Nar Shaddaa. Rick.
Ten standard minutes and a couple of parsecs of frayed nerves later, for those unlucky enough to witness this race, the "Chance" entered the atmosphere. This time, Nick didn't risk dropping the speeder in the middle layers - he descended to the upper transport lanes, and only there gave the command to leave the cargo hold.
"You have a quarter of an hour to spare," was the parting advice Rick received when the opened cargo bay door revealed a breathtaking sight - cars scattering in all directions.
Already in the car, Rick sent Lisa a message with the meeting place and time, indicating that they should wait for him. Then, pulling down his cap, he waited for the gates to open and burst into the planet's atmosphere, immediately angling the speeder at such an angle that some might have thought of suicide. Diving under one of the skyways and making a sharp turn, he hid behind one of the high-rises.
The transport immediately began to gain altitude, but this time it did so gradually - as if the pilot was in doubt, to fly away, to land somewhere else? Or to pick someone up?
No one followed Rick.
The fact that he didn't see a tail didn't mean there wasn't one. He descended several kilometers down to the border of eternal fog, gradually approaching his destination, and then shot off, squeezing everything out of the car that it was capable of.
There was still no tail.
He slowed down only as he approached his destination, studying the situation through the cockpit blister.
Nothing special was observed. Ordinary hangars, ordinary work bustle. Ordinary speeders flying up to one of the hangars to drop off one or two passengers, and then immediately flying away.
The guy carefully settled in the shadow of the hangar, got out of the car, pulled his cap down lower, and walked with a relaxed gait to the illuminated wall, leaning against it, and began to wait for Lis. There was still time.
As soon as he got out of the car, a bike emerged from the passage between the hangars, heading towards Rick. It was a mercenary. A meter from the wall, he throttled down the engine.
"Hello. Veymi said you have another order?"
"Yes," the counter nodded, showing the car keys in his hand, "I need to deliver a speeder and some other equipment to Bothawui, rent a hangar for a couple of weeks, and leave everything there."
"No problem," the mercenary extended his hand. "This car?" he nodded towards the minivan. "Where's the equipment?"
"It should be in the hangar, wait here, I need to make sure of something," he handed Lis the keys and a list of what should be in the delivery, and then headed for the hangar.
It was crowded there. And not just crowded. Containers stood in a circle, and on them sat mercenaries who had clearly seen action before, armed, and light armor was visible. At Rick's appearance, they looked up, and one of them stood up.
"Captain Monroe?"
He nodded in confirmation and glanced at the containers: "Are you the senior?" he asked neutrally.
"That's exactly what they call me," the mercenary replied. "I'm commanding the operation. Your payment is there, Captain. Along with combat equipment."
He pointed to a container lying on a forklift in the corner.
Rick nodded again: "Will I let someone in to pick up the payment?"
The senior shrugged: "It's yours, Captain Monroe. What you do with it doesn't concern me."
Rick sent a call to Lis and headed to examine the equipment.
It was neatly packed and arranged in compartments in the container. The waybill, which someone had decided to hang on a hook, was printed on flimsi and included a list and their location.
Finding anything in such a kingdom of perfectionism would have been a simple task even for a Gamorrean child. Rick pulled out a black backpack, more like a tourist's gear than... Than what this backpack actually was.
For some reason, the guy thought that combat gear would be issued separately from the main delivery. After all, as he told Veymi, he hadn't included any special equipment in the list. And this could have had a dire impact on his participation in the cleanup. However, the Senior and his company inspired some respect, but they didn't look like an assault group. Not yet.
From the backpack, the AV-1s reconnaissance armor, manufactured by GTU, was extracted in parts. Checking the charge of the power cells, as well as the condition of the armor itself, Rick began to change, waiting for Lis.
The mercenary was slightly delayed. When he appeared in the hangar, he was met with several welcoming shouts - Lis was apparently known here, if not by everyone, then by some. The mercenary responded with a gesture and approached the forklift.
"Is this the cargo?" he clarified.
"Yes," the guy nodded, securing the chest piece of the armor, "I'll take a small portion. The rest, as agreed. Shall we move on to the details?"
"Let's," the mercenary didn't object. "Renting a hangar for this is a waste of money. A storage unit will suffice. Delivery at the usual carrier rate, plus rent for space in the transport's cargo hold and loading/unloading costs."
"Logical," Rick nodded, putting on a glove, "payment is cashless, seventy percent now, thirty upon arrival at Bothawui. Forward the storage location details to Veymi."
He clicked the last clasp and picked up his helmet, looking at the mercenary.
"Deal," Lis nodded. "There are rumors that Mu has problems, he hasn't been seen for a day. If Veymi is with you, where is Mu?"
"He's with me too," the counter grinned and put on his helmet. A few moments later, the armor systems activated, and a slightly mechanical voice came from the speaker: "He got banged up, my doctor is looking after him now. He'll be back to work as soon as he recovers. But, most likely, not on this planet anymore. He got into a scuffle with Troy's men."
"Scuffled with Troy's men, and ended up with you banged up?" Lis raised an eyebrow. "Interesting girls dance... Well, not my business. If he finds a place, he should contact me."
"I'll pass it on," Rick leaned over the compartments, took out a Verpine mass driver from the packaging, installed it in the hip magnetic holster, then took out one of the IR-5s, installing it in the second mount. Having sorted the ammunition for the weapons into the compartments, he grabbed a fusion cutter, picked up the backpack, which already contained his clothes and a heavy blaster. The pendant he had assembled on the "Chance" hung on his chest, under the armor. "Everything else can be shipped."
The mercenary nodded and got to work - he dialed a number, began to negotiate the rental for the required planet. Meanwhile, the Senior whistled softly, indicating that the conversations were over. The group got up from the boxes.
"The transport has arrived," the commander announced. "Loading in the next hangar."
Rick's helmet obediently nodded, but the counter turned to Lis.
"I need your account for the transfer, send it to my deck," he asked, and finally headed after the Senior, synchronizing his comm and other necessary systems with the armor, gradually getting used to its weight and some, albeit minor, limitations.
The message to his deck with the account number reached him at the hangar door. The sum was transferred to Lis's account immediately upon receipt.
In the next hangar stood a YT-1250, with its ramp lowered.
He decided to ask the Senior about how exactly they planned to carry out the cleanup, whether there were too few people for it, and whether the ship was too small to get the loot out of the base, later, on the road.
Silently climbing the ramp, Rick tried to analyze the information he had received. The helmet allowed him to avoid complex social games with smiles and fully concentrate on his mental work. The "Twelve-fifty" was a modification of an earlier ship for the needs of private sector entrepreneurs. To which he himself belonged at one time, although he occupied his own specialized niche. Like everyone who grew up on Corellia, he knew most of the KIK models by heart and could easily refresh the characteristics and general data about the ship in his head. Fast, with decent armament, this ship was not the worst option, but for an assault, Rick would have preferred to keep his butt in something more armored when someone other than him was at the controls. There were other modifications, but he couldn't accurately determine which ones. He bet that they had at least installed ion torpedoes or an ion cannon: both could silence any enemy battery with a precise hit.
Climbing the ramp, he walked at the speed of the last member of the squad, pleasantly noting that the boot covering made almost silent contact with the floor surface. The feeling of being superfluous there scratched insistently at his mind. The squad was well-coordinated and staffed, and he... There was no doubt that in a duel he would defeat any of those present. In fact, few could compete with him in this, and if you add the Force... Then there would hardly be a couple of dozens such people in the entire galaxy, as he had clearly demonstrated on Little Coruscant. But in open combat... He could hinder the squad, which he absolutely did not want to do. He needed to talk to the Senior with utmost clarity to agree on his role in the squad. And for now... Taking a place in the least illuminated part of the cargo hold, he took off his helmet and, sitting on a container, began to wait for a briefing or an introduction, or whatever was conducted in such cases.
The Senior appeared last in the cargo hold. He looked at the group, his gaze lingered for a moment on the newcomer, placed a projector on the floor, and turned it on. No one appeared in the pillar of bluish light, but this did not cause any surprise in the group.
"One smart guy decided he'd get more if he started working only for himself," the Elder began. "Thanks to Captain Monroe, we now know where to look for the traitor. Attention here."
The projector displayed an image of a small station in an asteroid field.
"Minerals were mined here many years ago. The minerals ran out, but the base remained. This is where their nest is."
"Defenses?" one of the mercenaries immediately asked.
"Only what they could put up by taking it from their ships," the Elder replied. "According to our data, everything that could shoot has been dismantled. So, a few turrets might greet us. Hardly more."
"Composition?" came the second question.
"Up to fifty, maybe more. No exact data."
Rick grimaced, though no one would see it in the shadows. A base in old abandoned mines – he had encountered something like this not long ago. In another life. How many more such places were scattered across the galaxy, where various sorts of scoundrels had settled? But there was no point in saying anything; he just listened, calculating which developments would suit him personally.
The briefing was quite lively. The group asked questions and received answers. Judging by what Rick heard, the operation shouldn't be too difficult. The only thing that could cause concern was the difference in the number of people in the group and the estimated enemy.
"Any more questions?" the Elder's voice finally sounded.
"What is my role in the group?" this was said somewhat dryly, but in such a way that no one would think he was unsure of himself or afraid of anything. He could have asked differently, but he knew the answer to that question.
"The same as any of us," the Elder answered. "Clearing. No prisoners. Except for those who might be there as hostages. Try to get them out if there are any. You'll go in my foursome, Captain Monroe."
Rick nodded, beginning to study the base schematics. The path to the coordinates was not short; he needed to memorize the intricate layout of the levels and the base's location, record it in his suit's memory, adapt, and calibrate the mass driver and blaster, integrating their systems into his armor, sleep, and eat. Fitting all this into a day's journey was quite simple; all that remained was to choose the sequence. Did he have any more questions? Naturally, he did, but for several reasons, he had no particular desire to ask them in front of everyone.
The group began to disperse – in foursomes, as could be noticed. Only Rick, the Elder, and two other mercenaries remained in the cargo hold.
"Set vai Theus," one of them introduced himself. "You can call me Set for short."
The second was named Kunlai, or just Kun, without any fuss.
"We'll be working together," the Elder explained. "And we'll be quartered together too; there's a shortage of free cabins here. For starters, we'd like to know what you can do, so there are no surprises in a fight."
"I'm a technician," there was no point in lying or evading. "I can access most systems, fix a blaster on the fly. I handle blasters very well, significantly worse with rifles, and I've hardly used detonators. In close combat, I compensate for my meager skills with my armor's servos. My piloting skills are unlikely to be useful on the station."
This was far from a complete list of his abilities and a small fraction of what he could do. But he intended to rely only on this and what his suit's sensors provided on the station.
The mercenaries exchanged glances, and Kun shrugged.
"It doesn't add up," the Elder remarked. "To take on these lawless bastards with just one blaster... Well, it's your business. So, you'll go in a pair with me, and Kun with Set for cover. Your skills will be more useful in the tech sector, perhaps..."
"Sometimes good planning and the element of surprise are better than a pair of heavy shock troopers behind you," Rick replied calmly. "Everything else you get as trophies. I also have a couple of questions. First, what was the person I'm replacing doing in the group?"
"He was an explosives expert," the Elder replied after a short pause. "He cleared our way where doors weren't provided."
"My condolences," the past tense of the verb grated unpleasantly. "I brought a cutter for that. Second... How reliable are the station's internal schematics?"
"Reliable enough," the Elder nodded to his team and headed for the exit of the cargo hold. "To rebuild a station, you need funds, materials, and labor. The boss studied this point; there have been no developments comparable to these needs."
Nodding, Rick began to study the schematic. If it was current, with a bit of luck, the process of clearing the territory could be significantly simplified. He had no more questions to ask; the answers to the rest would have to be found in the process.
Rick returned to the cargo hold without his bag, which he had left in his cabin, and immediately began the planned tasks, deciding to start with what needed to be done anyway – calibrating the equipment. Laying out the Verpine mass driver, popularly known as the Verpine Destroyer, and the blaster on the containers, he activated the suit's systems and began synchronizing the electronic sights. The armor manufacturers promised excellent integration of devices and very precise electronic calibration that adapted to almost all electronic targeting systems. And considering that the "Destroyer" could easily pierce a ship's hull, and the IR-5 didn't require much accuracy, he decided that zeroing it in here would be superfluous, and he relied on the manufacturers' assurances.
After a couple of minutes of studying the schematics, two sights were added to the reticle, and he managed to set up the use of the weapon's electronic sights as a camera. Rick decided that the systems' performance now satisfied him and moved on to what needed to be done first.
All excess equipment was set aside. Partially immersing himself in the Force, he made a few slow movements, once again testing the feel of the armor on his body. Now his perception of the world was heightened to the extreme; he could feel not only every movement but also the potential developments of it. Everything around him came alive with colors, allowing him to guide his body, to feel the changes occurring at an unprecedented level. After several minutes of slow and careful movements, he began to adapt to the new circumstances, adjusting familiar and habitual actions, trying them out in this new, still not entirely understandable state. Gradually, the speed of their execution was brought to normal, then he began to accelerate. In the final stage, the tempo became variable, smoothly transitioning from pliable and precise to sharp and lightning-fast. Gradually, he began to feel the sense of foreignness and rejection gradually fading, giving way to confidence and acceptance of the new form of body protection.
No, the suit didn't become a second skin, as it sometimes did for seasoned mercenaries, but... It didn't hinder him; its weight didn't press on his body, didn't restrict his movements, allowing Rick to act with almost the same effectiveness as in simple clothing.
An hour later, he decided to try activating the servos, still without losing concentration on every movement. When using the armor's mechanisms, movements became sharper, many actions slightly blurred due to the lack of a swing or delay; he needed to adapt to this and adjust the system to himself to feel every moment as it truly was, and not to shatter interior objects in the station and exterior ones outside it, if he had to go into space.
After three hours of practice, he adjusted all the systems, briskly switching from using the servos to their deactivation, performing basic gymnastics exercises that might be useful, and calculating for the changed body dimensions due to the armor. Deciding that the result was at least satisfactory, the counter de-energized the suit's systems and removed the helmet. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but the guy was quite pleased with himself.
Putting his load on the container, he picked up the "Verpine Destroyer" and began training with it. It was vital to ensure that his hand remembered the weight and length of the mass driver and the shape of the grip. To become one with it, as had happened with the "Kilan" and before that with the DH-17, there was too little time, but in combat, he had to be sure that he could draw the pistol as quickly as physically possible. And for that, he needed to know exactly where the holster was located, and to adjust that position as precisely and comfortably as possible.
The armor's advantage was that its adjustment was provided in a very wide range, but the disadvantage turned out to be unexpected – the blaster's grip was almost perpendicular to the barrel, which was very unusual for him, and it took a considerable amount of time, by Rick's standards. But with the "Intimidator," there were no such problems, but he had to learn to activate the servos of a separate arm to stabilize the fire. However, the effectiveness of this method was unknown to him due to the lack of a shooting range.
After almost eight hours, he returned to his cabin, exhausted and tired, but satisfied and at peace. In case of any problems, he wouldn't be a burden.
There were still about fifteen to sixteen hours left before the ship arrived at its destination. After eating some food bars, Rick decided he had enough time to rest and, undressing, put the armor on for charging.
And collapsed to sleep.