"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: nobody 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 ship 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. Nobody 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 cockpit, 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 sadistic 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 space. 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.
He had a daughter, too, and her name hadn't been on the edict. He hadn't heard from her in years. One day . . . one day, he might find the courage to go and look for her. But now he had more pressing business.
"It'll be okay, son," Skirata said. "If it's the last thing I do, you'll have a full life span. Even if I have to beat that information out of Ko Sai a line at a time."
Especially if I have to.
Ordo seemed to take a sudden and intense interest in the throttle controls. "The only reason we're alive at all is be-cause you stopped the gihaal from putting us down like animals." For a moment Skirata thought he was working up to saying something else, but he changed tack. "Okay, let's see if I can at least follow the manual for this one ..."
Ordo pushed the throttle lever hard forward. The Deep Water's nose lifted slightly, and the acceleration as she burned across the surface of the waves slapped Skirata back in the seat. In the aft view from the hull-mounted safety cam, a wake of white spray and foam churned like a blizzard. The red status bar on the console showed that the speed was moving steadily closer to the flashing blue cursor labeled OPTIMUM THRUST. The airframe vibrated, the drives screamed, and then Skirata's gut plummeted as the Deep Water parted company with the surface of the sea.
"Oya!" Ordo grinned. The ship soared and he was suddenly as excited as a little boy. Novelty always delighted him. "Kandosii!"
Behind them, the blizzard on the monitor gave way to gray-blue sea. Skirata admitted mild relief to himself and watched Ordo laying in a course for the RV point, marveling at his instant proficiency.
"You put a lot of trust in me, Kal'buir," he said. "I've never piloted a hybrid like this before."
"I look at it this way, son. If you can't do it, nobody can." He patted Ordo's hand, which was still gripping the throttle lever. "I name this ship . . . okay, any ideas?"
Ordo paused, staring ahead. "Aay'han."
"Okay ... Aay'han it is." It was a telling choice: there was no Basic translation of the word, because it was a peculiarly Mandalorian concept. Aay'han was that peaceful, perfect moment surrounded by family and friends and remembering dead loved ones, missing them to the point of pain, a state of mind that bittersweet could hardly begin to cover. It was about the intensity of love. Skirata doubted if aruetiise, non-Mandalorians, would believe that such a depth of feeling existed in a people they saw as a bunch of mercenary thugs. He swallowed to clear his throat and grant the name the respect it deserved. He found he was thinking of his adoptive father, Munin, and a teenage clone commando called Dov whose death in training was Skirata's fault, a pain that made his aay'han especially poignant. "This ship shall be known as Aay'han, and remembered forever."
"Gai be'bic me'sen Aay'han, meg ade partayli darasuum," Ordo repeated. "Oya manda."
I'm sorry, Dov. There'd better be a manda for you, some kind of immortality, or there won't be enough revenge in the galaxy for me.
Skirata turned his attention to the living again. This wasn't a bad ship at all, and she only had to complete one mission- the most critical one, to find Ko Sai and seize her technology to halt the clones' accelerated aging. He went aft through the double doors into the crew lounge to check out the cosmetic detail. A smell of cleaning fluid, stale food, and mold hit him. The refreshers and medbay were on the starboard side, stores and galley to port, and the galley lockers were completely empty. He made a note of supplies they'd need to lay in at the first stopover, scribbling reminders on his forearm plate with a stylus. It really didn't matter what the accommodation was like as long as Aay'han flew-or dived-in one piece, but he checked the cabins anyway: same gray-and-yellow trim as the rest of the interior, and not much cosmetic water damage. Not bad, not bad at all.
He prodded the mattresses on the bunks, calculating. Eighty thousand creds-but we've got four million from scamming the terrorists, and nobody will ever miss it. Six-teen berths, then, and if they needed it there was plenty of cargo space that could be used for crew, maybe enough for thirty people. So if we need to bang out in a hurry, that's ample room for my boys, Corr, Omega Squad, and any of the ladies, with places to spare. And then there were all the other Republic commando squads he'd trained, still more than eighty men out there in the field, his boys and his responsibility every bit as much as Omega, and he was neglecting them. They needed a refuge when this war was over, too, maybe even before then. Did I do enough?
I can make the difference now, lads. Shab Tsad Droten- curse the Republic.
Skirata was still refitting Aay'han in his mind's eye when Ordo loomed in the hatchway.
"I think we need to change course," he said. "Go ahead, then, son."
"I mean we need to divert to do an extraction." Skirata sighed. Okay, they were on Republic time, and he was on Republic pay even if the clones weren't. It had better be our lads. I hate every second I spend on civilians. He trusted Ordo's assessment of necessity, and turned to go back to the cockpit. Ordo simply held out a crackling comlink.
"It's Delta," Ordo said. "They had to bang out of Mygeeto in a hurry, and Vau got left behind."
Skirata grabbed the comlink, all the bad blood between him and Vau forgotten. He motioned Ordo back to the cock-pit, mouthing do it at him.
"RC one-one-three-eight here, Sergeant." It was Boss. "Apologies for the interruption."
Skirata slid into the copilot's seat, trying not to imagine how badly things had gone if Vau had been stranded behind enemy lines. He was an escape artist. "Where are you?"
"We rejoined the fleet on station. We wanted to retrieve him, but General Jusik says..."
"...we're on our way. Sitrep?"
"About twenty kilometers from Jygat. We were leaving the Dressian Kiolsh bank when we met some resistance and he fell down a crevasse."
"Bank?" They'd been there to locate communications nodes for the Marines. "Run out of creds, did he? Needed some small change?"
"It's a long story, Sergeant, and that's why General Jusik thought you'd be ... a wiser choice."
"Than who?"
"Than telling General Zey."
"I won't waste time asking what the shab you were doing in a bank." Jusik: he was a smart lad, Bard'ika. Whatever it was, the Jedi had decided that the extraction needed to be kept quiet. "Is Vau alive?"
"Unconfirmed. We lost his signal. He had kit with him that General Jusik felt you would want to recover."
"What for?"
"He cleaned out a bank vault. Credits, jewelry, bonds, the works. Two bags."
Vau robbed a bank? Skirata was taken aback. The miser-able old di'kut was game for breaking any law, but plain theft-never. This was Skirata's style, not Vau's. "Last known position?"
"Sending you the coordinates now, with our last good ground radar scan of the terrain."
"The strill's still with him, of course."
"Yes. We didn't see it fall."
That was something. Skirata would never trust the animal, but it would lead them to Vau, if it hadn't already located his body and hauled him out. If he found the strill, he found Vau.
"Tell General Jusik we'll sort it out, Delta," he said, and closed the link.
Ordo looked totally unmoved, hand hovering over the hyperspace drive controls. "No point asking Commander Bacara to steer clear of us, is there?"
No, there wasn't. The fewer people who knew they were coming, the better. It would be hard to explain why two men in Mandalorian armor were blundering around a Separatist planet on the Republic's tab without authorization, but the fewer the records of conversations, the easier it was to make events vanish. And Bacara wasn't the kind to ask for ID first.
Skirata didn't want his useless Jedi general Ki-Adi-Mundi in the loop, either. Jedi hypocrites. It's okay for Conehead to have a family, but they'll bust Etain down to the Agricorps for it. Skirata would take his chances.
"No, just save Walon's shebs and get out of there," Skirata said. If he's still alive. "Jump."
Aay'han lurched into star-streaked space. She was holding together just fine.
Caftikar, Outer Rim, rebel base, 471 days after Geonosis Darman decided that Null sergeant A'den was a man after his own heart.
"Can't think straight on an empty stomach." A'den fired his blaster into a nest of twig shavings to get the campfire going. The sun was coming up-they'd lost a night's sleep, then-and the lizard-like Gaftikari were still trotting back and forth in neat lines ferrying the weapons they'd collected from the drop. "Got some stew left over from last night. Don't ask what's in it, 'cos I didn't."
Omega Squad sat cross-legged around the fire in their black undersuits, armor plates stacked to one side. Atin held Darman's jet pack on his lap and bent the wing hinge assembly back into shape with a pair of blunt-nosed grips. He hated letting mechanical things get the better of him. "So what happened to the ARC?"
"MIA," A'den said. His tone was totally neutral, and his expression blank: it wasn't his usual demeanor, either, be-cause Darman could see the white lines in the deeply tanned skin around his eyes and mouth. A'den usually smiled a lot, but he wasn't smiling now. "So I've done a recce of Eyat and I've put together as complete a plan of the government buildings as I can."