He couldn’t tell them. It was too much, too soon. He was going to hand it all over to a man who’d kill him for a bet-all except what was rightfully his.
“I’m not planning to live in luxurious exile,” Vau said.
Scorch stepped over Mird and stood at the door, Deece ready. “Donating it to the Treasury, then?”
“It’ll be used responsibly.”
Vau’s backpack was now stuffed solid, and heavy enough to make him wince when he heaved it up on his shoulders. He tied the plastoid sheet into a bundle-a bundle worth millions, maybe-and slung it across his chest. He hoped he didn’t fall or he’d never get up again.
“Oya,” he said, nodding toward the doors. “Let’s go.”
Mird braced visibly and then shot out into the corridor. It always responded to the word oya with wild, noisy enthusiasm because that meant they were going hunting, but it was intelligent enough to know when to stay silent. Mirdala Mird: clever Mird. It was the right name for the strill. Delta advanced down the corridor toward the ducts and environmental control room that kept the underground bank from freezing solid, following Mird’s wake, which-even Vau had to admit it-was marked by a trail of saliva. Strills dribbled. It was part of their bizarre charm, like flight, six legs, and jaws that could crunch clean through bone.
Sev skidded on a patch of strill-spit. “Fierfek…”
“Could be worse,” Scorch said. “Much worse.”
Vau followed up the rear, his helmet’s panoramic sensor showing him the view at his back. There was an art to moving forward with that image in front of you on the HUD, an image that sent the unwary stumbling. Like the men he’d trained, Vau could see past the disorienting things the visor displayed.
They were fifty meters from the vents that would take them back to the surface and Fixer’s waiting snowspeeder when the watery green lighting flickered and Mird skidded to a halt, ears pricked. Vau judged by the animal’s reaction, but Sev confirmed his worst fears.
“Ultrasonic spike,” he said. “I don’t know how, but I think we tripped an alarm.”
Fixer’s voice filled their helmets. “Drive’s running. I’m bringing the snowie as close to the vent as I can.”
Boss turned to face Vau and held his hand out for the bundle. “Come on, Sergeant.”
“I can manage. Get going.”
“You first.”
“I said get going, Three-Eight.”
No nicknames: that told Boss that Vau meant business. Sev and Scorch sprinted down the final stretch to the compartment doors and forced them apart again. The machine voice of rotors and pumps flooded the silent corridor. Everyone stopped dead for a split second. They could hear the clatter of approaching droid and organic guards, the noise magnified by the acoustics of the corridors. Vau estimated the minutes and seconds. It wasn’t good.
“Get your shebse up that vent before I vape the lot of you,” Vau snapped. Osik, I put them in danger, all for this stupid jaunt, all for lousy credits. “Now!” He shoved Boss hard in the back, and the three commandos did what they always did when he yelled at them and used a bit of force: they obeyed. “Shift it, Delta.”
The vent was a steep vertical shaft. The service ladder in-side was designed for maintenance droids, with small recessed footholds and a central rail. Boss looked up, assessing it.
“Let’s cheat,” he said, and fired his rappel line high into the shaft. The grappling hook clattered against the metal, and he tugged to check the line was secure. “Stand by…”
The shaft could only take one line at a time. Boss shot up the shaft with his hoist drive squealing, bouncing the soles of his boots against the wall in what looked like dramatic leaps until he vanished.
The hoist stopped whining. There was a moment of quiet punctuated by the clacking of armor plates.
“Clear,” his voice echoed. Sev shot his line vertically; it made a whiffling sound like an arrow in flight as it paid out. Metal clanged, and the fibercord went tight. “Line secure, Sev.”
Sev winched himself up the shaft with an ungainly skidding technique. Scorch waited for the all-clear and then followed him. Vau was left standing at the bottom of the shaft with Mird, facing a long climb. Mird could fly, but not in such a confined space. Vau fired his line, waited for one of the commandos to secure it, and then attached the bundle of valuables to it. Then he held out his hands to Mird to take the flamethrower from its mouth.
“Good Mird,” he whispered. “Now, oya. Off you go. Up, Mird’ika.” The strill could hang on to the line by its jaws alone if necessary. But Mird just whined in dissent, and sat down with all the sulky determination of a human child. “Mird! Go! Does no shabuir ever listen to me? Go!”