[Republic Commando] - 03(20)

“Come on, ad’ika,” he said to Ordo, letting the merchant hear. “Got another five vessels to look at yet. Haven’t got all day.”

“Just checking the hull integrity…,” Ordo said.

Good things, helmets: nobody could hear what was being said on the comlink outside the buy’ce unless you let them. Ordo was using all his state-of-the-art armor sensors to check for metal fatigue, leaks, and other mechanical faults. Skirata noted the readouts being relayed to his spanking-new HUD display, a small and necessary extravagance paid for by dead terrorists. They were at their nicest when dead, he thought.

Ordo let out a long breath. “It looks a little … stained in-side, but otherwise this is a sound vessel. I’d take it if I were you.”

I’ll still knock the price down. “Oh. Is the leak bad?” Skirata asked, theatrically loud.

“What leak?” the Rodian demanded. “There’s no kriffing leak.”

“My boy says there’s water damage.” Skirata paused for effect. “Ord’ika, come up and tell him.”

Ordo emerged from the hatch and stood on the hull with his hands on his hips, head slightly to one side. “The decking and the upholstery. Water stains.”

“It’s a submarine,” the Rodian snapped. “Of course it’s got water stains. What do you want, a sail barge or something? I thought you Mandos were supposed to be hard, and here you are whining on like Neimies about water stains.”

“Now, that’s not very customer-focused,” Skirata said. He reached slowly into his belt pouch and pulled out a handful of cash credits, all big denominations with their values tantalizingly visible. Not many ship merchants could resist the lure of a ready wedge of creds, and deferred gratification didn’t look like the Rodian’s strong suit. “I think I’ll take my custom elsewhere.”

The Rodian might have been mouthy but he wasn’t mathematically challenged. His beady little eyes darted over the chips. “You’d have a problem getting one of these anywhere else. The Mon Cals aren’t selling them to the Seps.”

If the Rodian wanted to think they were working for the Separatists, that was fine. Nobody expected to see a Mandalorian working for the Republic, and the Rodian hadn’t asked. Skirata crooked his finger to beckon Ordo, and the Null strode behind, boots crunching on the sanded boards of the jetty. The trick was to walk away briskly and purpose-fully. They were both very good at that, even if Skirata’s leg was playing up and he was limping more than usual. There was a moment, a critical second, when one or the other side would crack. If they kept on walking, it would be the Rodian.

And Jedi thought they were the only ones who could exert a little mind influence, did they?

“One hundred and twenty,” the Rodian called after him.

Skirata didn’t break his stride. Neither did Ordo. “Eighty,” he called back.

“A hundred and ten.”

“They only cost a hundred new.”

“It’s got extras.”

“It’d need to be gold-plated to be worth that.”

They were still walking. Ordo made a little grunt, but it was hard to tell if he was annoyed or amused.

“Okay, ninety,” the Rodian called.

“Eighty, cash credits,” Skirata said, not turning around. In fact, he speeded up. He counted to ten, and got as far as eight.

“Okay,” the Rodian said at last. “I hope you’ll be happy with it.”

Skirata slowed and then turned around to amble back, casually counting out his credits. Ordo jumped onto the hull and disappeared down the open hatch.

“Oh, I’ll be back pretty fast if I’m not,” Skirata said. “That’s why I don’t need a warranty.”

The Deep Water’s drives roared into life, sending white foam churning across the harbor. The jetty trembled.

“Does he know how to drive that thing?” the Rodian asked.

“My boy knows how to do just about anything. Fast learner.”

Skirata skidded across the wet hull and sealed the hatch behind him. Ordo was already in the pilot’s position in the narrow cockpit, helmet on the console, looking as if he was talking to himself as he touched each of the controls in sequence. He had an eidetic memory, like all the Nulls: just one quick canter through the manual before they set out, and Ordo had the theory down pat. Skirata was ferociously proud of him, as he was all his boys, but he resented the damage the Kaminoans had done to them in the creation of what they were sure would be the perfect soldier. Their brilliance came at a price. They were all troubled souls, unpredictable and violent, the product of too much genetic tampering and a brutal infancy. Skirata would punch any fool who dared call them nutters, but they were a handful even for him sometimes.