Part 5 (1/2)
”Yeah, I'd really love the Trade boys to come after me when they find a bit of their navy missing.”
”You're so suspicious, you Mandalorians.”
”You're not wrong there. How much?”
”One hundred and fifty thousand.”
”I don't want to buy the whole fleet, son. Just one hull.”
”Hard to find, these DeepWaters.”
”Y'know, that TradeFed idea wasn't bad. Maybe I ought to go see their procurement people, because if I bought a real sub, direct from the manufacturer, instead of this day-tripper . . .”
Skirata heard Ordo's voice in his earpiece. ”Kal'buir, I think Prudii can get this cannoned up nicely . . .”
He didn't want a regular submarine anyway. He needed a multipurpose vessel-like the Mon Cal tub here. The Rodian had no idea what he wanted or how badly he wanted it, or even if he could afford it. Skirata jangled his credit chips in his belt pouch, giving the alluring sound a little longer to soften up the Rodian's resistance, walking slowly up and down the quay as if he was thinking about something else.
”Come on, ad'ika,” he said to Ordo, letting the merchant hear. ”Got another five vessels to look at yet. Haven't got all day.”
”Just checking the hull integrity .. .,” Ordo said.
Good things, helmets: n.o.body could hear what was being said on the comlink outside the buy'ce unless you let them. Ordo was using all his state-of-the-art armor sensors to check for metal fatigue, leaks, and other mechanical faults. Skirata noted the readouts being relayed to his spanking-new HUD display, a small and necessary extravagance paid for by dead terrorists. They were at their nicest when dead, he thought.
Ordo let out a long breath. ”It looks a little . . . stained in-side, but otherwise this is a sound vessel. I'd take it if I were you.”
I'll still knock the price down. ”Oh. Is the leak bad?” Skirata asked, theatrically loud.
”What leak?” the Rodian demanded. ”There's no kriffing leak.”
”My boy says there's water damage.” Skirata paused for effect. ”Ord'ika, come up and tell him.”
Ordo emerged from the hatch and stood on the hull with his hands on his hips, head slightly to one side. ”The decking and the upholstery. Water stains.”
”It's a submarine,” the Rodian snapped. ”Of course it's got water stains. What do you want, a sail barge or something? I thought you Mandos were supposed to be hard, and here you are whining on like Neimies about water stains.”
”Now, that's not very customer-focused,” Skirata said. He reached slowly into his belt pouch and pulled out a handful of cash credits, all big denominations with their values tantalizingly visible. Not many s.h.i.+p merchants could resist the lure of a ready wedge of creds, and deferred gratification didn't look like the Rodian's strong suit. ”I think I'll take my custom elsewhere.”
The Rodian might have been mouthy but he wasn't mathematically challenged. His beady little eyes darted over the chips. ”You'd have a problem getting one of these anywhere else. The Mon Cals aren't selling them to the Seps.”
If the Rodian wanted to think they were working for the Separatists, that was fine. n.o.body expected to see a Mandalorian working for the Republic, and the Rodian hadn't asked. Skirata crooked his finger to beckon Ordo, and the Null strode behind, boots crunching on the sanded boards of the jetty. The trick was to walk away briskly and purpose-fully. They were both very good at that, even if Skirata's leg was playing up and he was limping more than usual. There was a moment, a critical second, when one or the other side would crack. If they kept on walking, it would be the Rodian.
And Jedi thought they were the only ones who could exert a little mind influence, did they?
”One hundred and twenty,” the Rodian called after him.
Skirata didn't break his stride. Neither did Ordo. ”Eighty,” he called back.
”A hundred and ten.”
”They only cost a hundred new.”
”It's got extras.”
”It'd need to be gold-plated to be worth that.”
They were still walking. Ordo made a little grunt, but it was hard to tell if he was annoyed or amused.
”Okay, ninety,” the Rodian called.
”Eighty, cash credits,” Skirata said, not turning around. In fact, he speeded up. He counted to ten, and got as far as eight.
”Okay,” the Rodian said at last. ”I hope you'll be happy with it.”
Skirata slowed and then turned around to amble back, casually counting out his credits. Ordo jumped onto the hull and disappeared down the open hatch.
”Oh, I'll be back pretty fast if I'm not,” Skirata said. ”That's why I don't need a warranty.”
The Deep Water's drives roared into life, sending white foam churning across the harbor. The jetty trembled.
”Does he know how to drive that thing?” the Rodian asked.
”My boy knows how to do just about anything. Fast learner.”
Skirata skidded across the wet hull and sealed the hatch behind him. Ordo was already in the pilot's position in the narrow c.o.c.kpit, helmet on the console, looking as if he was talking to himself as he touched each of the controls in sequence. He had an eidetic memory, like all the Nulls: just one quick canter through the manual before they set out, and Ordo had the theory down pat. Skirata was ferociously proud of him, as he was all his boys, but he resented the damage the Kaminoans had done to them in the creation of what they were sure would be the perfect soldier. Their brilliance came at a price. They were all troubled souls, unpredictable and violent, the product of too much genetic tampering and a brutal infancy. Skirata would punch any fool who dared call them nutters, but they were a handful even for him some-times.
But they were his life. He'd raised them as his sons. The Kaminoans had wanted to terminate them as a failed experiment, and just thinking about that still made Skirata long for revenge. All Kaminoans were s.a.d.i.s.tic vermin as far as he was concerned, and he counted their lives as cheaply as they counted the clones they bred. Ko Sai would be one of the lucky ones: he needed her alive-for a while, at least.
So my boys were surplus to requirements, were they? So will you be, sweetheart.
Ordo slid open the throttle and the Deep Water was under way, churning foam. The Rodian dwindled to a doll, then a speck on a receding jetty, and they were in open sea beyond the harbor limits.
”Let's go catch some aiwha-bait, then.” Skirata wondered why he was worried about diving in a sub when he was perfectly happy to fly in cold hard s.p.a.ce. He'd done enough maritime exercises on Kamino, after all. ”Heard from Mereel yet?”
”Yes, he's on his way, yes, he got Agent Wennen to do the job, and yes, he gave her the blaster.”
Agent Wennen? Come on, son. You've got a short enough life as it is. Go for it. ”She's a tough one. Or'atin'la.”
Ordo didn't take the bait. ”Mer'ika says she's sent me a cheffa cake.”
Ordo was touchingly clueless about women. Skirata knew he'd failed him on the emotional education front. ”You're well in there, son. Smart, tough girl.” She was a striking leggy blonde, too, but that was farther down the list for Mandalorians, after capability and endurance. She was actually too beautiful for people to feel comfortable around her, and so Skirata counted the poor kid among his growing collection of outsiders and social rejects. ”You deserve the best.”
”If only there were a manual for females, Kal'buir.”
”If there is, I never got my copy.”
Ordo turned his head and gave Skirata a look that said it was no comfort to hear that. Ordo now knew what Skirata had kept from the clones for so long: that his marriage had foundered, and his two sons had eventually declared him dar'buir, no longer a father-the divorce of a parent, possibly the greatest shame in Mandalorian society. It was the only thing he'd ever kept from the Nulls, apart from Etain Tur-Mukan's pregnancy.
Does that worry Ordo? Does he believe me? I had to dis-appear. We all had to, to train our clones in secret. My kids were grown men. I left them every last credit I had, didn't I? Shab, my clones needed me more than they did. They needed me just to stay alive.