Sal-Solo’s eyes flickered as if he had to look to his colleagues for some mandate but was deeply unhappy about being seen to do so. “One million credits.”
“Per man.”
“Yes.”
“Per month.”
“That’s a ludicrous figure.”
“It’s dangerous work.”
“I was thinking of a flat fee. It’s only going to take a few months.”
“We don’t do open-ended contracts. Months turn into years on construction projects.” Fett really didn’t want the work at all, and he knew the commandos didn’t. “And no start date yet. Call me again when you put a crew on the station and we’ll talk. But it’s a million per man per month. If we do it, we’ll be bearing the brunt of Alliance attacks and they’ll probably cream your fleet first, which means we’ll be defending your interests on our own.”
“How many men?”
“That thing’s bigger than the Death Star. A hundred at least.”
Fett watched Sal-Solo’s face fall ever so slightly. Two of the other three politicians looked grim. The third, Gejjen, seemed perfectly happy. Maybe he knew something about Corellia’s budget that they didn’t.
“I hope you didn’t mind my dragging you all this way for such a brief meeting,” said Sal-Solo, still directing the occasional insincere smile at Mirta. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Always worth visiting Corellia,” said Fett. Yes, always worth getting inside a government building and recording the layout and weak points. Always worth finding out what your opposition buddies want. Always worth tracking down Han Solo and waiting for my daughter to show up. “I might stay a few days.”
The politicians laughed politely.
But not for too long. I need to track down Ko Sai’s research and that clone with the gloves.
“Got time to show me around?” Fett asked. He figured he might as well record what he could. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Shall I do the honors, Mr. President?” Gejjen offered. That didn’t surprise Fett one bit. He beckoned to Mirta, who walked behind them with sullen disinterest as Gejjen showed Fett the fine state rooms-everything paneled in gilded apocia-and the offices. All the while, Fett’s helmet and gauntlet sensors built up a handy plan of the whole Corellian government complex, even the parts that Gejjen didn’t show him. That penetrating terahertz radar had been a very good investment.
The grounds were beautiful, too. Fett assessed the height of the walls and the nature of the security patrols while admiring a row of trees with pale blue blossoms whose crowns were trimmed into cubes.
“I realize you’re a busy man, Fett,” said Gejjen. “But may I make a proposal?”
Fett kept an eye on Mirta, who also seemed to be checking out the layout of the complex judging by her eye movements. Her Mandalorian father should have taught her the value of a helmet. “Wondered when you’d get around to it.”
“Our President doesn’t enjoy our full confidence. Would you remove him for us?”
I thought you’d never ask. “How permanent?”
“Totally.”
“Who’s paying?”
“All the opposition parties. Together, we can outvote the Centerpoint Party, and without Sal-Solo they can be quite sensible.”
Fett considered the contract. Timing was the issue. He wanted to pursue Ko Sai’s data as soon as he could. And after you see your daughter. Last time you saw her, she was too young to talk. “When?”
Gejjen handed him a tiny datachip. “When can you complete the task?”
“When I’ve checked you out.” Fett tapped the datapad link on his forearm. Yes, the chip was valid. “One million.”
“You people deal in round numbers.”
“I could make it three million. Yes or no?”
“Yes.” Gejjen tapped his own datapad. “There. Half a million up front. Balance on completion. Can we offer you a room? A speeder back to your ship?”
“It’s a nice day,” said Fett. “I’ll walk.”
Mirta matched his pace along the broad boulevard leading from the government building. She had been commendably silent. She was agitated, though: she sneaked a glance at her comlink.
Ailyn still hasn’t responded to her. “Say it,” said Fett.
“What?”
“That I should stay out of Corellian politics.”
“For a million? If you don’t do it, I will. Sal-Solo gives me the creeps.” She slipped the comlink back into her pocket. “When are you going to do it?”
“More pressing business first.”
“What’s more pressing than a million credits?”