[Republic Commando] - 03(91)

“Another bauble from the Vau deposit box. My great-grandfather is said to have shot a servant with it for serving his caf too hot.”

Skirata almost went for the bait. “You’re just saying that to make me mad, aren’t you?”

Vau’s expression was unreadable. “You know I’d never do such a thing.”

Mereel put a restraining hand on Skirata’s shoulder as he overtook him. The terrible thing about Vau and his family was that it was perfectly possible. Instead, Skirata tried to concentrate on the inexplicably generous Vau, the man who’d just given him millions for the frankly sentimental and unselfish purpose of rescuing clones, rather than the sadistic martinet who’d nearly killed Atin to toughen him up.

“Udesii,” Mereel muttered. “Take it easy, Kal’buir”

Skirata did his best. He took a deep breath as he walked into the lobby of the resort’s huge hotel complex and focused on being a glitterstim baron on a short break. He was a non-descript, short, gray-haired, middle-aged man who could pass unnoticed as a vagrant in the right clothes, or bring a room to a halt simply by walking with the right degree of swagger.

Today he could play a prince. He had a fortune in the safe on board Aay’han, so thinking like the idle and disreputable rich was easy. He was both.

A tall female Rek looked down at him. Skirata had seen them working as bounty hunters-their ultrathin whip-like bodies came in handy for accessing awkward locations-but it was a surprise to come across one in the hospitality business.

This one didn’t appear to have a sense of humor. He decided to skip the diet jokes.

“Do we need a permit for angling here, ma’am?” Skirata asked innocently. “We’ve come for the rifi fishing.”

“Yes,” she said, not exactly personifying hospitable. She fixed him with a disturbing purple eye. “Are you guests?”

“No, we have a marine vessel moored here.”

“Well, there’ll be a fee for berthing. Do you wish to hire tackle, too?”

“Oh, we’ve come very well prepared, thanks …”

“And you’ll have to sign a waiver, because Tropix Resorts cannot be held responsible for any death, injury, damage, or other untoward incident caused by, or relating to, hunting, fishing, or exploration in any area more than ten meters offshore, or beyond a depth of fifty meters…”

Skirata smiled indulgently, waste of time though it was, and took out a stylus. “We’re used to taking risks, ma’am. Where do I sign?”

“How long will this permit need to cover?”

How long to find the hiding hole that Ko Sai had created for herself? Maybe hours. Maybe days. If they were unlucky, weeks, and when they found it there was always a chance that the aiwha-bait would have moved on again.

“Give me a week’s pass,” Skirata said, slapping his credit chip on the desk. “If we find we have … more time to kill, I’ll extend it.”

The Rek checked the chip in her scanner. “Thank you,

Master Nessin.” Skirata flinched at the bogus ID. “I must ad-vise caution if you fish beyond the five-hundred-meter limits. We do have people go missing from time to time when they ignore the warnings. But that’s part of the appeal for many anglers and divers who come here.”

Vau did his icy I-know-something-you-don’t smile. “Sportfishing isn’t sport unless you run the risk of being caught yourself, is it?”

“There’s always relaxing on the beach,” said the Rek. “Or a pleasant walk around the harbor.”

She seemed to have classed them as two old guys trying to rediscover their youth through destructive machismo, maybe with Mereel as the fit young minder who could haul them out of trouble. It was perfect: whoever Ko Sai had as a contact here-and she’d need one, if only to get hold of supplies-wouldn’t be tipped off to the fact that Mandalorian bounty hunters were in town.

Aay’han didn’t look too conspicuous on one of the pontoons that stretched out into the azure water. Most of the vessels alongside showed no signs of ever having slipped their moorings, but there were a few more rugged craft that were clearly from offworld. Skirata took out his datapad and aimed the scanner discreetly in their direction to check the passive transponders, just in case. He found no registrations that worried him.

“You have to hand it to the investment group here,” he said as they tried to look casual. “They take a disaster and turn it into a USP.”

“You’re so crass,” Vau muttered.

“What’s a USP?” Mereel asked.

“Unique selling point, son. As in, they made a complete shu’shuk when they terraformed the place, not knowing just what kind of wildlife was in the ice when they thawed the planet. There are some real nasties lurking underwater, but instead of saying, Ooh, that’s too dangerous, let s scrub the resort idea, the tourist board touts it as an opportunity for wild adventure. I have to respect that kind of resilience in business.”