"My father," said Fett, "finally destroyed the Death Watch. That's his legacy to Mandalore."
"Sectarian feud. Irrelevant to most Mando'ade's lives. Now, are you going to give me a sample?"
"What kind of scientists have you got access to that I haven't?"
"Some things," Jaing said softly, "can't be bought. I have my resources, believe me. Got a medpac with a sharp in it?"
"Yes."
"Draw some blood, then."
"I'll do it," said Mirta.
With Fett, it wasn't a case of simply rolling up sleeves. He had so much equipment on his forearms that Jaing ended up holding the flamethrower attachment, whip assembly, and assorted projectiles. Fett was an armory on legs. Mirta didn't expect him to flinch when she finally found a vein, and he didn't. The few moments while she applied pressure to the blood vessel with her thumb to stop the bleeding afterward were the longest of her life, because he wouldn't meet her eyes, and it reminded her that she could touch him and still not reach him.
Jaing held the vial of red-black blood up to the light and admired it. "That'll do nicely. Give him some candy for being a brave boy, Mirta."
"What now?" Fett asked, unmoved.
"You drop me off, and I'll let you know what we get."
"How?"
"I'll deliver it personally to Keldabe."
"Better make it snappy, then. Or you might be in time for my funeral."
"Oh, I'll be back, and so will plenty of other Mando'ade. You asked us, remember? You asked us to come home." He turned to Mirta. "When the old chakaar dies and they divvy up his armor, make sure you get the flamethrower. Because his plates are duse. Not even proper beskar."
So Jaing wasn't out of touch with events on Mandalore, and he thought Fett's durasteel armor was garbage. The strill padded closer to Jaing and yawned extravagantly with an expression that said it was totally underwhelmed by the discussion. Mirta could smell its breath, which —oddly—wasn't unpleasant at all.
"How does that thing hunt if it's got such a strong scent?" Fett asked.
Jaing bent and ruffled Mird's neck folds. "Only humanoids can smell it. And don't be too hard on Mirta for getting ambushed, Bob'ika. Few people can deal with a full-grown strill swooping down on them. These things fly, you know."
"I don't keep pets." Fett seemed on the edge of a concession. "If you want something to eat, the galley's through that hatch."
Jaing opened a pouch on his belt and took out something dried and dark that looked like leather straps. He threw a strip to Mird and chewed on one himself. "We're fine, thanks."
It took a few seconds for Mirta to work out what was going on. He doesn't want to leave any DNA. He's even more cunning than you, Ba'buir.
Fett turned and swung back through the hatch. Mirta had hoped the two men would find something else to talk about, but the fact they shared a genome clearly meant nothing. Still . . . this was a relative. This was her relative, a great-uncle, even if Mandos didn't care about bloodline half as much as most species. The Kiffar half of her cared about it a lot.
"I feel bad for you, kid," Jaing said. "I feel bad for him, too, I suppose. But apart from some admiration for his skills, I think he's the worst excuse for a Mando'ad this side of the Core. On the other hand, he wins, and we need winners. And my dad would have expected me to help him, no questions asked."
Jaing spoke as if he came from a totally different family, not a vat that contained the duplicated chromosomes of Jango Fett. He slipped a three- sided knife from his forearm plate and trimmed the dried meat into smaller chunks, utterly at ease.
"Jango's not who you mean by 'dad,' is he?" Mirta said.
"No." Jaing smiled wistfully to himself for a moment. "Genes don't count. You ought to know that by now. The man who adopted me was my training sergeant. Finest man who ever lived."
Jaing sounded like he'd come from a far happier family, a strange thing for a clone soldier. "I seem to be bucking the trend of devoted kids," Mirta said. "I tried to kill my grandfather."
"So did your mother, I hear. Boba's obviously got this magic touch with the ladies."
"You seem to know everything about me, but I don't know much about you."
Jaing just grinned. "That's my job, sweetheart."
"So why did you get involved with Cherit's gang over the Twi'leks?"
"Another promise I made a long time ago." He chewed, looking slightly past her in recollection. "I tend to keep them."
He went on chewing, occasionally throwing chunks to Mird. And that was it. Silence descended. She thought he might talk about his family on Mandalore, all the undiscovered relatives she now found she had, but he didn't.
Mirta realized she wasn't going to get anything more out of him, and she didn't want to look needy. She returned to the cockpit, settled into the copilot's seat, and clutched the heart-of-fire against her chest plate. Even if it told her nothing, it was still a connection to her mother and grandmother.
"You fed up with him already?" Fett asked.
She wanted to think Jaing had given Fett some hope and raised his spirits, but it was hard to tell. "Is your armor really rubbish? Why don't you use proper Mandalorian iron, like Beviin says—"
"Don't push your luck. I let you stick a needle in me. That's your fun for the day."
It had cheered him up. Mirta could tell. She hoped that not only would Jaing's unspecified "resources" come through, but that Boba Fett would redeem himself so that her only kin wasn't someone that she wished were someone else.
GAG HQ, CORUSCANT
Jacen didn't want to look too interested in the Policy and Resources Council proceedings. If he showed up for the meeting and sat in the gallery reserved for those hardy citizens who actually cared about the minutiae of government, he might cause questions to be asked.
On the other hand, he might just have been seen as a micromanaging, interfering colonel who put his troops' welfare above schools, health, and
transport.
That was fine by him. He did.
But a low profile was called for, so he stayed at GAG HQ and switched to the HoloNet channel that broadcast Senate proceedings. Lumiya should have been there by now. He waited for the holocam to pan to the public gallery and saw, as he expected, a woman in a sober business suit and veiled headdress. She wasn't the only one, either. Veils were considered very chic this year. She drew no attention at all.
HM-3's amendment to the procurement regulations was Item 357 on an agenda of 563 mind-bogglingly boring tweaks and changes to laws Jacen didn't even know were on the statute books.
I'm going to have to do a lot of delegating when I'm . . . in charge. A handpicked team of administrators. Led by HM-3,1 think.
The session had already started, and Senators who were happy to do the small routine work—and not be noticed—were on Item 24, having a particularly arcane piece of hazardous waste legislation explained to them. Jacen turned off the audio feed and set the monitor to alert him when Item 357 was up. Then he got on with reading more intelligence reports, with the doors to his office wide open.
He almost always kept the doors open. It reassured the troops. It told them that he was an accessible officer, always willing to listen.
But Jori Lekauf peered in, boots still firmly on the corridor side of the doors as if there were a barrier marked OFFICER TERRITORY—DO NOT
PASS.
"Lady at the security gate asking to see you, sir."
Jacen, distracted, felt in the Force to see who it might be. "Mara Skywalker."
Lekauf grinned. "It's great the way you can do that, sir."
"I don't get many women coming to see me, so I could have guessed .