For a few minutes, Jethro chewed thoughtfully, considering what he had heard.
"Well, you wouldn't have rushed around like this," he finally concluded. "But I'll want a percentage too. I haven't decided which one yet. I'll see what you're up to first."
"Let's be honest," Nemo put down his fork and bottle, "you're suggesting I give a percentage to Quint first, and then a percentage to you? I can't drink that much physically. And it's not in my character to divide the skin of an unkilled krayt dragon."
Jethro choked, coughed, and stared at his interlocutor with the deepest bewilderment.
"I'm telling you that we're in if it's worth it. And what are you talking to me about? About how we want to ride into the imperial palace on your back without clicking the safety, or what? You've definitely had too much to drink..."
"So..." Nemo quickly gathered his thoughts and began, "we're speaking different languages. Let me explain. I need a ship to get to the Smuggler's Moon. Any ship that will take me there so that no one except the three people on this station finds out about me. Yes, I plan to participate in a deal. But I have almost everything I need to carry it out. Therefore, you won't be able to count on a large percentage. Only on the condition that someone flies with me. Then they will get their share, which will be your total. So. I offered you to fly with me because, as I said, no one will pay attention to your departure. And considering that you will help me buy something that I will buy anyway, but less expensively and quickly, I can give you, say, one or two percent of the total profit. Any questions?"
Jethro shrugged and, with a precise throw, sent the crumpled package towards the recycler.
"No questions, but I can't be away for long. The captain will need me. I think part of today's haul can be sold there."
"See?" a short chuckle, "everyone benefits. One question remains. When do we leave?"
"As soon as we come out of hyperspace," the duros glanced at his watch. "That will be in about two hours. You'll still have time to get completely drunk. And I'll help you."
They were to fly on a Mandalorian G1-M4-C, which, by all appearances, was Jethro's personal ship, and luckily for Nemo, it had a hyperdrive and a co-pilot seat. If the pirate had upgraded his ship, the stealth field's limited duration didn't allow him to study the upgrade properly. Seizing the moment, which was kindly provided, Nemo climbed into the co-pilot's seat and waited for his temporary partner.
Jethro wasn't in a hurry. He walked around the ship, named "Patch," grumbled at the mechanics who had left grease stains on the hull, although it was unlikely that a few stains would add anything to the appearance of this vessel. And only after scolding to his heart's content did he climb into the cockpit.
All this time, the ship was decelerating from hyperspace to come onto a parallel course with another pirate ship, to receive cargo for sale on the Hutt Moon, and to load it into the "Patch's" cargo hold.
Finally, Jethro was given the go-ahead to depart. With a tilt of its wings, the small ship emerged from the hangar and began to accelerate.
"You weren't in a hurry," the guy grumbled displeasedly, deactivating the field and settling more comfortably into his seat after the ship left the hangar.
"Why rush when the cargo isn't on board yet?" the duros shrugged philosophically, setting the "Patch" on a jump vector to the first point. Flying directly with a hundred kilograms of precious stones in the trunk would be suicide. "And if I started rushing, what would the captain think? That I'm going to ditch the guys? Do we need that?"
"Has Quint really become so suspicious?" the surprise was not feigned. "I thought he trusted his subordinates more."
"Trust, but verify," the duros reminded him sternly. "I'll stop respecting him if he doesn't catch mice..."
The ship flashed with the transition and plunged into hyperspace.
"He trusts me enough to send me alone with cargo," Jethro lay back relaxedly in his seat. "But if I start rushing and hurrying with such cargo... Would you trust such a hasty person yourself?"
"To find out the individual's motive," Nemo looked at the stars clinging to the blister, "I have more effective methods than observation."
"Those tricks of yours with the safety," the pirate wasn't stupid in any way. "Are they also among those effective methods?"
"From the same opera," Nemo agreed, checking on the terminal available to him how long they had to fly to the planet.
"You're a sorcerer after all," Jethro sighed a little disappointed, keeping an eye on his manipulations. "Too bad."
"I'm not a sorcerer," Nemo shook his head negatively, "if anything, I'm a wizard. But even if so, what's wrong with that?"
They had to fly to Nar Shaddaa for a little over a day. Fortunately, judging by the comfortable seats, they wouldn't get bedsores during this time.
"Because it puts your opponent at an unequal advantage with you," the duros explained. "It's one thing when you can achieve something through ordinary means. You overcame - honor and glory to you. No - well, bad luck. But when you have special abilities... It's like climbing into a sandbox with children in armor. And showing how cool you are."
Nemo laughed. Sincerely, purely. Jethro's statement evoked nothing else.
"Well, how much did it help me in a fight with you?" he said, suppressing his laughter, "And generally, agree that if you have a talent, you should develop it. Ubisians can read other people's thoughts, Kiffars can read events from objects, and Givins breathe in space and solve quadratic equations better than I can the multiplication table. Everyone has their advantages, and everyone uses them. Only... Having armor, I don't go into the sandbox. I go to the bank with a blaster in hand. And the guards there, unlike children, can argue about who is cool..."
"Did we even fight seriously?" the pirate asked, no less sincerely surprised. "I thought we were just... playing for the audience."
"Yeah, not seriously," Nemo agreed, "for the audience. But I attacked completely seriously, the only thing was that the goal wasn't victory, but participation."
"And can you switch only one safety, or all at once?" the pilot suddenly became interested. It seemed like an idea had occurred to him.
"Until you try, you won't know," Nemo replied after a moment's thought, "it all depends on the circumstances."
"It would be nice to have such a sorcerer in the combat group..." the duros was clearly more attracted by the idea of having special abilities on his side than by the probability of acquiring a gifted opponent. "Only you have to find such a one..."
"Even if you find him..." the ship trembled, transitioning into hyperspace, "I don't advise you to take him... Otherwise, the Inquisition will get you..."
"Is it that serious?" Jethro was surprised. "Then you shouldn't show off your magic in front of people. They say those guys can even get the dead."
"It's unlikely anyone understood what happened there," a plaster with a scar was on his hand, "as for getting... Let them try."
The duros grunted noncommittally and fell silent. After some time, in the silence, a faint snoring of the sleeping person could be heard.
Nemo didn't disturb the pirate, checked all the systems of their tub, and, making sure they were in no danger, decided to follow the example of the first pilot.
The Smuggler's Moon greeted the pair of pilots with its usual indifference, which it had in abundance for everyone. Jethro carefully landed his vessel in a private, pre-rented hangar designed specifically for his class of ship. Then the cockpit slid aside, and he could finally stretch his body.
To say that Nemo was not used to flying fighters for such a long time would be an understatement. He had to get out of the cockpit almost in pieces; the Force's influence helped a little, but even with it, everything was terribly stiff. Slumping onto the cold floor, he slowly but surely worked his limbs.
The pirate, chuckling, was engaged in routine work, waiting for Nemo to get out of his unpleasant state.
It took about three minutes to get out, although for the guy himself it seemed like an eternity. Sitting on the floor, he stretched again, something happily crunched in his shoulders, and the counter finally got to his feet. After that, he said one word, then two more, and finally burst into a tirade expressing his dissatisfaction with long flights in fighters in general, and his extreme love for their creators in particular.
"You haven't seen how imperials emerge from their suits," Jethro chuckled. "There, not only the sound, but also the smell... A Wookiee three meters away is blown away by the wind."
"If a Wookiee is blown away..." Nemo remembered that furry companions don't use some personal hygiene products. "That's a lot."
Getting to his feet, he continued to stretch, not stopping talking.
"Listen, there should be an electronics store somewhere around here. Can you go buy me a visor, like, for half my face?"
"I can," the duros nodded. "But why walk? You can order delivery. Or do you absolutely need it so that this purchase isn't associated with you?"
"I absolutely need my face not to be seen on this planet anymore," Nemo said confidently. Although the probability was negligible, it existed, which meant he had to protect himself. "And a half-face visor, and the same scar – a great disguise. I would wear some kind of robe. But that's already a worn-out cliché..."
"A work jumpsuit," the pirate replied. "And no one will look at you a second time, even without a scar. Maintenance workers or couriers are the most invisible beings in the galaxy."
Nemo thought.
"Indeed," on the one hand, it was true. On the other hand... He glanced at his face reflected in the blister, then at the spot of motor oil spilled on the floor, and a couple of seconds later, his face, distorted by a scar, was adorned with streaks of mazut, which were also on his hair, and he decided to wipe his hands on his clothes. In such a state, he could go for a walk.
"How quickly do you need to leave?"
"I'm not in a hurry," the duros was calculating something to himself. "You can sell quickly, but cheaply. You can hold on, and lose time. Or you can wait for a trusted intermediary. I have about a week."
"Then everything is great," Nemo smiled, "check through your channels who is selling ships now. I need a good freighter with a tonnage of several hundred tons, and preferably with a single pilot. I'll write in a day, I remember your comlink frequency."
"Do you have money?" Jethro inquired. "Or should I use the credit card of a certain Mr. Rocco? The deceased doesn't need it anymore, it seems."
"You can use it," Nemo shrugged, "but there's about a hundred, no more. Find a ship, you can say that payment will be in cash."
"I'm not asking where you're going to get so much money from," the duros shook his head, "but it's better if I don't say it. Otherwise, no security will be enough to protect you and the money."
"You don't have to say it," Nemo smiled. There were plenty of ways to pay in cash without risking losing it. "In any case, I need a ship."
"It will be," the pirate promised impassively, handing him a key card to a room booked for him at the local hotel. "Take your luggage there and wait. And I'm going shopping."
"Okay," the guy nodded, and then headed to the hotel.
The hotel's interior left much to be desired. But the staff didn't ask questions and generally tried not to be seen. Waiting for Jethro, Nemo stretched his bones a few times, took a shower, and was now studying all the known facts about discovered "dead" civilizations and the reasons for their premature demise.
The knowledge bank had become quite depleted (or replenished - everything is relative) when the duros stumbled through the door, quite drunk. At least the smell of alcohol entered about two meters ahead of him. A bag dangled from his elbow - Jethro tossed it to Nemo, grinning foolishly.
Only the completely sober eyes spoiled the impression.
Grinning, the guy immediately started rummaging through the bag.
"Where did you manage to get drunk?"
Judging by the contents, the pirate had robbed someone. Or outplayed, which, in essence, was not much different from the first option.
"I just popped into the cantina," the duros confided intimately, falling onto the bunk and propping his legs against the wall. "I see some greenhorns playing dice. They're completely green, but they've got the swagger of three Mandalorian clans... So I offered them a small drink..."
The "small drink" cost the unknown greenhorns a fairly good combat belt, a visor from a not very popular brand, but with acceptable characteristics, and a bag of chewy marmalade.
"I returned the armor to them, and the guns too," the duros continued to ramble. "But I took the belt, what kind of fighters are they? And the visor too. They don't see who they're messing with anyway. They were most offended by the candy. Strange."
"Nice guys," Nemo agreed with Jethro, taking out the visor and poking into its electronic brain, it was always interesting to see what he would have to deal with.
"I'm for natural selection," Jethro explained magnanimously. "You have to take only as much as natural need dictates. Do you need their pop-guns? I don't either. Let whoever needs them take them."
"Pop-guns," his hand closed wistfully on the place where the blaster handle should be. "I'll have to go get them. Did you find out about the ship?"
The visor was a fairly standard device with a vision compensator. But there was also a pleasant bonus. A laser microphone combined with an audio compensator and a substantial memory block. A good thing, but little-known and, perhaps, somewhat expensive for its segment.
"I found out," the pirate whistled a couple of bars of a popular tune. "I said I wanted to buy some kind of vessel, as long as it was running. But I don't want to deal with merchants - they'll charge like for a brand new yacht. There were enough people there, someone will come with an offer."
"You can always skin a merchant," a predatory excitement flashed in his eyes for a moment, "in revenge, or as a lesson. But usually it doesn't come to that. However, I understand your train of thought. What will you do now?"
"So young and so angry," the duros continued whistling. "I'll make a couple of calls, inform the intermediary that I've arrived, what I've arrived with, wait for him to find me a client... I'll give a kick to those who try to palm off a container of bolts instead of a ship, so that they offer a really normal tub. Lots of work."
"I'm white and fluffy," Nemo objected to such a definition, "I haven't touched anyone in the last year!"
After that, he put on the visor and belt, ruffled his hair, and, looking in the mirror, made an extremely apathetic expression. It turned out well, but still, theoretically, someone could recognize him. Jiro, for example.
"I'll borrow your winnings," he said briefly, "I need to go to a couple of places."
"Need a gun?" the pirate inquired.
"No need. Maybe I'll run into your recent drinking buddies," he chuckled, raising two fingers in the air, "that will be enough."
The answer was a rather melodious whistle. Jethro didn't pretend to be a caring mother and didn't offer to accompany him.
Walking around Nar Shaddaa – the very thought should seem crazy to anyone even slightly familiar with this planet. Walking around this planet unarmed – any stranger would consider it an act of suicide.
But the one who strode confidently through the duraplast jungle didn't worry too much about it. Many natives get by without weapons, and they wouldn't have touched him. He had little to take, only thugs might covet his visor and belt.
Leaving the dive, which was called a hotel only by mistake, Nemo, whistling, headed towards the nearest overpass interchange. He needed to cover a couple of blocks to pick up some of his weapons.
In the nearest establishment, with the small change found while examining the belongings, he bought himself a fairly standard cap, which was used by those who were too lazy to get their hair dirty, and pulling it on visor-back, he moved towards the nearest branch of the airbuses. But he entered not like everyone else – through the main entrance, but through the technical one, especially since his appearance allowed him to pass for one of them.
And then all that remained was to get to the platform and get on the right transport.
Pneumatic capsules glided along the overpasses like bright beads. Here, public transport lines were marked by the color of the cabins, designed for ten to fifteen passengers. Nemo needed the "green" line. After half a minute, a bright green capsule hissed open its doors, letting him and a few other passengers inside.
And here the need for personal space was very clearly expressed. If the beings were not familiar, they kept their distance, at least a meter. Better five. Therefore, Nemo didn't make a single movement to separate himself from the crowd; everyone moved away on their own, as, in fact, did he. Sometimes. He entered the capsule third, taking an empty seat in the corner and pretending to have dozed off after a hard day. It wasn't difficult to do in the dark visor.
He didn't get to doze for long. There was movement in the capsule: three of those who entered took out blasters. One, a huge gamorrean, blocked the door with his bulk, the other two, a twi'lek and a zabrak, ended up at different ends of the capsule.
"Don't move! If I see a weapon in your hands, I'll shoot!" the zabrak warned. He either didn't notice Nemo in the corner behind him, or didn't consider him a serious threat.
The technician in the corner continued to drill the floor with dark visor lenses, immersed in the Force. To begin with, he decided to see what kind of trio they were and how serious they were. A banal mugging was happening in the pneumatic capsule, the same kind that pirates had recently staged on the yacht, only here the pipe was lower and the smoke was thinner. The motley company suggested an attempt to get a handful of credits for beer rather than a serious robbery. But the slight hint of evil madness emanating from all three was unsettling...