The hangar greeted them with comparative emptiness. Nearby, technicians were busy, dismantling some large assembly right on a forklift platform. A couple of vagrants were wandering around looking for work, but they were driven away from everywhere.
Without getting out of the car, the contr immersed himself in the Force, studying the intentions of those around him that he could reach. This was becoming a habit. A very useful habit.
The appearance of the minivan attracted attention – and Rick felt it clearly. The technicians saw nothing familiar or interesting in the stationary car and returned to work. The vagrants exchanged glances and headed for the bus. The hope of earning a few credits outweighed the curiosity of the entire team of workers.
"Weymi, stay in the car until the seller arrives, Lariuss... act according to circumstances," Rick had no desire or experience to instruct her or give her any orders, which this woman undoubtedly possessed. Glancing at the beggars, he assessed their desire to earn and decided to talk to them. For a couple of credits, you could learn a lot, though it was unlikely there was anything worthwhile.
The Twi'lekka just nodded, not looking up from her reading. Lariuss did the same, with the only difference being that she wasn't reading – the woman was sitting, leaning back in her chair, and seemed to be dozing.
The vagrants cautiously approached. No one had driven them away from the lone car yet, but that didn't mean they wouldn't be shot at from it – just so they wouldn't interfere.
Rick beckoned both of them with his folded index and middle fingers of his left hand, simultaneously surveying places where people with rifles could be positioned.
The vagrants perked up and trotted to the minivan, managing to find out with a couple of nudges who was in charge and would talk to the potential employer.
"What needs to be done, mister?" the alien who won this round asked hopefully.
Visual inspection yielded little useful information. On the one hand, the view was completely blocked by the hangar. The landing pads and other hangars located at some distance could theoretically be used as firing points, but it was impossible to guess at a glance where the shooter was hiding.
"Have you been hanging around here long?" a coin was held between his fingers.
"Since morning, mister," the second vagrant chimed in and immediately received a sneaky poke – the man could think they were such useless workers that they weren't entrusted with any work.
"It's just empty here since morning," the first one, an Aqualish, explained. "There's no work at all."
"Good," Rick nodded slightly, "has anyone else besides us arrived here?"
"Flew in," the vagrant clarified. "Some old tub into this hangar," he pointed with a dirty finger towards the nearest hangar. "They wanted to ask for repairs, but they didn't even talk to them."
"So the seller is already here... I wonder if Karvo will be present..."
He nodded as if agreeing with the answer. In his hand were two one-credit coins, which Rick tossed into the aliens' hands.
"Stay here, I might need your hands," with that, he headed straight for the hangar.
The door turned out to be unlocked. Inside stood the ship he had ordered, and a Mirialan was pacing around, scrutinizing the battered vessel.
Upon the appearance of a stranger, he looked around, his hand twitching towards the holster on his belt.
Rick didn't flinch. Firstly, grabbing a blaster unnecessarily is a sign of bad manners, and secondly, he was somehow sure that he would manage to dodge and hit the target even with this delay. Therefore, he smoothly raised his left hand upwards, palm open towards the green-skinned humanoid. His right remained near the blaster.
After a slight hesitation, the alien removed his hand from the weapon.
"Who are you?" the tone was wary, but not aggressive.
"The client," Mukha poked his head out of the hatch. "Calm down, this human isn't one to play dirty."
"Are you the owner of this tub?" Rick asked, observing the aliens with interest, nodding to Karvo in greeting.
"I am," the Mirialan nodded. "You arrived earlier than I expected."
Judging by the emotional background, the alien had just added thirty percent to the amount he intended to ask for initially.
"Avoided traffic jams," the answer was given distantly, "are there any problems if we start inspecting the ship earlier?"
Thinking about what he had managed to catch, he glanced at the ship, habitually through the Force searching for other team members.
The hangar was empty. No one but the three of them was there.
"No problems," the Mirialan replied restrainedly.
Mukha scribbled something to himself and disappeared inside again.
"Good," Rick turned on the comlink, contacting Lariuss, "could you drive the car into the hangar? The keys are in the ignition."
He looked at the Mirialan again.
"I have two questions, mister: how much do you want for your ship and what is its home port?"
The owner of the ship didn't have time to answer him. Noise was heard from outside, then a shot. Then an engine howled, gaining speed.
Rick almost swore, immediately spurring his body to a combat-ready state. Drawing his "Kylaan," he glanced at the seller.
"We'll finish later," and he slightly opened the door to see his car.
It was rapidly gaining altitude, listing to one side. Someone was dangling from the door, trying to get into the cabin, but the sharp maneuvers didn't allow him to do so.
Where the minivan had been standing before, an Aqualish lay, his partner was rolling on the plastocrete, grappling with someone unknown.
Rick had no time to sort things out. His thumb slid over the firing mode selector, and a blue stun-shot ring flew towards the struggling figures. At the same time, the guy tracked the space around him: he didn't want to get a plasma charge from the side.
Both fighters stretched out and froze, losing consciousness. The car flipped upside down in the air, the silhouette clinging to it broke off and fell down with a yell.
Concentrating on the mercenary's image, Rick tried to convey one short thought.
"Return."
Then he headed towards the stunned, glancing at the place where the technicians had been before.
The car tumbled in the air, almost hitting the hangar roof, returned to its normal position and began to descend slowly.
The fall and the scream ended with a dull thud on the surface of the platform. Judging by what echoed in the Force, it was over.
The repair crew had prudently taken cover behind the forklift and were now peeking out fearfully from cover, waiting for the outcome.
Approaching the unconscious, the contr quickly examined the one the unknown alien was fighting.
On the platform lay a rather muscular man, a human. The lizard had wounded him severely with its claws during the fight, and dark streams of blood were slowly crawling across the dusty concrete. On his thigh, the attachments for a holster were visible; the holster itself lay nearby, torn off by the alien's claws. There was no blaster in it.
Rick quickly bent over the mercenary, hastily treating the wound through the Force. He had to live. At least until he answered questions. After that, Rick glanced around, fearing another attack, and looked at the hired aliens. How badly were they doing?
The Aqualish was dead. The Arkonian was only stunned.
Tilting his head slightly, Rick waited for Larrius to land. Vaymi was most likely having a hysterical fit or had fainted. And fainting would be better.
The Aqualish died... Died for a single credit. How little he paid for another's life. How poor his existence was. He glanced at the Arkonian. He would have to thank him for two. Probably.
The minivan landed next to him, softly and precisely. Larrius sat in the driver's seat, and next to her, securely fastened, a Twi'lek girl froze. The girl's head-tails hung without a single movement.
The mercenary opened the door, listened to something, and got out of the car.
"Hutt hijackers," she grumbled, glancing at where her victim lay in a heap of broken bones and rags.
"I hope so," Rick approached Vaymi to examine her. He feared the worst might have happened.
"Do you have a blaster?"
The last sentence, like the first, was addressed to the woman.
The girl was conscious and unharmed. But her condition was far from good. The Twi'lek had gone into shock from everything that had happened.
"I don't need it," Larrius shook her head.
"At least, not now. I have my own weapon."
Covering the Lethan's hand with his own, Rick distanced himself from everything that had happened. Chasing the anger, rage, and adrenaline from his face, he smiled at her and said:
"Everything will be fine," he smiled a little wider, "I won't leave you unprotected."
Her lekku twitched – he had been heard.
Removing his hand, he turned to Larrius:
"We need to load the bodies," he looked expressively at the pile of meat, "and while we're doing that, tell me briefly what happened."
The mercenary glanced back at the hangar doors, from which the Fly and the Mirialan were peeking out.
"While you were talking, these two arrived," she replied.
"They wanted something from the vagrants you hired. They didn't go with them, said they already had work. I moved to the front, they saw that there were only women in the car, and decided to hijack it... You said, "depending on the circumstances," I did what was most reasonable – I took off."
"And I already thought..." he didn't finish what he thought. When the Arkonian was placed on one of the back seats, and the corpse and the wounded raider lay on the floor, he assessed the man's condition and nodded to Larrius towards the driver's seat.
"Drive into the hangar, the plans haven't changed," only Vaymi couldn't be touched now. He headed towards the Fly and the Mirialan.
"Gentlemen! I hope this little incident won't affect the upcoming deal?"
He was interested in how the green-skinned one felt. If this was his doing... Then he would get the ship for free.
The Mirialan watched the events with restrained interest. Apparently, he had witnessed such scenes many times and was not particularly impressed. They tried to hijack the car, failed, the bodies would be removed soon, the client was safe, the deal was not canceled – nothing to worry about.
"The ship is not damaged, and neither are you," the alien replied philosophically.
"The 'Gale' is registered to Bespin. As for the price..."
The Mirialan sized him up.
"It's unlikely you'll be able to pay for my rust bucket..." the alien emphasized this word with his voice, "its true price. But for seventy thousand, I might consider it."
"For that amount, it should be stuffed to the brim with glitzerstim," Rick cut in imperiously, "I personally would give it fifteen thousand... But we're not choosing a gift here. Let's go look this bantha in the mouth."
Intent on getting back at a buyer who couldn't appreciate his ship, the Mirialan led Rick through the ship. The "rust bucket's" condition was surprisingly good – despite its worn exterior, everything inside was clean, tidy, and at first glance, the most the vessel needed was a light cosmetic repair. And even that wouldn't be necessary if the crew's goal wasn't to demonstrate their wealth with fresh finishes.
Sparsely and reservedly, the alien clarified what was on board and in what condition. The equipment was not top-of-the-line, but it wasn't cheap either – very good for its price. The inspection ended in the mess hall.
"If it weren't for the need for a large sum, you would never have seen my ship, mister," the Mirialan again emphasized with his voice how he himself called his vessel.
"Of course, there can be no serious talk of fifteen or twenty thousand. I would like to hear a reasonable offer."
"A reasonable offer?" the guy, whose appearance made him look ten years older, grinned.
"I've compiled a list of official purchases of ships of this model. You're fifteen years late with your price. I'm leaning towards twenty-five thousand. Maybe twenty-six. I want to see the repair log and find out what kind of activities you were engaged in on it."
The Mirialan impassively pushed a chip towards him on the holotable.
"If you only look at the price, then I don't understand why Fly contacted me. He usually doesn't work with those who don't know what they want themselves. For fifteen, you can get junk that won't fly. For twenty-six – a rust bucket that will require as much investment again," the alien chuckled, pronouncing the word "rust bucket."
"Sixty. Maybe fifty-five."
Flipping through the information on the chip, Rick shook his head. He couldn't believe there could be a level five pilot here.
"Twenty-six thousand times two is not sixty," he looked at the energy channel, "besides, I'll still have to invest in the ship. And you know that as well as I do. You initially overvalued this ship by forty percent. But you need the money, not me. I'll give... Thirty-five thousand cash. Today. If you want more, explain how a class five pilot ended up on our lovely moon."
The Mirialan chuckled almost imperceptibly; a less observant person wouldn't have noticed this smile. Only now did he begin to take this man seriously. And only because he had guessed his thoughts.
"Thirty," the alien corrected softly.
"I would have raised it to forty if you had continued to insist on your opinion about the ship. I don't need money that badly, mister. Less than you need the ship that I brought at the request of our mutual acquaintance from another system. Only because he decided you were a reliable person. Until I decide who to believe – Fly or you? Fifty."
"I wouldn't advise trusting anyone on this moon," he tilted his head slightly to make out the gray masses of buildings in the blister, "and you can do business with me and Karvo. Forty thousand. Considering taxes and interest rates, which aren't here, it will come out the same as if you sold it somewhere for forty-five."
The Mirialan was about to continue bargaining. He even opened his mouth to present a new argument why the price wouldn't suit him. But footsteps were heard, and the Twi'lek appeared in the doorway. She still looked very pale and frightened; trying to impress the seller in such a state was clearly not the best idea.
However, she wasn't trying. The Lethan, touching the bulkhead from time to time, reached the chair where Rick was sitting and sat down next to him on the floor, hugging her knee with her hands. Her lekku rose and lay on her shoulders, emphasizing the touching fragility and defenselessness of the girl. The counter's palm naturally rested on the fragile shoulder of the Lethan in a gesture of patronage and protection.
The alien choked on his unuttered argument. He knew Karvo and knew how this girl came into his life. If he had given her up to this human... Perhaps he wasn't as hopeless as it might have seemed at first glance? After all, the man was still young, and wisdom is the product of experience.
"Well," he said thoughtfully, shifting his gaze from the Twi'lek to the man and back.
"I think for forty thousand I can yield... After all. money isn't the most important thing in this galaxy..."
"Indeed, money isn't the most important thing," Rick nodded, carefully seating the girl on the chair.
"Are the ship's documents ready?"
"The documents are with me," the Mirialan nodded.
"They can be processed within an hour..."
He was interrupted by a quiet snore from the corner where Karvo had settled.
Vaymi's former owner slept soundly, twitching his trunk in his sleep. What he dreamed of, one could only guess, but the dreams were clearly pleasant. For a moment, the counter felt sorry that the Tydorian couldn't be read.
"Then, I think, we'll meet here again in an hour?" Rick suggested.
"I need to do something."
His gaze fell on the frightened girl next to the chair. Vaymi definitely needed help.
The Mirialan nodded and stood up.
"Fly has a stressful job," he said quietly, switching to "you" with his buyer.
"Since he only allowed himself to relax here... Don't wake him, let him rest."