"Okay, door by door now, Mer'ika." Skirata put his self-disgust aside. "She's here."
"I bet the place locks down when the alarm kicks in," Mereel said, trying the first door. He took out a sensor and scanned for security circuits while Skirata listened for signs of life.
Maybe he should have yelled for Ko Sai to come out and face them. She must have known they were there. A firefight among Mando'ade wasn't the kind of thing you missed be-cause you were making a pot of caf.
And it was definitely a laboratory.
It reminded Skirata of Tipoca City, all clinical white surfaces and sterile areas, doors with hermetic seals, a temple to order and perfection and disregard for life. He couldn't smell it with his helmet on, but he knew that if he took it off, he'd feel that slight tingling in his nostrils and smell the sterilizing fluid.
"The doors are on two circuits, Kal'buir," Mereel said. "I'll fry one set at a time. That means all the doors open at once."
"Then she can make a run for it," Skirata said. "Or wait for us to drag her out."
There was nowhere for her to go. Skirata thought that this might have been a decoy, and that the right-hand fork near the entrance was where they should have been, but Mereel beckoned to him and indicated a security panel. It was the kind that had an outline of the floor plan with small lights indicating the status of each compartment or room.
"Emergency generator," Mereel said, tapping his fingertip against the panel. "That's the plant room on the right-hand side. This is the only accommodation."
"She hasn't got an army down here, then."
"Probably just enough bodyguards to cover three shifts. The more folks down here, the more supplies she has to bring in. But we can check the rooms."
"You reckon the next shift will be along soon?"
"Make sure you reload."
"Let's just find the shabuir and drag her out."
"I need to strip the data out of her systems, too."
Snatching someone off the street was basic work for any jobbing bounty hunter, fast if risky. Kidnapping a scientist and stealing all her research-all of it, nothing left to fall into the wrong hands-was a much bigger task if you were in a hurry.
Bard'ika, let's see you persuade Delta to stop for dinner, and maybe take in a holovid, too.
"Ten doors each side, Kal'buir"
The whole place was one giant waterproofed tank with interior partitions, so unless he'd got this badly wrong, there was only one way out, and that was past him.
Skirata took his helmet off one-handed for a moment and inhaled deeply. He always claimed he could smell Kaminoans, but what hit the back of his palate galvanized him almost as much: the place did smell like the labs in Tipoca City. The reminder brought back more resentment and loathing than even he could recall. The adrenaline flooded him again, and he found his second wind.
"Lucky dip, Mer'ika. Fry 'em."
Mereel stabbed the disruptor into the panel. The lights flickered, and ten pairs of doors sighed open. Skirata had never seen a Kaminoan with a blaster, but he didn't dismiss Ko Sai's capacity to use one. He edged up to the side of each door and darted inside, blaster ready. There were banks of conservators, sealed transparisteel boxes with remote handling apparatus, empty tanks-he didn't know how he would have reacted had there been something alive in them-and one room full of what looked like computer storage, rack upon rack of it. Genetics took a lot of data crunching.
"I know you're in here, you sadistic shabuir,'" Skirata yelled. He'd risked leaving his helmet off. He wanted her to see his face, .his loathing, his promised vengeance come to pass. "You going to come out? Or can I have the pleasure of dragging you out? Because I'm not a nice man, and age isn't mellowing me."
Mereel opened a pouch on his belt with one hand, taking out data blanks, ready to strip the information out of Ko Sai's lab right down to the last spreadsheet and shopping list. "Say the word, Kal'buir."
"Open the hatches."
The last ten doors made a chunking noise as the locks withdrew. Skirata slipped the set of knuckle-dusters over his left gauntlet and flexed his fingers. Then he walked slowly down the run of rooms, blaster held out level with his shoulder, confident he could fire before she could. He killed for a living.
So did she, in her way.
He drew level with the fifth door and stared in.
Ko Sai didn't have a weapon. She sat at her desk, her clean white desk, just as she used to in Tipoca City, staring back at him with those disturbing gray eyes. She still wore the thick black cuffs that showed her rank as chief scientist of the en-tire cloning program, even though she'd abandoned Kamino and left her government in the lurch.
There was something repellent about someone who wore a rank to which she was no longer entitled, especially when she worked alone. Her status was her life.
"And who sent you?" she demanded. "Lamu Su? Dooku? That deluded creature Palpatine?"
"I bet it's nice to be the most popular gal in school," Skirata said. He'd always shot first and insulted the corpse later. But he couldn't kill her, not yet. She had work to do. "Can I pick none of the above?"
"It'll be credits," she said. There was nothing Skirata could find to like about Kaminoans. Where others heard gentle fluting voices, he heard condescension and arrogance. "How much do you want to go away?"
Skirata couldn't believe she didn't remember him. But then he was just another lump of human meat, and maybe she really didn't know him from Vau or Gilamar, or the Mandalorians dead on her shiny white floor.
"I'd like all your research, please."
"Oh, Arkanian Micro. Of course."
"Cut the osik. You know exactly who I am."
"For a moment I thought you were one of Palpatine's thugs. Everyone hires Mandalorians. You're such a cheap people, easily purchased."
Skirata had wanted to see shock on her face, or at least hatred. He was disappointed. No, he was furious. He beckoned to Mereel.
"Bucket off, son. Say hello to the nice scientist." Mereel paused for a moment, but when he lifted his helmet off he was smiling, a wonderful artless smile that made him look like a harmless lad who didn't know the first thing about the weapons he had slung about his armor. He walked forward and leaned against the door frame.
Skirata could see her pupils dilate. Her head jerked back. Oh yes, it's all flooding back now. Let's all get nostalgic, shall we?
And Mereel remembered, because he had perfect recall, way, way back to when he was a baby, before Skirata had even met him.
Mereel's perfect white smile never faltered. He took a short rod from his belt, an electroprod of the type farmers used to herd nerfs.
"Hi, Mama," he said. "Your little boy's back."
Treasury offices, Coruscant, 478 days after Geonosis Audit trails were the fabric of Besany Wennen's life. They were like the laws of physics: there was no transaction with-out an equal and opposite transaction. Where credits were spent, someone received. And when someone poured a great deal of money into a project, then it wasn't something they did alone.
There was no monopoly on information. If a thing existed, somebody designed it, manufactured it, delivered it, or in some way touched it. And with enough time and effort, then that somebody could be found.
Besany wandered into Jilka Zan Zentis's office with as casual a manner as she could and perched her backside on the low filing cabinet. "I have to ask you a big favor," she said. "And you can say no."
Jilka looked up slowly. "If it involves doubling up on a date, I remember the last time..."
Besany thought of Fi for a moment. "Actually, it doesn't, but if that would seal the deal, I can introduce you to a very pleasant young man."
"Let me think about it. What's the favor?"
"I need to know about a company called Dhannut Logistics. They caught my eye but I can't find out where they're based even though they're an approved Republic contractor."
"Oh, you just don't know where to look, sweetheart." Jilka loved a challenge. Nobody in their right mind would have done a job like hers unless they enjoyed hunting corporate tax defaulters and all the risks that went with it. "If they're taking our credits, we'll be squeezing corporation tax out of them. And if we aren't, I'll be delighted to introduce them to the experience of filling out form two-slash-nine-seven-alpha-eight-alpha."
"Dhannut Logistics," Besany said. "Dee, aitch, ay, double enn, yoo, tee. They probably build medical facilities."
"And how much has poured into their coffers from the un-fortunate taxpayer's pocket?"
"I can identify about fifty billion."
Jilka's eyes lit up. She had her funny moments: maybe Fi would like her. "That's just the teensiest bit over the taxable revenue threshold, isn't it? Let's see what I can find."
Besany only wanted a lead. She didn't want Jilka to start digging too far, because the fewer people who knew, the better. But Jilka was off and running, scrolling through records and even consulting another computer screen.
"You're right," she said, sounding a little disappointed. "No street address. But they paid their tax in full, and I have their accountant's details here. Odd."
"Why?"
"You shouldn't be able to file a tax return without the ad-dress of your head office, but this has gone through the system."
"I'm going to tell you that it doesn't surprise me."
"Medical equipment, you say?"
"Facilities. I'm guessing construction or specialist fitting out. Maybe they're not even based on Triple Zero."
"Triple What?"
"Sorry, fleet slang. Here. Coruscant."
"Oh, they're based here, all right. They wouldn't file the returns in Galactic City otherwise. This has a GCCC code."
"Any chance of slipping me the accountant's address?" Jilka scribbled it on a scrap of flimsi. "Never came from me. Didn't go through the message system. And I've never seen you before in my life."
"If anything else crops up ... Dhannut, anyone dealing with Dhannut... let me know?"
"Certainly. You've got me intrigued now. What's rung your bell? Fraud?"
"I think it's a front for other activity. Because I'm missing their details on the database of approved Republic contractors, too. Which also shouldn't be possible."
"Sounds mucky. I notice you're packing a blaster now. Sensible idea."
"Just think about it. Dhannut appears in two databases that it shouldn't be able to get an entry in. If it's not legit, and they haven't sliced into the system, then someone with government access has let them in."
"You just can't get the staff these days."
"And folks think we just shuffle files all day..."
"So do I get the very pleasant young man? Is he tasty?"
"He's very fit and you certainly wouldn't lose your appetite looking at him."
"Deal."
"I'll ask him next time I see him."
"If he's that wonderful, why weren't you interested?"
"I've got one just like him."
"Ah. Ah"
"Don't knock it till you try it." Jilka's expression dropped a fraction, suddenly serious.
"You've changed, Bez. And I don't mean that you look like you're in love, either."
Besany did her noncommittal smile, the slightly chilly one that she reserved for suspects when she hadn't amassed quite enough damning evidence but was certain she would, given time. "Thanks, Jilka. I owe you."
She decided to detour to Dhannut's accountant's office on the way home rather than spend any more time in the Treasury building; she wasn't on an investigation at the moment, just tied up in annual reports for the Senate committee, and attention from her bosses was the last thing she needed now.
And she'd gone a lot further than Mereel had ever asked her to go.
Quadrant T-15 was well outside her area. She stared at the flimsi, worked out a meandering route-a couple of taxi changes, interspersed with walking to blur the trail-and tried to forget about it until it was time to leave, but when things started eating at her, she found them hard to drop. It was her single-minded persistence that made her good at her job. It also kept her awake at night.
Her problem was that she was conspicuous. People re-membered her: she was tall, very blond, and striking. Some-times that was an advantage in investigations, because people tended to underestimate her, but it also made it hard to do undercover work. She needed to dull her shine a little.
Skirata called it going gray. He had a gift for behaving and dressing in such a way that he could pass completely unnoticed, drawing no attention. He could also stop traffic, if he wanted to. Funny little man; Ordo worshipped him. He certainly had a ferocious charisma.
As she crossed the walkways that connected the catering district from one of the retail zones that all looked the same now wherever they were on the planet, she took care to keep an eye out for trouble.
The Chancellor's office. Well, if the taint goes that high ...
No, this was stupid. She'd never been intimidated before, and she refused to be now. One more taxi hop and a ten-minute walk brought her to Quadrant T-15. She thought she'd found the road, but then realized it couldn't be the right one; it was a long run of textile manufacturing units, not offices. She walked on, but the sector numbers were getting higher, so she was heading the wrong way. She retraced her steps. It still didn't look right.
Besany fed the address into her datapad to check the coordinates, but it was adamant-this was definitely the right place. She walked the entire length of it, both sides, and found herself staring at Unit 7860, which should have been an office tower, but was very obviously a textile mill. Some of the walkway-level doors were open; she could see the machinery and occasionally some workers passing the doors.
Nonexistent accountant. Nonexistent company. Real cred-its. What was going on here?
Whatever it was, it was now clearly illegal, although she still had no idea of how trivial or how serious it might be. Regulations said that she should have logged it right away, but she couldn't, not now. She wasn't even sure whether to tell Jilka, because knowledge like that could put her at risk, too.
Besany kept her hand on her blaster, deep in her pocket, all the way back to her apartment. When she slipped her identichip into the lock and her doors closed behind her, she felt able to breathe again.
She looked at the chrono: late, very late, too late to eat, or else she'd never get to sleep. Grumbling to herself, she poured a glass of juice and watched the holonews headlines, not really taking it in but noting that the coverage of the war was now a long way down the menu behind the love lives of waning celebrities and cantina brawls involving gravball players. One of the more sober news channels had a defense analyst from the Republic Institute of Peace Studies putting forward theories about the nature of the Separatist droid threat, but it seemed folks wanted to skim over the depressing news as fast as they could. It was also getting harder to find any front-line reporting-organic or droid- lately. For Coruscant, it was business as usual, so who cared about fighting on the Rim? Trooper Corr didn't agree with her, and had told her he was happier without a holocam peering over his shoulder, but she cared. She wanted to know everything about the war. It was as if watching it would give her some protective power over the threats facing Ordo and his brothers. Not watching every scrap of news felt like sneaking off sentry duty, which she could only imagine.
"Moron," she mumbled at the screen. The analyst was throwing out numbers, huge ones, and because her business was numbers she found herself reaching for a stylus and doodling a few figures on the nearest datapad. "I bet you don't even know how many zeros there are in a quintillion." She did, though, and numbers comforted her, so she considered his argument. Then she started wondering how much metal went into a battle droid-forty kilos, at the very least-and multiplied it by a quintillion just out of curiosity, and then started wondering where all that metal came from if 90 percent of the average rocky planet was silica, and not all the remaining 10 percent was the right kind of metal, or could be mined anyway, and mining and ore processing ate up a lot of resources ...
No, quintillions of droids didn't sound feasible. But it was a lovely big unprovable number to throw out to frighten people. She was settling in to scrutinize all the analyst's numbers when she heard a scratching sound that made her start.