ”I'm a pacifist.”
The Rodian eyed the custom Verpine sniper rifle slung across his shoulder. ”You're a Mandalorian...”
Skirata let his three-sided knife drop from his right fore-arm plate, point first, and caught the hilt in his hand. ”Would you start a fight with me?”
”No...”
”See? I'm a force for peace.” He spun the knife and slid it back into the housing mounted above his wrist. ”What's her maximum range, then?”
”Depth, a kilometer. Atmos speed-thousand klicks. Goes like a greased ronto.” The freighter was above the waterline now, forty-five meters of smooth dark green curves with four hemispherical drive housings protruding above her stern like a knuckle-duster. It was a Mon Calamari DeepWater-cla.s.s. ”Packs ninety tons of cargo, eight crew. It's got a decent defensive cannon. Hyperdrive is...”
The Rodian stopped and looked to one side of Skirata. Ordo came ambling along the quayside and paused beside the freighter, left thumb hooked in his belt. Except for his gait-always the ARC trooper captain, back slightly arched as if he had both GAR-issue pistols holstered-he was just another Mando in battle-scarred armor. The Rodian fidgeted as Ordo inspected the drive housings from a distance and then jumped with a hollow thud from the quayside onto the casing.
”I don't like the color,” Ordo muttered. He prodded his toecap into the manual override of the port hatch and popped the seals. ”I'll just inspect the upholstery.”
Skirata turned to the Rodian. ”My boy's a picky lad, I'm afraid. I've lost count of the crates we've looked at this week.”
”I could get you a Hydrosphere Explorer if you're prepared to wait a few weeks.” The merchant dropped his voice. ”An Ubrikkian repulsorsub. A V-Fin. A Trade Federation submarine, even.”
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