He opened the traffic frequency. “Mygeeto TC, this is Mandalorian cargo vessel Aay’han. Request permission to set down for replenishment.”
The pause was longer than he expected. “Aay’han, this is Mygeeto TC. For Mandalorians, you’re remarkably slow to notice we have hostilities ongoing.”
“Mygeeto, scan our tanks for water.”
The next pause was even longer. “Aay’han, we note your tanks are zeroed. Unfortunately, our city facilities are closed. Remember the hostilities?”
If he was turned away now, he’d blown it. They’d drawn Mygeeto’s attention to them. “Mygeeto, there appears to be water just under the surface west of the hostilities, and Mandalore does give assistance to the CIS. We’ll refill at our own risk.”
“Aay’han, okay, go ahead, and don’t try to sue us if you sustain damage or injury. Make sure you’re off the planet in two standard hours.”
Ordo felt his shoulder muscles relax. He hadn’t realized he’d tensed them. “Mygeeto, understood.”
He closed the link. Skirata winked at him and grinned. Kal’buir was proud of him, and it made him feel as safe and confident now as it had when he was a small child.
“It’s amazing how rarely you need to use force,” he said, relieved.
Without the coordinates from Delta, Ordo knew he wouldn’t have known where to start the search for Vau. Mygeeto’s surface was a windswept icescape, dazzlingly pretty for a few minutes and then fatally disorienting. Ordo set Aay’han down between cliffs on the edge of the underground lake and sealed his armor, and as he opened the hatch the wind shrieked and howled. He slid off the hull, and Skirata dropped down beside him.
“He’s been out here for four hours, Kal’buir.” Ordo activated his helmet’s infrared filter, adjusted it to its most sensitive setting, and cast around on a square search of a twenty-meter grid. “If he’s dead, I might still pick up a temperature differential, but it’s unlikely.”
Skirata paced the imaginary grid with slow, silent deliberation, sweeping a handheld scanner across the surface to locate holes and fissures, and then scanning for temperature changes. Ordo suddenly wondered if he’d been tactless, and that Kal’buir might be upset at the thought of Vau being dead. The two men had been at each other’s throats ever since he could remember, but they also went back a long time, including all those years training clones on Kamino, erased from the galaxy and dead to all who knew them. “I’m sorry, Buir” he said.
“Don’t be.” Skirata checked a readout on his forearm plate. “I’m scanning for metals. This detects twenty meters down.”
Skirata might have been genuinely unmoved, interested only in the proceeds of the robbery. For once Ordo couldn’t tell, but he doubted it. Skirata felt everything on raw nerves. They paced slowly, leaning against the wind, and Skirata seemed to be cycling through his comlink frequencies because Ordo was picking up spikes on his system. Vau might have left a link open. It was worth trying.
“No paw prints,” Skirata said. “Wind’s probably swept them away.”
Ordo switched from infrared to the penetrating sensor. It was like checking in mail slots, a tedious progression from one hole to the next. A recent fall of snow was drifting, filling in the depressions. “He could be anywhere. He might even have got out and found shelter.”
Skirata tilted his head down as if listening. Ordo caught a burst of audio on the shared comlink. “If he is, his helmet systems are down.”
“I’m getting static.”
“He might be down too deep.”
Ordo was starting to feel the cold seeping through his armor joints. If this had been his GAR-issue suit, he’d have had temperature control, but his Mandalorian beskar’gam was more basic. He’d fix that as soon as he got the chance, just like he’d upgraded his helmet. It wasn’t as if he spent a lot of time working in it. He’d never thought to check how Vau’s suit was configured: it was just matte black, an image he dreaded as a kid, and now unsettlingly like Omega’s Katarn rig. Black was the-color of justice. Kal’buir’s armor was sand gold, the color of vengeance. Ordo had opted for deep red plates simply because he liked the color.
But black or gold, if Vau didn’t have coldproofing or some other protection, he’d be dead now.
“Don’t laugh, son,” Skirata said, “but I’m going to try something old-fashioned. Just like you talked your way past the picket.”
He stood with his arms at his sides and yelled.
“Mird! Mird, you dribbling heap, can you hear me?” The wind was drowning out his voice. He clenched his fists and tried again. “Mird!”