"Do we have to announce it?"
"If we want foreign revenue."
"We don't have a finance minister, but the job's yours."
"I'm serious."
"Commission a few starfighters and see who notices," Fett said.
"Maybe this Kad'ika has a point-—that we don't have to be on one side or the other. There's a third side, as . . . Goran says." It was only courtesy to address him by his first name in his own house. Fett had so little nonhostile interaction with anyone that basic etiquette felt like a minefield. "Our own."
"I could make sure the aruetiise notice," said Beviin. "But maybe a surprise is better."
"What kind of surprise?"
"The kind that makes you look up and run for a bomb shelter,"
Beviin said. "With a MandalMotors logo on the fuselage."
"We've got no territorial ambitions beyond the sector. We've got at least a dozen planets here to worry about."
"I know. But take a planet in postwar recovery, an ongoing civil war, and a new find of beskar, and we might have visitors. If not armed, then at least trying to do deals."
"Whatever. I don't lose sleep over what . . ."
Beviin filled the gap. "Aruetiise."
". . . aruetiise think of us. I'll talk to Yomaget in the morning.
See what MandalMotors can commit."
Medrit chewed thoughtfully, staring at Fett. "You could have a decent set of beskar'gam to replace that durasteel osik you're wearing, too. It'll last several lifetimes."
"It only has to last a year, then."
Medrit stared at Fett, got no response, and turned to Beviin. He shook his head: Later. Dinua took the hint, too. Her kids gazed from face to face, looking for an explanation of what had plunged the grown-ups into silence. Fett was past caring whether anyone knew he was dying. Most wouldn't believe it anyway. It was hard to imagine the mortality of someone whose face you couldn't see.
"Plenty more nuna," Beviin said suddenly, pushing the serving plate of glistening, spice-crusted meat in front of him. "Home-raised, too."
It was never going to be a relaxed family dinner anyway. Just being Fett made sure of that. The food was spicier than he was used to and the portions were too big, but he cleared his plate because these were generous people who gave him a refuge here and who refused payment, even though he could have bought the entire planet twice over. It was what Mando'ade did for one another when someone was in trouble. The fact that he was Mand'alor was irrelevant.
He could almost hear Medrit telling Beviin later what a surly shabuir Fett was, and asking if Beviin really had to invite him around so often.
"You didn't tell me how the lode was found," Fett said. It was his best shot at small talk, given that they didn't seem to want to talk about his death. "After ten years? In the middle of nowhere?"
"From orbit." Medrit paused in midslice as he carved a sticky pile of nut- studded, glistening pastry into six portions and licked his fingers. Little burn scars peppered his hands. Fett wondered if he'd find metal filings in the cake. "Some Mando'ade coming home after a few generations in the Outer Rim. A minerals engineer and a geologist ran a few scans, compared diem with the old geological charts, and decided to take a look on close approach. Result—wayii!"
"Good timing," Fett said.
"We're getting a lot of skilled people coming home, Bob'ika,'"
Beviin said. "You said you wanted Mando'ade to come back, and some already have."
"Impressive." Fett was surprised at the willingness of people to abandon all they'd ever known simply at his suggestion. "Let's hope they're all that lucky."
"More resourcefulness than luck."
Fett thought of the last thing that Fenn Shysa had said to him. If you only look after your own hide, then you're not a man. No, Jaing didn't have any idea what went on between them in those final moments.
People generally believed what they wanted to.
"Makes me wonder what else is still lying undiscovered on this planet," said Fett.
That night, lying awake far too long on the rickety trestle bed in the outbuilding, Fett reflected on the fact that Mirta hadn't been in touch since they'd returned, and wondered what his father would have done had he
been Mandalore now.
Exhaustion was the best sleeping pill he knew. Before he let it engulf him, his last thought was that the beskar changed everything, except his own mortality.
chapter eight
Once Omas pulls his troops back, we'll talk the Bothans into behaving. Give it a month or two, let everyone calm down and get used to a cease- fire, and we'll use that lull to regroup with Commenor, Fondor, and Bothawui to give Coruscant a pounding it'll never forget.
—Corellian Prime Minister Dur Gejjen, discussing longer-term plans with Confederation defense staff
GAG HQ LOCKER ROOMS, CORUSCANT: 2100 HOURS
Shevu took a long look at Ben and handed him a small container. It was filled with a dark brown fluid.
"You look dead beat," said Shevu. "But before you turn in for the night, there's a few loose ends to tie up."
Ben, slumped on a bench with his back resting on his locker door, was ready to drop. He had to be up at 0300 to prep for the flight to Vulpter, and he still didn't know his final destination, or the location for the hit.
That wasn't unusual, apparently. It was just as well he was used to improvising.
"I'm scoring ninety-seven percent, sir."
Shevu sounded as if he'd stifled a laugh. He exuded a sense of pity. "It's hard to know what to say."
"I'm ready. Really I am."
"I meant that it's amazing that we can pretty well train a sniper in a day. If he's a Jedi, of course." Shevu put the bottle in Ben's hand.
There was the slow and steady drip of water somewhere in the locker rooms, and the scent of faintly herbal soap. "You're being inserted ahead of time with Lekauf, and I'll be shadowing Omas's flight. We'll RV on Vulpter
at Charbi City Spaceport, because he's meeting Gejjen in one of the conference rooms there that they hire out for business meetings by the hour. Personally, I think GA Intel is insane to let him do that. No sterile area, no screening, no security except for two guys with him for close protection. But it's anonymous, there's no advance booking to trace, Charbi is a slum—and we can stroll in."
"Won't someone recognize him?"
Shevu pointed to the bottle of brown liquid. "I don't think it'll even take some of this to let him get through a spaceport unrecognized.
How many checks does a business passenger go through, landing in a private vessel? One, at the Customs and Immigration desk. And this is Vulpter, for goodness' sake—their security isn't exactly a ring of durasteel. He could even use the rooms on the other side of that control, and he never has to be seen at all. Effectively, it all happens on the landing strip side."
Ben thought it through, seeing the spaceport in his mind's eye, adding permacrete and passengers to the holochart image of red and blue lines. He was getting used to thinking like this, and part of him relished solving the puzzle while the other half wondered what was happening to him.
"In a way, it's better for us if he meets Gejjen in the conference rooms on the public side of Customs," Ben said. "A bigger crowd out there for us to disappear into."
"I agree. In the end, we'll grab what chance we get."
Ben held the bottle up to the light. "So what's this?"
"Hair dye. Most species tend to recall redheaded humans a bit too well. You're still a genetic minority. And Omas knows you well enough to look twice if he spots you."