[Republic Commando] - 02(24)

“Sorry, Jailer,” Skirata said, still chewing, eyes fixed on the rubble. “No offense.”

“I know, comrade. None taken.”

It was another reason why Ordo adored his sergeant: he was the archetypal Mando ‘ad. A Mandalorian man’s ideal was to be the firm but loving father, the respectful son learning from every hard experience, the warrior loyal to constant personal principles rather than ever-changing governments and flags.

He also knew when to apologize.

And he looked exhausted. Ordo wondered when he would understand that nobody expected him to keep up with young soldiers. “You could leave this to me.”

“You’re a good lad, Ord’ika, but I have to do this.”

Ordo put one hand square on Skirata’s back and one on Obrim’s to steer them both a little farther from the scene of destruction, anxious not to make it obvious in front of the aruetiise-the non-Mandalorians, the foreigners, sometimes even the traitors-that his sergeant needed comforting. Waiting was the worst thing for Kal’buir’s mood.

Obrim’s comlink chirped. “Here we go,” he said. “They’re relaying the image. Let’s play it out to Ordo’s link.”

The images emerged as a grainy blue aerial holo rising from the palm of Ordo’s gauntlet, and they replayed it a few times. A delivery transport came up to the barrier and was waved in to land on the strip. Then the scene erupted in a ball of light followed by billows of smoke and raining debris.

The explosion blew out the transparisteel-and-granite walls of the Bravo Eight supply depot fifteen times before Ordo had seen enough.

“Looks like the device came in on that delivery transport,” Obrim said. Some of the recognizable debris scattered around the blast site confirmed that there had been a transport caught up in the explosion. “Nobody running away. So the pilot was inside, and . .” He stopped to look down at data loading into his own ‘pad. “I’m getting confirmation that it was a routine delivery and the pilot was a regular civilian driver. Nothing to suggest that it was a suicide mission, though. Just a routine run with some extra unwanted supplies.”

“Can we go back over the recordings from previous days?” Ordo said. “Just to see if anyone was doing a recce of vessels and movements in the run-up to this?”

“Archived for ten days. Won’t be any better in terms of angle and clarity than this.”

“I’ll still take it.”

Ordo looked to Skirata, who was silent and visibly angry, but clearly thinking hard. Ordo knew that calculating defocus all too well.

“Okay, the best lead we have right now is to track back the other way down the line-from confirmed explosives supply chains,” Kal said.

“Omega’s on a TIOPS run checking that right now,” Ordo said. “They might come back with some suspects for Vau to work on.”

“I’m turning a blind eye to that, right?” said Obrim, a man who left the impression he would have given a lot to be back in the front line instead-of supervising others. “Because suspects are my part of ship to deal with. But I do have this annoying eyesight problem lately.”

“Long-term condition?” Skirata asked, moving Ordo out of his way with a gentle pat on the forearm.

“As permanent as you want it to be, Kal.”’

“Make it incurable for the time being, then.”

Skirata picked his way past the forensics team, who were still setting marker holotags at various points in the rubble: red holos for body parts, blue for inorganic evidence. Ordo wondered if the civilians who’d been gawking from behind the barrier would see anything about that on the HNE bulletin.

Skirata paused and leaned over a Sullustan technician who was sensor-scanning the rubble on hands and knees. “Can I have the armor tallies when you find them?”

“Tallies?” The Sullustan sat back on her heels and looked up at him with round black liquid eyes. “Explain.”

“The little sensor tags that identify the soldier. On the chest plates.” Skirata held finger and thumb a little apart to indicate the size. “There’ll be fifteen around here somewhere.”

“We can sort the admin for you, Kal,” Obrim said. “Don’t worry about all that.”

“No, it’s not to account for them. I want a piece of their armor. To pay our respects, the Mando way.”

Ordo noted Obrim’s puzzled expression. “Bodies are irrelevant to us. Which is just as well, really.”

Obrim nodded gravely and ushered them behind another plastoid screen where the SOCO team was assembling and logging fragments of alloy and other barely identifiable materials on a trestle table. “You can take over all this if you want.”