“So at least we don’t have to worry about her being missed too badly.” Vau glanced at Atin, almost as if he was seeking a greeting, but got no reaction. “And she confirmed that there was one other person in logistics that she had to leave information for in an agreed place, a dead letter drop inside the GAR complex, whenever she could manage it. In a locker in the female ’freshers.”
“What? You’re kidding me.”
“I know. We spend millions on the latest ships but we’re stuffed by a simple security leak that wouldn’t baffle a Kitonak grocer.”
Etain felt Skirata generate a little dark vortex of rage. His face drained of color. “Why are they so shabla clueless?”
“Because they’re a bureaucracy, and they’re not the ones in the front line. Anyway, none of the traffic information is impossible to dig out by other routes. It’s just quick and easy—all wrapped up in one chip. Worth having because it saves them a lot of time, which means they don’t have many personnel. Small and opportunistic network, I reckon.”
Skirata was rubbing his face slowly with both hands, exasperated and weary. “So she didn’t know who collected the data, other than that they could use the female ’freshers without attracting attention? Or what their schedule was?”
“If she had known, I can guarantee she would have told me.”
“I’ll bet.”
“So we need someone in there to flush that person out.”
“That’s me,” Ordo said, and went on making the thermal plastoid into neat piles. Etain had counted two hundred small rectangular packets so far. “All I have to do is withdraw the trooper who’s seconded to the transport division and step in.”
“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 strill’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.
Chapter Fourteen
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?
They ignore so much data, these civilians.
“Corr, I need you to show me something,” Ordo said. The civilians also seemed to ignore conversations between clones. “Come with me.”
Corr picked up his helmet, put the security code lock on his workstation with his gauntlet tally—good man, follows the regulations—and followed Ordo out of the room. They walked back down the corridor and Ordo gestured him into the ’freshers, marching him into the far end where the lockers were.
“This is where you have to follow my orders to the letter,” Ordo said.
Corr looked suddenly wary. “Yes sir.”
“Armor off. We’re swapping suits.”
“Sir?”
“Remove your armor. I need it.”
Corr began unfastening the gription panels without argument and stacked the plates on the floor. Ordo did the same. They both stood there in black bodysuits, suddenly without visible rank, and Ordo was reminded of the price Corr had paid. He looked at the trooper’s artificial hands.
“Was it very painful?” asked Ordo, who had never been that badly injured.
“I don’t remember a thing, sir, but it hurt when I woke up in the bacta tank.” He pushed back his sleeves: he had lost both arms from just above the elbow. “I manage okay.”
Ordo had no idea what to say. “You should be invalided out. You shouldn’t be going back to the front.”
“What about my brothers? What am I without them?”
He had no answer to that, either. He snapped Corr’s plates onto his own suit. It was a tight fit: he had always known that the experimental genotype that had so disappointed Kaminoan quality control had made the Nulls slightly heavier in build than the clone trooper and clone commando batches. His armor would be a little loose on Corr.
“At least you get to play captain, then. Enjoy it.”
Corr attached the plates and had some trouble snapping the kama into place. Ordo adjusted it and put the pauldron on his shoulders, then handed him the helmet.
“Wow, this feels different,” Corr said, looking down at himself. The ARC trooper armor was built to a higher spec. “It’s heavier than I thought.”
“Get those shoulders back a bit farther and let the kama and the holsters hang like that.” Ordo placed the helmet on Corr’s head and was suddenly surprised to be staring back at himself: so that was how he looked to the world. “Take this datapad and walk out of the front doors. You’ll be met by a taxi piloted by a Wookiee. Do not stop and do not talk to anyone. Just walk out as if you were me, and you’ll be taken to a place where you’ll be among brothers.”
“Very good, sir. How long?”
Ordo tried on Corr’s helmet. It felt foreign. It smelled of a stranger: different food, different soap. “I don’t know. Just savor the break and I’ll see you later. What do you call the civilians?”
“I address them by their last name, except for the supervisors, whom I call ma’am or sir.”
“Even Wennen?”
Corr paused. “We use first names when not in the center itself.”
Ordo tucked Corr’s helmet under his arm. “Good. Off you go.”
They left the ’freshers a few seconds apart, and Ordo watched Corr disappear up the corridor. The weight of the kama and blasters gave him an authentic swagger. Ordo found it quite touching and turned back to the operations room to get used to being a simple meat can, a clone trooper that nobody—except the enemy, of course—dreaded or feared or avoided.
He had at least one shift to settle in before the biggest risk to his cover turned up. Besany Wennen seemed to be the one taking the most interest in Corr. He would have to be careful to get past her scrutiny. But he had a few hours to practice.
He unlocked the workstation and became compliant, conscientious CT-5108/8843, invisible to the world. The job of checking that supplies had reached the correct battalion in the field and that contractors’ schedules hadn’t slipped was a simple one, and he occupied himself thinking of ways to make the system more efficient. He resisted the urge to upgrade the system there and then.
And he watched those around him.
“Sorry I’m late,” said a woman’s voice behind him, a level, mellow voice with an undertone of warmth that sounded as if she were permanently smiling, the higher frequencies betraying a shortened vocal tract. “I’ll work an extra hour for you tomorrow. Thanks for holding the fort.”
Ordo had no time to perfect his simple-trooper act. He glanced over his shoulder as he imagined Corr might, and gave Besany Wennen a slight nod that felt like it came a little too easily to him.
She smiled back. Ordo suspected she too was a consummate actor. But something in him greatly enjoyed that smile.
Operational house, Qibbu’s Hut,
2015 hours, 383 days after Geonosis
“Name your time for a discussion about the goods,” the stranger’s voice said over the comlink. “And we’ll name the place.”
Skirata didn’t like the sound of that. Nor did Vau, evidently. He was listening to the comlink, too, scanner in one hand, and shaking his head slowly, tapping out a random pattern in the air with a forefinger. Can’t trace the transmission point. Multiple relay. Just like us.
Ordo grabbed his gauntlet from the table and activated a holochart, holding it where Skirata could see it. The whole strike team was waiting on the conversation, including the clone trooper called Corr whose life had suddenly taken a turn for the bizarre that day.
“I’m going to need a little more reassurance than that,” Skirata said.
“I’m an intermediary,” the voice said. Coruscanti accent. No clue at all. “What reassurance would you like?”
“A very public place. If we both like what we see, and we trust each other, we meet somewhere more private to iron things out.”
“And you bring a sample.”
“Assault rifles? In public?” This was the test question, the one that would sort the gangsters from the Separatists. Weapons were instantly useful to criminals: raw explosives weren’t, not unless you wanted to resell them. “Don’t takis me, di’kut. My father didn’t raise a stupid son.”
“My clients suggested you could obtain military-grade explosives.”
“I can. So you want a sample of that?”
Silence. Vau listened, head cocked.
“We do. What are you offering?”
“Top military-spec five-hundred-grade thermal plastoid.”
Pause. “I think that fits the bill.”
There was a forest of enthusiastically raised thumbs in the hushed room. For some reason Skirata found himself focused on the anxious face of clone trooper Corr, perched on the edge of a chair with one of Dar’s custom dets dismantled in his prosthetic hands.
“Noon tomorrow,” Skirata said. He winked at Jusik. “And I’ll have my nephew with me, just in case.”
“On the south side of the Bank of the Core Plaza.”
“You’ll spot me easily enough. I have a strill.”
Vau’s face was a study in shock, but—like the professional soldier he was—he said nothing.
“What’s a strill?” the disembodied voice said.
“A disgustingly ugly, smelly Mandalorian hunting animal. You can’t mistake it for any other species, not even in this menagerie of a city.”
“Noon, then.”
The link went dead.
“Nobody but Seps would want five-hundred-grade thermal,” Vau said. “Too exotic for the average criminal. They certainly bit on the bait fast. Should that worry us?”
“They’ve lost their usual supplier, and this is far better stuff.” Skirata watched Delta descend on the holochart and begin planning sniper positions around the banking plaza. “This is purely surveillance unless they start shooting, okay, lads? Killing them there won’t help us trace their nests. Least of all in broad daylight.”
“Understood, Sarge.”
Sev managed a smile. “As long as we get to use lethal rounds later. We like dead. Dead is very us.”
“I added some Dust to the unenriched thermal,” Jusik said. “You want some made into Verpine projectiles, so you can tag anyone you spot and track them, too?” Jusik was a ferociously clever lad and Skirata prized intelligence very much, as much as loyalty and courage. “I thought I’d make sure we didn’t have to follow a suspect the hard way again. Am I forgiven for my lapse of judgment the other day?”
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