“And what happens to him?” Vau said.
“He stays here until I'm finished,” Ordo said. “You can make a commando of him in the meantime, Kal'buir”
“Well, this is going to be very cozy.” Vau rubbed the still's back, and it shuddered with visible delight. “Because you have to find room for me, too.”
“Then the strill sleeps on the landing platform,” Skirata said.
“Then I do, too,” said Vau.
Fi emerged from the room he shared with Atin and stared at the animal. “We could always leave it downstairs in the bar as an air freshener.”
“One day, RC-eight-oh-one-five,” Vau said, smiling with unusual sincerity, “you might be very glad of Mird's natural talents.”
Etain suspected they were not dissimilar to its master's.
Qibbu's private rooms, Qibbu's Hut, 1150 hours, 381 days after Geonosis
“So this is why you write off my debt,” Qibbu said. He swallowed a pickled gorg whole and sighed. “You use my fine establishment as a base so that trouble does not follow you home.”
Too right, Skirata thought.
“My little girl needs to start up her own business,” he said, beaming convincingly at Etain. “So she can look after her old dad in his dotage.”
Etain looked suitably sullen. She continued to surprise him with her capacity to do whatever was needed. She could act brave, and she could act calm, and now she could act the wayward and spoiled daughter of an overprotective mercenary.
“She is too skinny to make a living as a bounty hunter,” Qibbu said, and shook with laughter. “Mando females are supposed to be big and tough.”
“Her mother, the chakaar, was a Corellian and she left me to bring the girl up,” said Skirata. “What Etain lacks in muscle she makes up for in business acumen.”
“Ah, I thought your fondness for the Republic's army would prove to have a financial motive. You care nothing for your … boys.”
Kal bit the inside of his cheek. “No. You ever met a Mando'ad who cared about the Republic?”
“No. So what is for sale?”
“Something armies have a great deal of.”
“Ah … you follow the news closely.”
Skirata made a silent vow to be very, very kind to Mar Rugeyan in future. That turf war cover story had worked all too well and the man probably didn't even know it. “There does seem to be a sudden gap in the arms market, yes.”
“You made that gap, yes?”
His stomach somersaulted. He managed a grin. “I'm not that big a player.”
Qibbu swallowed the hint whole like a gorg. “So what can you obtain?”
“Blasters, assault rifles, thermal plastoid, ammunition. Anything larger than that I'll treat as a special order and it might take longer. Don't ask for any warships, though.”
Qibbu laughed. “I put out the word and we see if it attracts customers.”
“I'm sure I can rely on your discretion. You like this place, don't you?”
“I want no trouble finding its way back here. But I will expect … commission. Twenty percent.”
“That's my dowry,” Etain said sourly. “Papa, are you going to let this chakaar steal from me?”
Fierfek, she was getting good, this kid. “ 'Course not, ad'ika.” Skirata leaned toward Qibbu and jangled his length of chain in his pocket as a little reminder. “Five percent, and I'll see that your lovely establishment here remains in one piece and unvisited by the riffraff of this world.”
Qibbu gurgled. “If this partnership is successful, we renegotiate terms later.”
“You get the business and we'll see.”
Skirata stood up as calmly as he could and led Etain out onto the walkway to get some fresh air. The smell of frying, stale ale, and strill was getting to him.
“I thought chakaar was a nice touch,” he said.
“I pick up the odd word.”
“You okay?”
“Actually, that was hard. I envy your nerve.”
“You reckon?” Skirata held out his hand, fingers spread, palm down. It was shaking. She needed to know that in case she thought he was invincible, and her misplaced faith got her killed. “I'm just a soldier. A commando, you'd call it. I'm groping my way through all this.”
“But Qibbu's scared of you.”
“I don't have any problems with killing people. That's all.” The reality of his situation had become starkly clear now: edging farther and farther out on that limb, either to safety or to plummet into the torrent rushing beneath, with a breath between one extreme and the other. And no way of stepping back onto the riverbank. “If anything happens to me, I need to know someone will look out for my boys.”
“You're asking me?”
“There's only you and Bard'ika to ask.”
“Nothing is going to happen to you.”
“The Force is telling you that, is it?”
“Yes.”
“What else does the Force tell you?”
“What I have to do.”
“If and when we meet these scum face-to-face, are you up for it? Can't have my boys visible. Too obvious.”
“Not Bardan?”
“I don't have to ask Bard'ika. He'll want to be there anyway. I'm asking you.”
“I'll do whatever you command. You have seniority here.”
Skirata was hoping for an expression of confidence rather than obedience.
But it would have to do.
14
Word from our undercover team and their informants is that someone is offering explosives and arms on the black market. It's amazing how fast this scum flows in to fill the gaps. Time for us to move in. And only one warning before you open fire, okay? Let's see how much we can clean up once and for all.
–Organized Crime Unit squad briefing, CSF HQ, 383 days after Geonosis
Logistics center, Grand Army of the Republic, Coruscant Command HQ, 1000 hours, 383 days after Geonosis
Ordo walked through the center's doors unchallenged this time.
“Good morning, sir,” the sentry droid said.
Ordo shoved his stylus probe in the droid's dataport again and downloaded its latest recognized-personnel file. “Carry on,” he said.
Before he reached the operations room of the logistics wing, he stepped into the male fresher and ran the downloaded images of all the center's organic staff through his helmet's HUD to memorize every face. About 5 percent had changed since his last visit. Civilian staff moved on. Supervisor Wennen, he noted, was still there.
Then he copied all the data stored in his helmet to his datapad and wiped the HUD's memory. His armor was completely clean now, with no trace of who or what he was other than a classified ARC trooper tally ID. His sole connection to the special forces world would be the tiny bead comlink in his ear. His final task was to slide a wide-angle strip cam into the ventilation grille that passed between the male 'freshers and the female ones.
Then he replaced his helmet and walked into the operations room. There was no sign of Besany Wennen; the third-shift supervisor, a Nimbanel, was on duty.
“'Morning, sir,” Corr said.
“Just observing today, trooper,” Ordo said. He stood back as if watching the array of live traffic holocharts that covered the circular wall of the ops room, making it feel like the inside of an illuminated drum. In fact, his gaze was on Corr as he worked and occasionally moved around the room. Ordo was taking a crash course in how the trooper moved so that he could mimic him. He already had the measure of his voice with its faint flash-learned accent.
And the civilians always seemed to think he was looking in the direction that his helmet was facing. The basic trooper helmet's specification was available to anyone working in logistics, but they seemed to be unaware of its visual range. Who cared what a trooper could and could not see?