She could only begin to imagine what Ordo and the rest of the commando forces faced on a daily basis.
Calna Muun, Agamar, Outer Rim, 471 days after Geonosis
“So, Mando, you like her?”
A gently curved transparisteel bubble bobbed on the surface of the water, looking like one of those little transparent submersibles that showed tourists the wonders of the Bil Da’Gari ocean floor. But then it lifted slowly to reveal something much, much larger, and not very leisure-oriented at all.
Sergeant Kal Skirata watched the water stream off the rising hull and wondered if he’d lost his mirshe, coming all this way to buy a submersible. The price was more than he’d budgeted for. But if you hunted Kaminoans, you needed aquatic capability, however much it cost. And he was hunting an elusive one: Chief Scientist Ko Sai.
“Not to your taste?” asked the Rodian merchant.
Skirata grunted behind the impenetrable mask of his sand-gold helmet. The handy thing about being a Mandalorian doing business was that you didn’t need to keep a straight face, and only the terminally stupid ever tried to dupe you. They only tried it once, too.
” ‘S’okay, I suppose.”
“It’s a beast,” the Rodian said, bouncing around on the quayside like a demented acrobat. Rodians always struck Skirata as looking comically harmless, totally at odds with their true nature, which was why he had an extra blade ready in his sleeve-just in case. “Every one unique and hand-crafted, Mon Cal’s finest. Won’t take much work to make this a-“
“It’s a freighter. I asked for a fighter.”
“I can throw in a few extra cannons.”
“How long’s that going to take?”
“Is this for the war effort?”
Skirata could see the Rodian mentally hiking the price in the expectation that the bill would be met by one government or another. Profiteering and war went hand in hand.
“No,” said Skirata. “I’m a pacifist.”
The Rodian eyed the custom Verpine sniper rifle slung across his shoulder. “You’re a Mandalorian…”
Skirata let his three-sided knife drop from his right forearm plate, point first, and caught the hilt in his hand. “Would you start a fight with me?”
“No…”
“See? I’m a force for peace.” He spun the knife and slid it back into the housing mounted above his wrist. “What’s her maximum range, then?”
“Depth, a kilometer. Atmos speed-thousand klicks. Goes like a greased ronto.” The freighter was above the waterline now, forty-five meters of smooth dark green curves with four hemispherical drive housings protruding above her stern like a knuckle-duster. It was a Mon Calamari DeepWater-class. “Packs ninety tons of cargo, eight crew. It’s got a decent defensive cannon. Hyperdrive is…”
The Rodian stopped and looked to one side of Skirata. Ordo came ambling along the quayside and paused beside the freighter, left thumb hooked in his belt. Except for his gait-always the ARC trooper captain, back slightly arched as if he had both GAR-issue pistols holstered-he was just another Mando in battle-scarred armor. The Rodian fidgeted as Ordo inspected the drive housings from a distance and then jumped with a hollow thud from the quayside onto the casing.
“I don’t like the color,” Ordo muttered. He prodded his toecap into the manual override of the port hatch and popped the seals. “I’ll just inspect the upholstery.”
Skirata turned to the Rodian. “My boy’s a picky lad, I’m afraid. I’ve lost count of the crates we’ve looked at this week.”
“I could get you a Hydrosphere Explorer if you’re prepared to wait a few weeks.” The merchant dropped his voice. “An Ubrikkian repulsorsub. A V-Fin. A Trade Federation submarine, even.”
“Yeah, I’d really love the Trade boys to come after me when they find a bit of their navy missing.”
“You’re so suspicious, you Mandalorians.”
“You’re not wrong there. How much?”
“One hundred and fifty thousand.”
“I don’t want to buy the whole fleet, son. Just one hull.”
“Hard to find, these DeepWaters.”
“Y’know, that TradeFed idea wasn’t bad. Maybe I ought to go see their procurement people, because if I bought a real sub, direct from the manufacturer, instead of this day-tripper …”
Skirata heard Ordo’s voice in his earpiece. “Kal’buir, I think Prudii can get this cannoned up nicely …”
He didn’t want a regular submarine anyway. He needed a multipurpose vessel-like the Mon Cal tub here. The Rodian had no idea what he wanted or how badly he wanted it, or even if he could afford it. Skirata jangled his credit chips in his belt pouch, giving the alluring sound a little longer to soften up the Rodian’s resistance, walking slowly up and down the quay as if he was thinking about something else.