The descent in the turbolift felt like a rapid insert via gunship as they plunged down a hundred levels.
Skirata began laughing quietly and pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. “I wish I'd realized that Rugeyan would respond to a simple request. Then I'd never have—well, you know.”
“If you hadn't captured his attention in such an assertive way at the siege, perhaps he wouldn't have been so accommodating today. That man might even make a useful member of an intelligence bureau one day.”
“He just needed me to show some understanding of his own position. Sometimes I think people want more from me than they actually do. So where does this leave us, Ord'ika?”
Ordo counted off on the fingers of his glove. “Smokescreen in progress. Team on standby, split into watches. Observation points and potential operational houses collated and identified. Armory and logistics in place. Confirmed link between devices and prisoners.”
“But?”
“All dressed up and nowhere to go. Still a large gap in the intel.”
“What did the droid crack out of the download from Atin?” Skirata asked.
“A lot of data that needs combing by hand when we have other intel to put alongside it. It's just lists of businesses like any transport company would keep. Nothing leaps out. Sometimes I wish we had to deal with Weequays. They'd label things TOP SECRET and give us a clue.”
“Why is this proving so hard? Fierfek, son, Kom'rk and Jaing can track a flitnat across the galaxy and we can't find a gang in our own backyard.”
“I'm sorry, Kal'buir.” I should be able to crack this. I'm letting him down. “This is a double line of surveillance, I'm afraid—the terror network itself and whoever is providing their recce intelligence—and that could be inside our own organization, or in the CSF, and the latter is going to be harder to identify.”
“I'm not blaming you. It's just an expression.”
“And my brothers do know the identities of the flitnats they're looking for, of course.”
“Only one option left, then. Explore every line and dot, and hope for a lucky break while we're doing it to speed things up.”
“Unless Vau gets lucky.”
“Time to break out the emergency Jedi, I think, son.”
“Oh-eight-hundred tomorrow,” said Ordo.
“Still got time to do some more preparation, then. Let's go and see a Hutt who owes me one. Well, a lot more than one, actually. And let's pick up Sev and Scorch so they can see how it's done.”
There were things Skirata could do that not even a commando or an ARC could, and one of those was to work his contacts.
Ordo committed it all to memory. Tonight would be highly educational.
Qibbu's Hut, entertainment district, Coruscant; Delta recce troop in attendance
Garish green light framed the pulsing orange sign above the entrance. Qibbu opened late: it was already dark, and Skirata thought it was high time the bar welcomed new customers.
“I'm only a simple trained killer,” Sev said, “but something tells me never to eat in a restaurant with a bad pun over the door.”
“You haven't tried the food yet,” Skirata said. “That'll leave no room for doubt.”
“Or dessert,” Scorch said. “And did I mention I feel naked?”
“About a dozen times since we left HQ. Get used to it. You can't wear armor all the time.”
Ordo drew one blaster. Scorch raised his eyebrows.
“I'm being low-key,” Ordo said. “Or I'd draw both.”
“I really didn't notice you in that shiny white rig at all, sir …”
“Listen up, lads.” Skirata slid one hand into his pocket to feel for a reassuring meter of durasteel chain and held his right arm straight at his side. He hadn't seen the Hutt in a long time, years before Kamino, and it was bound to be a nasty shock for the old slug.
“Qibbu might be surprised to see me, especially as he still owes me a fee. So no heroics. I can handle him.” Skirata gestured for the two commandos to stand back in the open lobby. “Look casual and read the menu. And don't throw up.”
The sprawling maze of rooms passed for a restaurant, bar, and hotel, but only if the Coruscant food hygiene inspectors were looking the other way. It was perfect in every way if you wanted not to be bothered. There was a certain anonymity in the rough end of the entertainment district.
It was just the kind of place where an awful lot of clone soldiers could pass in and out without drawing comment, at least after the novelty wore off. Skirata leaned on the intercom.
Qibbu the Hutt was at home. He just knew it. It was the skinny Duros suddenly standing in the doorway with a blaster that gave the game away.
“We're closed,” the Duros said.
“And I'm Kal Skirata.”
The Duros' gray fist closed on the blaster. “And I said we're closed.”
Ordo swung around the door and leveled his blaster in the Duros' flat face. “No, I do believe you're open, and we'd like to see tonight's special, please.”
The Duros paused long enough to gape, which was probably what saved his life. If he'd lifted the blaster, Ordo would have killed him. Ordo grabbed his wrist anyway and twisted it almost as a side effect of wresting the blaster from his grip, and there was the unmistakable snick of cracking bone. The Duros squealed.
“I think that means come right in,” Skirata said, and made sure he had his blaster in his waistband. Qibbu might have shelled out some credits for competent help after all. He wandered into the deserted restaurant and noted that the carpet didn't quite stick to his boots as much as it used to. He wandered behind the bar, as much to check that nobody was lurking there to give him a Very Unhappy Hour as to see if the glasses were clean.
Ordo's blaster whirred faintly as he raised it. When Skirata looked up, Sev and Scorch were covering one door each. Good lads. They'd all do fine out in the big bad world.
“Ka-a-al …” Qibbu inched out of the kitchens, a waft of exotic spice and burned fat escaping as the Hutt eased himself into the bar area. “So you come for your bounty at last. I thought you would never come. And you have staff and a nice jacket now … must be doing better business, yes?”
“Colleagues,” Skirata said. “I'll take hard currency, but if you haven't got that, we can negotiate.”
Qibbu was unattractive even by Hutt standards. His tongue flicked across his slit of a mouth, and he edged to the bar to slither onto his dais and pour a couple of drinks.
“Your boys want ale?” Qibbu indicated a jar of pickled gorg on the bar. “Snacks?”
“No thanks.” Sev and Scorch were a chorus, eyes fixed on the jar of very dead amphibians. “Couldn't manage another thing.”
“Okay, you and I talk, then, Ka-a-al.”
“I take it you haven't got ready currency?”
“Not that much. Give me time, and—”
“Let me make it easy for both of us.” Skirata pulled up a stool and sat down to bring himself level with the Hutt's eyes. “I'm a tourist. Can my boys take a look at your rooms? If we like what we see, we'll stay for a while.”
Skirata indicated the turbolift. Sev and Scorch drew their blasters and disappeared for a recce. Ordo locked the main doors again and paced slowly around the bar, probably committing the layout and every detail to memory. A right little holorecorder, Ordo: another superb advantage of perfect recall.
“So … you have a project in hand, Ka-a-al?”
“I might have.”
“Does it involve … dead people?”
“Not this time. I just need a place where my colleagues and I can relax and not be bothered for a while.”
Qibbu's yellow slit-pupiled eyes followed Ordo around the bar. Skirata could never see yellow eyes now without thinking of Kaminoans.
“Your colleagues are soldiers.”
“Yes. They like to make the most of their leave. They don't get much.”
“So they do little … jobs for you,” Qibbu said.
“Yes, and non
e of those jobs need inconvenience you. You won't' get any visits from CSF, because my boys behave themselves.”
“You just want … peace and quiet for them to do those little jobs for you.”
You have no idea how much, Slug-Breath. “Yes.”
“In exchange, you write off that small sum I owe you?”
“I might.” It was five hundred thousand credits plus interest. He didn't need it now. There was a time when he would have risked his life and that of anyone who got in the way to pick up a fee like that. He'd been a successful debt enforcer for a brief time, but it wasn't proper soldiering. “I might also bring some trade your way, because there could be a lot of troopers in town who want to visit somewhere relaxing.”
“You offer me more than I owe you. There is a catch.”
“The catch,” Skirata said, feeling the negotiation slipping away from him, “is that you'll guarantee no trouble here. And my definition of trouble is quite exacting.”
“No unwanted attention.”
“And no nonsense from your usual low-life clientele. No taking advantage of my soldier boys. As much food as they want—fresh and properly cooked, please—and clean rooms. They don't drink much but they do tend to like a lot of caf and sweet beverages.”
Qibbu blinked slowly, still apparently distracted by Ordo, who was taking an interest in the kitchen.
“Mind if I do a food hygiene inspection?” Ordo said, and disappeared into the kitchens without waiting for a reply.
Qibbu's gaze slid toward the kitchen and then back to Skirata. “You ask for a lot for your shiny boys.”
Skirata closed his hand around the end of the chain in his pocket. The slug needed to learn who had the upper hand in this negotiation. “That's because they deserve a lot, you owe me a lot, and if you mess me about you'll have a lot more trouble than you could possibly imagine—”
Skirata's buildup to giving Qibbu a serious smacking was suddenly interrupted by a stifled shriek from the kitchens. A young Twi'lek female came rushing out the doors. He realized Ordo must have startled her. It might have been the twin blasters.
“And only respectable females allowed in the bar,” Skirata added. But the Twi'lek looked terrified in a way that said she was used to being that way, and he didn't like that at all. He knew Qibbu only too well. “She doesn't look like your usual … kitchen staff.”
The girl huddled against the far wall, staring at Ordo, who merely walked out and holstered his blaster with an exaggerated gesture. He didn't do reassuring very well at the best of times, let alone with women. It was time to teach him more social graces when carrying firearms.
The Hutt gurgled a laugh. “Females … you know how they are—”
Enough. Skirata pulled his durasteel chain out in one movement and whipped it around Qibbu's neck, twisting it in his fist as he wrenched the quivering bulk toward him. The metal cut into the creature's soft fat, leaving a white margin where the blood could no longer circulate.
“Listen, shag,” Skirata said, feeling his anger tightening his throat muscles. There was no worse insult for a Hutt than slave. “I like Twi'lek females. Honest ones, the sort that don't thieve, or worse. So no mistreating the staff or I might discover what a trade union activist I can be. Just look after any of my boys who pass this way. Eniki? You step out of line and there'll be a new batch of fresh blubber products at the market first thing in the morning.” He twisted the chain a little tighter. “J'hagwa na yoka, Fatboy. No trouble.”
Qibbu's third eyelid flicked across his reptilian eye like a windscreen wiper. “Your pretty shiny boys die anyway, sooner or later.”
That was it. Skirata jerked the Hutt's head down and brought his knee up in Qibbu's face as hard as he could with a wet thwack. He didn't need this thing to remind him of that and mock their sacrifice. Qibbu spluttered ammonia-scented saliva, moaning.
“Are we going to get good service at your establishment?” Skirata said, ignoring the pain in his kneecap. “Or would you prefer to pay me half a million creds plus nine years' interest right now?”
“Tagwa, lorda.”
“That's more like it.” He loosened his choke hold a little. “A bit of customer focus is good for business.”
Qibbu balked visibly. “I lose profit.”
“You'll lose a lot more than that if you mess around with me. I've always wanted to see if Hutts really can regenerate body parts.” Skirata tightened the chain again. “Ke nu jurIcadir sha Mando'ade.”
Don't mess with Mandalorians. It wasn't bad advice.
Qibbu was no linguist but Skirata knew tone could convey a great deal even to an animal, and maybe even to a Hutt. He hoped the lack of circulation in Qibbu's neck was translating for him.
“Tagwa … Sergeant,” Qibbu said, and let out a long wet gasp as Skirata released the chain.
Sev and Scorch emerged from the turbolift again and gave Skirata the thumbs-up.
“Ideal for a relaxing break, Sarge,” Scorch said. “Lovely clear views, platform to park a speeder or six, and lots of room to stretch our legs. A whole floor of rooms at the top, in fact.”
Good defensive visibility, easy access and escape, and the right layout for moving around and storing kit and ordnance. Excellent.
“If it's good enough for my colleagues, it'll be good enough for me,” Skirata said. “You want to take a look just to make sure, Ordo?”
Ordo shook his head, still seeming wary of the Twi'lek female. “I'll go with the majority.”
“So, long-stay rates?” Skirata asked.
“As … discussed,” Qibbu said.
Skirata slid off the stool and wiped the chain clean of Qibbu's slime before coiling it and putting it in his pocket again. He was concerned about the Twi'lek, though. Civilians were hardly his prime concern on this operation, but it didn't cost anything to be courteous.
He walked over to her. She was still cowering. He squatted down almost instinctively: he saw six scared little boys waiting to be reconditioned. “I'm Kal, ma'am,” he said. “What's your name?”
She didn't meet his eyes. She had that way of looking off slightly to one side that he thought he'd seen too many times before. “Laseema.”
“Well, Laseema, if your boss isn't treating you well, you let me know. And I'll have a word with him.” He smiled as best he could. “And none of my boys will give you any problems, either, okay?”
“Okay,” she said shakily. Her lekku were moving slightly, but Skirata couldn't understand the unspoken language they conveyed. She might just have been twitching out of fear. “Okay.”
Skirata gave her as reassuring a smile as he could manage and moved to the doors. “We'll be back tomorrow to move some stuff in. Have the top floor ready for us, will you? Nice and clean.”
“And fresh flowers,” Scorch said.
They ambled back to the speeder and set off for Arca Barracks, settling into an automated skylane and merging into the stream of glittering taillights. Coruscant was lovely at night, just as Fi said. Skirata had never thought about it much before.
He nudged Sev. “Good operational house, then.”
“Tailor-made. It'll take us a day to move the kit in discreet amounts, but we can access via the landing platform when it's dark again.”
“Does our host get nervous about storing ordnance?” Ordo said.
“He's a Hutt,” said Skirata. “He's stored a lot worse. And what he doesn't know won't keep him awake at night.”
Scorch seemed impressed. “You really were a bit of a bad boy in your past, weren't you, Sarge?”
“What d'you mean, past?” Sev said.
And they laughed. They were perfect special forces troops, very bad boys in their own right, but they had never dealt with the criminal underworld—and crime was an inevitable partner of terrorism. It was one reason why Skirata didn't feel one scrap of misgiving about going bandit himself.
Fierfek, he'd impressed them. The Delta boys were emerging from their closed, tight-knit exclusivity and settling i
nto the larger team. That was one problem solved.
There was still the operation itself, of course.
And keeping an eye on Atin, Vau, and Sev.
And introducing Etain to an element of war that wasn't remotely noble.
And making sure that everyone came out of it alive.
Skirata reached over the back of the seat and gave Sev and Scorch a playful swat, then nudged Ordo beside him.
“I promised you all a night out,” he said. “When we get this cleaned up, Zey's going to get a really big mess bill from the officers' club.”
“Maybe we shouldn't wait until then,” Scorch said. “You never know what's around the corner.”
No. You didn't. You never did.
9
When the enemy is a droid or a wet with a weapon, then killing them is easy. But in this game you're operating among civvies, on your home ground. You could be workingright next door to the enemy. They might even be people you know and like. But they're still the enemy and you'll have to slot them just the same. There's no Mandalorian word for “hero,” and that's just as well, because however many lives you save in black ops, you will never, ever be a hero. Deal with it.
–Sergeant Kal Skirata, teaching counterterrorist tactics to Republic Commando companies Alpha through Epsilon, Kamino, three years before Geonosis
Arca Company Barracks parade ground, 0730 hours, 371 days after Geonosis
The missile skimmed the top of Etain's head and bounced off the Force-shield she had instinctively thrown up to protect her face.
Jusik skidded to a halt in front of her, sweat dripping off the end of his nose, a flattened alloy rod clutched in one hand. There was a smear of blood across his cheek, and she wasn't sure if it was his.
“Sorry!” He looked elated. “Look, why don't you sit over there? It's safer.”
Etain indicated the blood. “And why don't you use your Force powers?” she said. “This is a dangerous sport.”
“That's cheating,” Jusik said, lobbing the small plastoid sphere back into the knot of commandos. They pounced on the object like a hunting pack and jostled each other ferociously to whack the thing with rods, trying to drive it hard against the barrack wall.
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