“Very good, sir. How long?”
Ordo tried on Corr’s helmet. It felt foreign. It smelled of a stranger: different food, different soap. “I don’t know. Just savor the break and I’ll see you later. What do you call the civilians?”
“I address them by their last name, except for the supervisors, whom I call ma’am or sir”
“Even Wennen?”
Corr paused. “We use first names when not in the center itself.”
Ordo tucked Corr’s helmet under his arm. “Good. Off you go.”
They left the ‘freshers a few seconds apart, and Ordo watched Corr disappear up the corridor. The weight of the kama and blasters gave him an authentic swagger. Ordo found it quite touching and turned back to the operations room to get used to being a simple meat can, a clone trooper that nobody-except the enemy, of course-dreaded or feared or avoided.
He had at least one shift to settle in before the biggest risk to his cover turned up. Besany Wennen seemed to be the one taking the most interest in Corr. He would have to be careful to get past her scrutiny. But he had a few hours to practice.
He unlocked the workstation and became compliant, conscientious CT-51 08/8843, invisible to the world. The job of checking that supplies had reached the correct battalion in the field and that contractors’ schedules hadn’t slipped was a simple one, and he occupied himself thinking of ways to make the system more efficient. He resisted the urge to upgrade the system there and then.
And he watched those around him.
“Sorry I’m late,” said a woman’s voice behind him, a level, mellow voice with an undertone of warmth that sounded as if she were permanently smiling, the higher frequencies betraying a shortened vocal tract. “I’ll work an extra hour for you tomorrow. Thanks for holding the fort.”
Ordo had no time to perfect his simple-trooper act. He glanced over his shoulder as he imagined Corr might, and gave Besany Wennen a slight nod that felt like it came a little too easily to him.
She smiled back. Ordo suspected she too was a consummate actor. But something in him greatly enjoyed that smile.
Operational house, Qibbu’s Hut, 2015 hours, 383 days after Geonosis
“Name your time for a discussion about the goods,” the stranger’s voice said over the comlink. “And we’ll name the place.”
Skirata didn’t like the sound of that. Nor did Vau, evidently. He was listening to the comlink, too, scanner in one hand, and shaking his head slowly, tapping out a random pattern in the air with a forefinger. Can’t trace the transmission point. Multiple relay. Just like us.
Ordo grabbed his gauntlet from the table and activated a holochart, holding it where Skirata could see it. The whole strike team was waiting on the conversation, including the clone trooper called Corr whose life had suddenly taken a turn for the bizarre that day.
“I’m going to need a little more reassurance than that,” Skirata said.
“I’m an intermediary,” the voice said. Coruscanti accent. No clue at all. “What reassurance would you like?”
“A very public place. If we both like what we see, and we trust each other, we meet somewhere more private to iron things out.”
“And you bring a sample.”
“Assault rifles? In public?” This was the test question, the one that would sort the gangsters from the Separatists. Weapons were instantly useful to criminals: raw explosives weren’t, not unless you wanted to resell them. “Don’t takis me, di’kut. My father didn’t raise a stupid son.”
“My clients suggested you could obtain military-grade explosives.”
“I can. So you want a sample of that?”
Silence. Vau listened, head cocked.
“We do. What are you offering?”
“Top military-spec five-hundred-grade thermal plastoid.” Pause. “I think that fits the bill.”
There was a forest of enthusiastically raised thumbs in the hushed room. For some reason Skirata found himself focused on the anxious face of clone trooper Corr, perched on the edge of a chair with one of Dar’s custom dets dismantled in his prosthetic hands.
“Noon tomorrow,” Skirata said. He winked at Jusik. “And I’ll have my nephew with me, just in case.”
“On the south side of the Bank of the Core Plaza.”
“You’ll spot me easily enough. I have a strill.”
Vau’s face was a study in shock, but-like the professional soldier he was-he said nothing.
“What’s a strill?” the disembodied voice said.
“A disgustingly ugly, smelly Mandalorian hunting animal. You can’t mistake it for any other species, not even in this menagerie of a city.”