Revenge of the Jedi/Part 30

"We're coming in to land," Cynan Oraska announced. "Stand by."

"On it, Mace," Belli answered.

Cynan did not have to think about answering to Mace Oku; in the time since General Darakhan had given them the mission, the team had only referred to each other by their covers. That was elementary practice for deep infiltration: learn your role, live your role, until you become your cover, and Republic Intelligence is nothing but a subroutine waiting to be activated—until you're a sleeper agent in your own life. Covers were sometimes recycled when a mission went smoothly, other times discarded when there was even a hint of suspicion, but they were rarely used twice in a row. A good spy could pretend to be anyone, but the best spy could become anyone, because he himself was no one.

Sometimes, Mace reflected, he wasn't quite sure who Cynan Oraska was anymore.

The Bright Comet—also, at need, the Cantina Dancer, the Wilds of Toola, or the Counter-Cross—slid into the docking bay on the spaceport that attended Allanteen shipyards, one among a thousand freighters heading to or from the spaceport or the planet. Vedya Gasald's war fleet was strewn around near space, but no capital ships were dry docked for repairs; only new models came off the line, and every dock the eye could see or the sensors could detect was occupied by a warship. Some were only skeletal frames of durasteel, while others received their final inspections. Allanteen had nothing on Corellia or Kuat, but it was enough—enough to flood Milagro and the southern galaxy with Sith ships while Gasald's main fleet shielded the entire hyperlane.

Mace set the Bright Comet down and patted the astromech plugged into the console's dataport. "Ready, Bee Seven?"

B7-Q4 rotated its hexagonal prism of a head and flashed its sensor—green to blue to green again.

"Good. Let's go."

Alone among the team, Bee Seven did not change designations from mission to mission. Mace knew that Cynan Oraska's superiors loathed the idea of a droid not undergoing routine memory wipes, given the nature of their work, but it was that very work that made memory wipes more harmful than helpful. Bee Seven had the programming to wipe its own memory if it was captured, or even self-destruct if it could take a vital target along with it. But it also had the memory of dozens of missions, and the value of learned experience; even for a droid, programming couldn't take the place of that.

The rest of the crew—the Humans designated Belli, Ra'as, and Origen, the Sullustan Juuv Jaad, and the Balosar who, this time around, was Cretta—assembled in the hold and followed Mace down the ramp. Cynan Oraska might have taken one whiff of the smell of engine exhaust and alien funk, filed it away, and marched on, but Mace took a deep breath and grinned. Mace Oku had no home but his ship, so every port was a new adventure. Labor droids and other astromechs worked in different berths down the long aisle of docking bays, but they were in luck—the customs agent was a Human.

"Morning," Mace said.

"Afternoon," Origen corrected.

Ra'as rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. "Maybe night?"

Mace rolled his eyes and gave the agent a look. "Two days of this now. Please tell me you've got a bar."

That glance told Mace everything he needed to know. The customs agent couldn't have been a day over twenty-two, and he hadn't yet washed the stiffness out of his new Allanteen Docking Authority uniform. The hint of bloodshot around his irises had to have come from a stim, and though that kept him alert enough, it did nothing to hide the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. Unarmed and in average shape, he could be killed quickly and silently in a dozen ways, but none without alerting the droids or the watching surveillance cameras.

And even alone and unobserved, killing would hardly be necessary. Sometimes the enemy left no choice, but a good freighter captain—and whatever else he might be—didn't kill without need.

The agent snorted. "Jeebin's is okay, but it's pretty crowded. Lotta ships hauling cargo in these days."

"Gotta feed the beast," Origen commented.

"Mace Oku," Mace said, extending a hand. "Bringing in the Bright Comet with supplies."

Perhaps on reflex, the agent shook, though he pulled his hand back once he realized what he was doing. "I'm Agent Dastol. You probably know the routine…"

"Yep," Mace said. "We've got mostly droid parts, but some engine components and conduit insulation. Myself, five crew, and this thing."

He jerked a thumb at Bee Seven, whose indignant beep turned into an electronic squeal as one of its compartments popped open, then shut again. Ra'as groaned and said, "Not again! We just patched you up at Vondarc!"

"Might want to keep that quiet," Agent Dastol suggested. "I mean, I get it—jobs are where they are. But running through Republic space…not something everybody around here would be happy to hear, if you know what I mean."

"Not sure I'd call it 'Republic space' anymore," Cretta said, fidgeting. "After Eriadu, looks like the Republic's pulling up stakes south of the Inner Rim."

The wince around Agent Dastol's eyes was brief, but it told Mace a great deal about conditions downside. The younger man's accent fit the Republic's data on Allanteen; he was probably a native. Beings had to eat, no matter who was running their planet, and to eat they had to work. If the alternative was starvation—or, at Dastol's age, living at home with his parents forever, which to him might have been just as bad—then indirectly working for the conqueror became a lot more palatable. Especially when it seemed the conqueror wasn't going anywhere.

"You can take your droid to Veelasta's Mechworks, over in Quadrant Cresh," Dastol said as he typed on his datapad. "If 3-9D9 is on duty—he's sort of a protocol droid receptionist—tell him I sent you."

"Much obliged," Ra'as said with a grin. She patted Bee Seven's dome. "Can't have you crashing, or we'll be stuck having to cough up for a real navicomputer. 'Course, that might be cheaper than fixing you all the—"

"All right, get going," Mace said. "We'll hang around for a few days—"

"Actually, we just got the order yesterday," Agent Dastol said. "Docking fee's up to 250 credits a day."

"250 a day?" Mace made a show of tracing numbers in the air. "If we stay a week, that'd eat my profit margin for a month!"

"I don't make the rates," Agent Dastol sighed.

"Yeah, yeah…I know." Mace grunted and told the others, "We're leaving an hour after we get paid, whenever that is. I'll send you a message, but if you miss it, you'll have to find another ship."

"Well, if that's the case, let's get to it!" Origen said, and he led the exodus out. "See ya, Captain!"

When they were gone, Agent Dastol made a final note. "Just need your BoSS datapad, then."

Mace handed it over. All the hyperlane data were accurate, although they did not accurately depict the Bright Comet ' s path to Allanteen. On some worlds, falsified BoSS records could earn a death sentence, not to mention the substantial bounty BoSS itself would put on the offending party in an effort to root out those few slicers talented enough to forge its datapads. Mace Oku's stomach fluttered a little as Agent Dastol scanned it, even though to Cynan Oraska it was just one more tool of the trade.

"All right, you're good to go." Agent Dastol handed the datapad back, along with an access card for the bay and the spaceport.

Mace smirked. "Not gonna give me the 'be a good boy speech'? The patrols are everywhere?  C'mon, you know you want to."

"Well, not a lot of cops, but there are a bunch of these guys." Agent Dastol pointed to a remote passing by and chuckled tiredly. "All right, since you asked nicely. Don't make waves, keep your crew in line, any discharge of blasters will be punished severely.  That card'll get you all through the civilian sector, just not the military berths."

"They nice enough to keep all those on one end, at least?"

"Yeah, down that way." Agent Dastol pointed. "Keep clear of there and you shouldn't have a problem…

He glanced around, watching the remote fly away, then lowered his voice to add, "…but if any Sith come through, keep your head down and don't draw attention to yourself."

"Do they come through a lot?" Mace asked.

"Not too often; their troopers have their own bar in Aurek. But when they do, it's…memorable.  I remember when Lord Darshkére came by, and he's one of the better ones."

"Is he? Juuv—my Sullustan—hasn't been home in a year or so, and a lot's happened since then."

"Well, between you and me, he seemed a bit more...level, than some Sith. Like, he'd still kill you without a second thought, but not just because he was bored, y'know?"

Mace snorted. "Something's better than nothing, I guess. You probably don't need me to tell you that."

Agent Dastol brushed the Spaceport Authority badge pinned to his uniform. "No, I've got that one."

Mace extended a hand, and they shook. "Best of luck to you, Agent Dastol."

"You too, Captain Oku."

Once he was clear of the docking bay and out on the spaceport concourse, Mace walked into the flow of beings and pulled out his comlink. "You there, guys?"

"We're not leaving already, are we?" Origen demanded.

"Settle down, just checking in."

"Good, because there's this Twi'lek chick who—"

"Yeah, yeah. Listen, while I'm dealing with the buyer and getting the cargo offloaded, steer clear of the military berths down at Aurek and Besh quadrants.  I don't care who's dancing in their bar, Origen; at two-fifty a night, I'll have nothing left to bail you out."

The military berths are in quadrants Aurek and Besh, and their people will relax there, where it will be harder to reach them, he knew they would understand. But that's where we need to go to get aboard the Kiss of Death.

"And no repeats of Randon! You can't bribe a surveillance remote like you can a Weequay."

''Assume you're under constant surveillance. Act discreetly or not at all.''

"Have you lined up a new contract yet, Captain?" Belli asked.

"Not yet."

"If you want, I could ask around. See if anybody's moving goods offworld."

Should we attempt to locate friendly contacts and gather more information?

Mace shrugged. "I guess it can't hurt, but try not to be pushy. Allanteen's big export is ships, and I can't fit any in the cargo bay."

Stick with passive collection unless you're certain a source can be useful.

"Ra'as, let me know if there are any problems getting Bee Seven fixed."

By the time Ra'as was done, Bee Seven would be outfitted as a standard Imperial astromech, with some decidedly non-standard programming. "Roger, Captain. No news is good news."

If I get the opening to get aboard the Kiss of Death, I'm taking it.

"All right. And remember, keep your comlinks on hand; don't think I won't leave you here."

That one had no covert meaning, but listening beings around him would expect closure from the conversation. Mace Oku's crew could do with some keeping in line as well, but Cynan Oraska's team needed no reminder that they were all expendable; only the mission mattered.