Part 5 (1/2)
The two exchanged a calm look. Then Squa Tront said, ”No, we haven't. And neither has anyone else, because you just invented them.”
Kaird laughed, and his mask made the snorting, gurgling noises that to the Kubaz indicated mirth. These two seemed to be unflappable, an essential quality for smugglers.
Thula gestured to her partner. ”In any event, should we run afoul of the fair s.e.x, Squa has certain talents in that area. His methods differ from mine, but the result is the same.” The Falleen grinned. ”Though you'd never think so to look at him.”
”I resent that,” Squa said. ”Among my species, I am considered well above average in looks.”
”Not much to brag about.” But Thula smiled as she said it, and Squa smiled in return.
Kaird detected a warmth in the Falleen's voice and expression, mirrored by that of her companion. An odd couple., indeed.
”Once hired,” Thula said, ”we'll be in a position to influence those with direct access to the product. A piece of easy. But-how much is it worth to Black Sun?”
Ah, now came the fun part. He had a lot of leeway in transactions like these. Two percent was standard, but he could go as high as 4. He would start by offering 1 percent of the net, which he could sweeten with a small advance, five thousand creds or so ...
”Let's not d.i.c.ker like a couple of Toydarians,” Squa said in his dry, papery voice. ”What say, we get... four percent? And a small advance, oh... five thousand credits?”
Kaird shook his head, and mentally cursed himself. It was hard to bargain with somebody who had empathic or telepathic abilities. He had a pretty good thought-s.h.i.+eld defense when he concentrated on it, but he had relaxed and let it slip. A good lesson in that.
There was something charming about the two-something aside from their hormone-and mind-manipulating abilities. They were a pair of likable rogues. This was to be prized.
Emotions, thoughts, even the senses could be fooled in various ways, but spontaneous charisma wasal-ways in short supply.
”Done,” he said. ”But since you can see things you ought not to be able to see, you know what will happen if there are any problems. If, for instance, you suddenly decided to abscond with a hundred kilos of bota to setup shop on your own? See what my thoughts about that are.”
Squa grew slightly paler, if that were possible. He swallowed dryly. ”We'd never dream of such a thing,” he said.
Thula, her skin faded back to its normal pale green, added, ”We aren't stupid, or greedy-which is why we're here, alive. You don't need to be a Republic armorer to know a big gun when you see it. We do the job, we make money, you make money, everybody gets happy. And maybe someday, Black Sun will want to throw some more work our way.”
Kaird smiled behind the mask, which, after a heartbeat, translated it into the Kubaz equivalent-the short proboscis curling up and over itself. ”Always a pleasure doing business with professionals,” he said. ”I'll stay on-planet until you get things set up and running, then it's all yours.”
He held up one hand, palm-down, in the traditional Kubaz sign for agreement. Both Thula and Squa Tront mirrored his gesture.
Excellent! A few days, a week or two, and Kaird could be on his way, leaving behind a new operation up and running, while he s.p.a.ced back to more interesting places and things.
He headed back to his quarters to change his disguise, and an odd thing happened: a cool breeze touched him as he walked across the compound. He could just feel it through the heavy and hot disguise, and it lasted but an instant, so short a time that he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it. He stopped and looked around, but there was nothing to be seen, n.o.body even close to him.
He scowled-the mask turned it into a Kubaz frown, curling the short facial trunk up and under, tucking it close to the chin. Kaird didn't notice. A blast of air cold enough to feel even through all he was wearing? Coming, apparently, from nowhere? This was unnatural. And Black Sun operatives did not live to a ripe old age by ignoring the unnatural.
On a hunch, he looked up. The sky wore its usual bands of colors: pale green, yellow, a bit of blue and red. The spores were thick outside the force-dome, and there were some small clouds of the stuff floating around inside the energy s.h.i.+eld, up high, but nowhere near enough to cause a health hazard.
Could the blast have come from outside the dome, somehow? He shook his head. That made no sense-if anything, it was hotter outside, not colder.
Kaird slowly continued on his way. Something strange had just happened and its cause was unknown-now.
But he would make it his business to know it. Soon.
10.
The announcement came over the hypersound speakers, sounding as if a quiet voice were speaking privately to each sentient being in the base. The announcer, however, was an Ugnaught, and his thick, Basic-mangling accent made it hard to decipher the words.
”Att'ntion. In free local days HoPNet 'N'tainmen', in, uh, collab-collab'ration wit' da R'public Mil'tary Ben'-fit As-so-ciation, brings you Jasod Revoc and His G'lactic Revue, you bet. Wit' Epoh Trebor, Lili Renalem, Annloc Yerj, Eyar Marath, an' Figrin D'an an' da Modal Nodes, yar.”
Uli, who was examining a cephaloscan readout on his handheld, frowned and looked at Jos.
”What did he say?”
”He said the carnival is coming to town. The troops are going to be entertained-and so are we, theoretically. Unless, of course, we're in here playing mix-and-matcli with various viscera.” Jos gestured to the FX-7 on duty to take over the resectioning of the trooper on the gurney before him. It had taken him nearly forty-five minutes to remove all the shrapnel that had been embedded in tte clone's mediastinum. Shrapnel extraction was the cause of nearly all the invasive work done in the Rimsoo-far more than slugthrower fire, sonic disruption trauma, vibroblades, or anything else from the murderous catalog that was ground war in a jungle. He figured he'd probably pulled a good ten kilos of twisted, seared metal from the insides of various troopers. The damage was always horrific. A chunk of durasteel traveling at near-sonic speed hit a body's midsection like a hunger-maddened reek, and chewed it up even worse.
”1 don't know about you,” he continued, ”but I am sorely in need of some laughs. Revoc's people perform pretty well, I hear.” He grinned at Uli. ”Of course, the kind of music they play might seem a little stodgy for your taste ...”
”I'm always up for a good band,” Uli said. ”Leap-jump, like that. My big goal now is to find a date-preferably carbon-based, humanoid, and female, though after three weeks here I'm learning not to be so picky.”
Jos nodded thoughtfully as he stripped off his gloves and gown in the postop chamber. Had it really been three weeks since Uli had arrived? He realized that he hadn't thought of Zan lately, and felt a pang of self-reproach. Why? he asked himself. Any good physician knows that loss heals eventually-grief is a process. Zan would have wanted it that way.
Still, he felt obscure guilt. The truth was that Uli, despite his youth, made a pretty good cube mate. He was neat, and his tidiness had inspired Jos to be a bit more mindful of the immediate environment as well, so that the walls were no longer furry to the touch, at least. He certainly had a different perspective on a lot of things than Jos, but, unlike most people his age, he wasn't at all dogmatic in his beliefs. The two had had interesting conversations about everything from galactic politics to favorite Coruscant restaurants; Jos preferred the elegant-and expensive-Zothique, while Uli was partial to a greasy spoon called Dex's Diner. No doubt about it, the new had helped east the pa.s.sing of the old.
Three weeks. It had been nearly that long since Admiral Kersos had taken over. His great-uncle had yet to meet Tolk, save briefly in the OT-various administrate duties had kept Kersos...o...b..tside in the MedStar frigate for much of that time-and Jos had been making efforts to keep them apart. Even though Kersos had been guilty of the same sin Jos was contemplating, Jos was afraid that his uncle would not like her-or that Tolk might not like him. He was honestly not sure which eventuality would be worse.
Well, the two would undoubtedly encounter each otto socially at the HoloNer Entertainment show. And t.i.t wasn't at all sure he wanted to be there-or anywhereon the same hemisphere-when they did.
Column stared at the decoded message on the flat-screen, feeling somewhat queasy at the content. As mudi as the spy hated the idea, the powers-that-be had ordained a course of upcoming action that would involve violence, Extreme violence.
The Separatists wanted this world and its valuable bota. They intended to try to swing the precarious balance of power their way, and the manner in which they planned to accomplish this was, in a word, despicable, Just the thought of the consequences of this action was enough to cause nausea. It would not fall entirely to Column to implement this sabotage; still, the spy would havt to instigate a vital element of the plan at the appropriate moment. And as a result, some of the Republic's forces were certain to die-perhaps many of them, and among their number would be quite a few noncombatants. Yes, they were mostly military personnel, but this was largely by virtue of conscription-Column had met very few medics who elected to join the army or navy by choice. While there were always those who thought military service was a valid idea, helping the wounded and sick, by and large surgeons, medical doctors, nurses, and techs were draftees. They had no choice in the matter-it was be inducted or be imprisoned. Some made the latter choice, though they were in the minority. Eventually, the war would be over, win or lose, and if they survived, the conscripts would go home, back to their lives. But electing to go to prison in lieu of the military could follow a person for a lifetime. It was not an easy choice. Before this war had begun, before there was an agent with the alias of Column or Lens, the bearer of both names had known moralistic objectors in other wars who had taken stances against the concept. Some could withstand the onus; some broke beneath the weight of that choice, crushed like a wingstinger under a heavy boot.
Column sighed. In times like these, only the distant goal could remain clear. The objects and people near to hand were fuzzy, and, like the tiniest parts of matter, did not bear close examination. To peer too closely at them while knowing what was inevitably going to happen was to court madness. How could a being smile at those close by, interact with them, share their hopes, dreams, and frustrations, while simultaneously taking part in a plot that would end in the deaths of at least some of them?
No, the immediate ugliness had to be ignored. When all this was done, when the Republic had been roundly defeated and old-but-not-faded wrongs had been righted-then there would be time enough to grieve.
Often cliches contain more than a grain of truth-which is why they become cliches. In this case, sometimes the ends really did justify the means, no matter how heinous they seemed in the moment.
That's how one had to look at it. To see it any other way would cause paralysis. And, whatever else might happen, the Republic had to lose this war.
It had to lose.
Tolk sat on the end of Jos's cot and blotted her wet hair with a syncloth towel.
”Your 'fresher's sonic dryer is broken again,” she said.
Lying on the bed and watching her, Jos smiled. ”Do tell? I'll have the butler droid give the mechanic droida call straightaway,” he said, affecting a posh upper-cla.s.s East Quadrant Coruscant accent. ”I do hope you haven't suffered too much in these dreadful and barbaric circ.u.mstances, my dear.”
She smiled back, finished blotting her hair, and threw the damp towel at him. It hit him in the face before he could get a hand up to block. He laughed, and her smile broadened.
Then, abruptly, it faded.