Practically before Cole knew it, a local day passed.
Troycule showed the team his inventory, and they—which was to say, their fearless leader—hammered out the plan down to its last detail. It was fine with Cole; he'd be staying where he belonged, out of the line of fire.
All of the bug-thing's ships were antiques; the newest was a Zentine mid-range shuttle from before the Mandalorian Wars—older than Cole was. Like the others, it had been saved from some junkyard or battlefield and restored with the obsessive skill of a true gear-head. Considering that he only had mechanicals to assist him, the quality of Troycule's work was impressive. Cole had tried the same thing with his own operation, and that had literally blown up in his face.
It didn't take long to pick out the ship they'd use to get into Torque Highport: a ridiculously elegant star courier that Troycule identified as the Crystal Shore. Supposedly it had belonged to a Jedi Knight who was shot down on Circarpous IV during the war with Exar Kun. Cole believed him, and in any case he had no trouble believing that a menacing, decrepit old Sith would fly something like that.
Aside from putting together a fake ID packet for the Crystal Shore, there was a number of delicate technical things which Atton, Troycule, and a few specialized droids had to take care of. Cole and Kaevee were kept busy with related schutta work.
It was afternoon when they were turned loose. Cole killed a few hours wandering the compound, then back aboard the Ebon Hawk staring at the space station schematics until he wanted to blast himself. After grabbing some dinner, he wandered into the cargo hold and spent a long minute staring at a certain very special plasteel drum, which sat alone in the back corner. Holding a bottle of Tevraki whiskey, it was sealed with an X of bright red spacer's tape and a note which read, in Atton's handwriting, If we don't die.
And if we do, who's gonna drink it? The Sith? Frack that.
Cole thought about it. Then he thought about Atton and decided—as he always did—to not push his luck.
The truth was, when he didn't hate Atton, Cole sort of liked him. Not the real guy, but the fake one, the freighter captain who had conned him into this whole thing back at Ord Lonesome. Talking skrag with him, helping set things up on the Crystal Shore, and so on, it was all like smooth-talking the woman back on Gulvitch. It allowed Cole to fall back into the sweet, sweet illusion where he was just another credit-a-dozen spacer who had nothing to do with the Force, the Jedi and Sith, and their wars.
Just one more dance with death, and he could fall back into that illusion again.
