Obrim was talking on the comlink to Nuriin-Ar in carefully restrained tones while Omega listened in. Fi was concentrating on the sounds in the background with the intensity learned from growing up where everyone looked and sounded the same, distinguished only by minute variations in tone and expression.
He could hear the old woman’s voice saying, “Oh Joz… oh Joz … ,” over and over very quietly. From time to time, he heard an equally quiet reply from the old man: “Don’t you worry.”
It made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure why. Obrim let out a breath. “The Jedi’s here.”
Fi’s stomach churned when he saw the distinctive red-trimmed visor of an ARC trooper captain through the grimy, white helmets of the CSF line. The line melted away for the
ARC: Behind him trailed a human male in a very well-cut business suit, a young Twi’lek Jedi, and …
… a scruffy, wiry little man who looked old enough to be everyone’s father, a man with a face as wrinkled as his clothes, buzz-cut gray hair, and a limp that didn’t stop him covering the ground like a racing odupiendo.
“Sarge!” said Fi.
Niner’s head jerked up. “It is!”
Kal Skirata reached them a stride ahead of the ARC captain. He grinned up at Fi as if he recognized him, but that was impossible. He’d had a hundred identical young commandos in his batch. He couldn’t possibly remember. He couldn’t possibly see past the visor, either.
“Who let that vagrant in?” demanded Obrim.
“That,” said Fi, “is the man who taught us all we know.”
Obrim sighed. “We’re screwed, then.”
Fi touched his fingers to his helmet anyway, even if Skirata was out of uniform. “Sarge, what are you doing here?”
“Where there’s trouble, Fi, there’s always a job for me. Special security adviser now.” Oh, he knew How? How? “Nice new armor. Going on a date? And who’s he?”
Fi followed Skirata’s gaze. “That’s Atin. Hang on, how do you-“
“Lads, this is Master Kaim and the Senate Head of Public Affairs, Mar Rugeyan.” Fi heard Obrim sigh again. “And ARC N-11. We all want the same outcome-hostages out, scumbags dead, traffic flowing again. Let’s get to it.”
Kaim looked like a youngster aged early by responsibility. He stared at the door behind the barricades and closed his eyes for a moment, lekku moving ever so slightly, hands clasped in front of him.
“I’m going to ask them to let me in to talk,” Kaim said. “When I have their attention, I will help them decide to release the hostages and to talk to me, which will not be easy with Korunnai.” He took his lightsaber from his cloak and handed it to the ARC. “I have to show goodwill and enter unarmed.”
“You’re nuts, sir,” said Obrim. “You’re giving them another hostage.”
“One with a choice,” said Kaim. “Captain, if I get inside, you have command here.”
The captain just nodded once. Atin took the strip-cams and held one out to Kaim. “If you get a chance, sir, try to leave this inside. Anywhere. Even if we can’t get an image, we can pick up audio.”
Kaim examined the strip and tucked it in his sleeve, then took out his comlink. “Nuriin-Ar, can you hear me? Will you let me in so we can speak?”
The simultaneous chunk and uuiirrrrr of 20 service-issue blasters powering up made Fi turn and aim in time to see the doors of the customs hall begin to part. For a moment, the commandos were a single wall of rifles with the two police forces. Slowly, the blade-thin gap opened wide enough for Fi to see a few huddled shapes inside.
Kaim went in.
GC spaceport terminal building, 1745.
Fi could see what Atin could see and hear what he heard. The squad had switched to the cam output within their helmets, and they were all focused on an unsteady image of folds of fabric and the muffled but audible conversation.
“Let these people leave,” said Kaim. “You don’t want to harm them.”
“And no doubt you don’t want to harm ordinary Korunnai, yet your interference does just that.” The view from the cam shifted and Fi could see figures distorted by the wide-angle lens: three men, one in gray, one in dark green, one in light tan, and one in a loose dark brown coat. All had their faces obscured by black scarves. There were figures behind them, two groups of three, also with their heads covered in the same scarves. But they were the hostages, judging by their huddled positions and their clothing: out-of-date fashions from Garqi, a business suit, a customs uniform, a Mon Calamari Senator’s formal robe and a cheaper imitation of it.