Sacrifice Page 3

  “Who do you want to fight?” Fett noted that they reverted to Basic when addressing him, in deference to his ignorance of Mando’a. “The Galactic Alliance? Corellia? Some Force-forsaken pit on the Rim?”

  “There’s never been a war we haven’t fought in.”

  “There is now. This isn’t our fight. Mandalore’s got its own troubles.”

  “The war’s escalating. Their troubles might come and find us.”

  Fett stood by the long, narrow window that ran the height of the west-facing wall. It was more like an arrow loop than a view on the city. Mandalorians built for defense, and public buildings were expected to serve as citadels, even more so now. The Yuuzhan Vong had wreaked terrible vengeance on Mandalore for its covert work for the New Republic during the invasion, but the carnage had just made Mando’ade more ferociously determined to stay put. The nomadic habit was still there: it was more about a refusal to yield than love of the land. But they couldn’t lose a third of the population and shrug it off, not while many still remembered the Imperial occupation.

  Sore losers, the Vong. But it’s not like I had any alternative. Better the New Republic than the crab-boys.

  Fett scanned the hall, aware of Mirta’s fixed and almost baleful stare.

  “What’s the first rule of warfare?”

  On seats, on benches, leaning in alcoves, or just standing with arms folded, the leaders of Mandalorian society—or as many as could get to Keldabe—watched him carefully. Even the head of MandalMotors, Jir Yomaget, wore traditional armor. Most had taken off their helmets, but some hadn’t. That was okay by Fett. He kept his on, too.

  “What’s in it for us?” said a thickset human man leaning back in a chair that seemed to have been cobbled together from crates. “Second rule is how much is in it for us?”

  “So … what is in it for us this time?”

  Us. Fett was Mand’alor, chieftain of chieftains, commander of supercommandos, and he couldn’t avoid the us any longer. He didn’t feel like us. He felt like an absent husband who’d sneaked home to find an angry wife demanding to know where he’d been all night, not sure how to head off the inevitable argument. They made him feel uncomfortable. He examined the feeling to see what was causing it.

  Not up to the job.

  He might have been the best bounty hunter, but he didn’t think he was the best Mandalore, and that unsettled him because he had never been simply adequate. He expected to excel. He’d taken on the job; now he had to live up to the title, which was much, much easier in war than in peacetime.

  Fenn Shysa must have thought he could do it, though. His dying wish was to have Fett assume the title, whether he wanted it or not. Crazy barve.

  The thickset Mando shrugged. “Credits, Mand’alor. We need currency, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “To spend on importing food.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “I suppose that’s one way of balancing supply and demand.”

  “What is?”

  “Back one side or the other in this war. That’ll reduce the number of mouths to feed. Dead men don’t eat.”

  There were snickers of laughter and comments in Mando’a this time. Fett made a mental note to program his helmet translator to deal with it, and that felt like the ultimate admission of defeat for a leader: he couldn’t speak the language of his own people. But they didn’t seem to care.

  “I’m with the Mand’alor on this,” said a hoarse male voice at the back of the assembly. Fett recognized that one: Neth Bralor. He’d known a few Bralors in his time, but they weren’t all from the same clan. It was a common name, sometimes simply an indication of roots in Norg Bral or another hill-fort town. “We lost nearly a million and a half people fighting the vongese. That might be small change for Coruscant, but it’s a disaster for us. No more—not until we get Manda’yaim in order. We’ll eat bas neral if we have to.”

  A murmur of rumbling agreement rippled around the hall. A few chieftains slapped their gauntlets on their armor in approval. One of them was the woman commando Fett had met in Zerria’s on Drall, Isko Talgal. Her expression was still as grim, graying black hair scraped back from her wind-tanned face and braided with silver beads, but she banged her fist on her thigh plate in enthusiastic approval. Fett wondered what she looked like when she was unhappy.

  “You wanted a decision from me. You got it.” Fett felt time accelerating past him, and it eroded what little patience he had. Every bone in his body ached right through to his spine. “Galactic Alliance or Confederation—you think it’s going to make any difference to us?”

  “No,” said another voice, thick with a northern Concordian accent. “Coruscant won’t be asking us to disarm anytime soon. They might need us if they get another vongese war.”

  “Chakaare!” someone laughed. But the debate picked up pace, still mostly in Basic.

  “And what if the war comes too close to home? What if it spreads to a neighboring system or two?”

  “Even if we side with the Alliance, what’s to say they won’t turn on us and expect us to toe their nice tidy disarmed line?”

  “It’s not disarmament they want, it’s pooling every planet’s assets into the GA Defense Force, and we all know how slick and efficient that’s going to be …”

  Fett stood back and watched. It was both uplifting and entertaining in its way. It was the kind of decision-making process that could happen only in a small population of ferociously independent people who knew immediately when it was time to stop being individuals and come together as a nation.

  Funny, that’s the last thing Mandalore is: a nation. Sometimes we fight on different sides. We’re scattered around the galaxy. We’re not even one species. But we know what we are and what we want, and that’s not going to change anytime soon.

  The arguments were all coming down to one thing. A lot of people needed the credits. Times were still tough.

  Fett brought his fist down hard on the nearest solid surface—a small table—and the crack brought the hubbub of discussion to a halt.

  “Mandalore has no position on the current war, and there’ll be no divisions over it,” he said. “Anyone who wants to sell their services individually to either side—that’s your business. But not in Mandalore’s name.”

  He braced for the eruption of argument from the sudden silence, thumbs hooked in his belt. His helmet’s wide-angle vision caught a fully armored figure standing at the rear of the hall. It wasn’t always possible to tell if a Mando in armor was male or female, but Fett was sure this was a man, medium height and with his hands clasped behind his back. The left shoulder plate of his purple-black armor was a light metallic brown. It wasn’t unusual to see odd-colored plates because many Mandalorians kept a piece of a dead loved one’s armor, but this was striking for a reason Fett couldn’t work out. Something glittered in the central panel of the man’s breastplate, a tiny point of light as the sun cut across the chamber in a shaft so sharp and white that it seemed solid.

  I should do that. I should wear a piece of Dad’s armor with my own, every day.

  He felt bad that he didn’t, but jerked his attention back to the meeting.

  “That’s okay, then,” said a cheerful, white-haired man sitting a few paces from him. A dark blue tattoo of a vine emerged from the top of his armor and ended under his chin. Baltan Carid, that was his name. Fett had last seen him dispatching Yuuzhan Vong with a battered Imperial-era blaster at Caluula Station. “That’s all we needed to know. That there’s no ban on mercenary work.”

  “I’ll make it clear to both sides that there’s no official involvement in their dispute,” Fett said. “But if any of you want to get yourselves killed, it’s your call.”

  “So we might see Mando fighting Mando in this aruetiise’s war.” Everyone looked around at the man in the purple armor. Fett saw no need to learn the language, but there were words he couldn’t avoid: aruetiise. Non-Mandalorians. Occasionally pejorative, but usually just a way of saying not one of
us. “Hardly conducive to restoring the nation, is it?”

  “But fighting’s our number one export,” said Carid. “What do you want, make Keldabe into a tourist spot or something?” He roared with laughter. “I can see it now. Visit Mandalore before Mandalore visits you. Take home some souvenirs—a slab of uj cake and a smack in the mouth.”

  “Well, our economic policy right now seems to be to earn foreign credits … get killed … and neglect the planet.”

  Carid had a magnificent sneer. He was far more intimidating without a helmet. “You got a better idea? Oh, wait—is this going to be the all-day diatribe on kadikla self-determination and statehood? ’Cos I ain’t getting any younger, son, and I’d like to be home in time for dinner, ’cos my missus is making pea-flour dumplings.”

  That got a lot of laughs. Carid generally did. There were shouts and guffaws. “Yeah, we know about the dumplings, Carid …”

  But … kadikla. So the Mandalore-first movement had a name now, even its own adjective, too. He hadn’t come across Kad’ika yet, the man they said was driving the new nationalism. Fett thought that was remiss of the man, seeing as he’d done just what was asked of him and returned to lead Mandalore.

  “Critical mass, ner vod.” Purple Man ignored the howls of laughter. His voice had the tone of someone who’d argued this many times before. “We have a population of fewer than three million here, and maybe as many as three times that in diaspora. We lost a lot of our best troops, our farmland’s been poisoned, and our industrial infrastructure is still shot to haran after ten years. So maybe this is the ideal time to bring some people home. Gather in the exiles while the rest of the galaxy is busy.”

  Carid was focused on the debate now, and Fett was temporarily forgotten. “Yeah, group up to make a nice easy target. All of us in one place.”

  “Nobody except the vongese has attacked us in a long time.”

  “The Empire gutted us. You’ve got a short memory. Or maybe you were still in diapers when Shysa had to kick some pride back into us.”

  “Okay, so let’s abandon Mandalore. Go totally nomad again. Keep moving. Rely on the whim of every government except our own.”

  “Son, we are the shabla government,” Carid said. “So what do you want to do about it?”

  “Consolidate Mandalore and the sector. Bring our people home, and build something nobody’s ever going to overrun again.” Purple Man had a faint accent; a little Coruscanti, a little Keldabian. “A citadel. A power base. So we choose when we stay home and when we go expeditionary.”

  “Funny, I thought that was just what we were doing.”

  Fett watched the exchange, fascinated. Then he realized everyone was staring at him, waiting for him to respond—or at least to call a halt. So this was leadership off the battlefield. It was just like running his business, only more … complex. More variables, more unknowns—he hated unknowns—and something that was utterly alien to him: responsibility for other people, millions of them, but people who could take care of themselves and ran the place well enough without any bureaucracy.

  Or me. Do they need me at all?

  “What’s your name?” Fett asked.

  Purple Man was leaning against the wall, but he pushed himself away from it with a shrug to stand upright. “Graad,” he said.

  “Okay, Graad, it’s policy as of now. I’m asking for two million folks to return to Mandalore. How many you think we’ll get?” It made sense: the planet needed a working population. It needed extra hands to clean up the soil that the vongese had poisoned and to cultivate the land left fallow by dead owners. But every Mandalorian in the galaxy didn’t add up to a single town on many planets. “We’re still short on credits until we become self-sufficient in food production again.”

  “We’ll contribute half our profits,” said the MandalMotors chief. “As long as we can sell fighters and equipment to either side, of course.”

  “Business is business.” Fett gave him an acknowledging nod. “I’ll chip in a few million creds, too.”

  Carid looked around him as if to single out anyone mad enough to dissent, but everyone had what they wanted from the meeting. Mirta still managed to look baleful. The slice of her mother’s heart-of-fire stone dangled on a leather cord around her neck. At least she had a decent helmet now, apparently her first, so that showed just how much of a Mandalorian her father had been—or how little she’d seen of him.

  Maybe Mando fathers have been disappointing her all her life.

  “One last thing,” Fett said. “I’m going to be away from base for a few days. Uncontactable.”

  “How will we notice?” someone muttered.

  It was a fair point. “So I’m not the governing kind. But I haven’t let you down yet. While I’m away, Goran Beviin stands in for me.”

  There was no dissent. Beviin was solid and trustworthy, and he didn’t want to be Mandalore. He was also a complete savage with a beskad, an ancient Mandalorian iron saber, as many Yuuzhan Vong had discovered the hard way. Any argument about the isolationist policy in Fett’s absence wouldn’t last long.

  “We’re done here,” said Carid. “You give me the inventory of all the farmland lying fallow, and my clan will make sure it gets allocated to whoever returns to farm it.” He hung back for a moment and made an exaggerated job of replacing his helmet. “I’m glad you brought Jango home, Mand’alor. It was the right thing to do.”

  Was it? Home for his father was Concord Dawn. It was right for Mandalore, maybe. They liked their figureheads where they could see them, even their dead ones.

  “Nobody has to listen to me if they don’t feel like it.”

  “Never known you to stay out of a fight. You’ve got your reasons. That’s why we’re listening.” Carid paused. “I’m sorry about your daughter.”

  “Yeah.” So everyone knew about Ailyn. Fett didn’t remember telling anyone that she was dead, let alone that Jacen Solo had killed her. Mandalore wasn’t her home, either; she wouldn’t have appreciated ending up buried here. “And I bet you’re all wondering why that Jedi isn’t a pile of smoking charcoal by now.”

  “Like I said, you have your reasons. Anything we can do—just say the word.”

  “His time will come. Leave him to me.” But not now, Fett thought. He had to get back to the hunt for a clone with gray gloves and his best chance of a cure for his terminal illness.

  As the hall cleared, Mirta was left standing alone, arms folded, leaning against the wall. “I wonder if Cal Omas has such an easy time in the Senate,” she said.

  “You can’t rule Mandalorians. You just make sensible suggestions they want to follow.” Fett walked outside and swung his leg over the seat of the speeder that Beviin had lent him, wincing behind his visor. He was close to giving in to daily painkillers. “And since when have Mandalorians needed to be told what makes sense?”

  “Since they got in the habit of ba’slan shev’la when situations didn’t look winnable.”

  Fett remembered that phrase. Beviin had used it a lot in the Yuuzhan Vong war. It translated as “strategic disappearance”—scattering and going to ground in uncertain times. It was hard to wipe out a people that fragmented like mercury droplets and waited for the right time to coalesce again. It wasn’t retreat. It was lying in wait.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got some leads to follow up on the clone.”

  Mirta scrambled onto the pillion seat. Her armor clanked against his. She had the full set now, even a jet pack, courtesy of Beviin. “Has it ever taken you this long to track somebody? It’s been months.”

  Don’t push it. “I make it about sixty-five days.”

  “You believe he exists, then.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me again, and you wouldn’t make up the name Skirata.”

  “No. You want me to come with you?”

  “You think I need a nurse?”

  “I said I wouldn’t lie to you again.”

  Fett almost wished he hadn’t told her. He really should have tol
d Beviin first. That was a man he could trust. As the speeder swooped over Keldabe and out into the countryside beyond, the scale of the Yuuzhan Vong’s retribution became all too clear again. The course of the winding Kelita River was visible for kilometers now because most of the woodland surrounding it had been flattened. Keldabe stood on a bend in the river, a defiant flat-topped hill glittering with granite, and MandalMotors’s hundred-meter tower had somehow survived the war despite the damage it had sustained. The shattered stone and scorch marks were still there as a reminder that Mandalore could be battered, bruised, and temporarily subdued, but never completely conquered.

  The small settlements of tree-homes in the branches of the slow-growing, ancient veshok forest had been wiped off the face of the map. Beneath the speeder there were no longer patches of crops in clearings. There was blackened soil and charcoal stumps of trees, and still nothing grew, not even the seedlings that usually emerged after fires.

  “Scum,” Fett cursed. He banked the speeder sharply and heard Mirta hold her breath. “They didn’t even try to plant their Vong weeds here. They just poisoned the soil.”

  It was a high price to pay for double-crossing the invaders. But the alternative would have been much, much worse.

  “No help from the New Republic or the GA?” Mirta said. “No reconstruction funding like everyone else?”

  “We didn’t expect anything. And we didn’t get it.”

  Fett gunned the speeder’s drives and headed out over the countryside, mindful of the fact that he’d have taken on the Yuuzhan Vong even if they’d been the New Republic’s best buddies. The Beviin-Vasur farm appeared in the distance almost on cue as a kind of reassurance that the devastation wasn’t global.

  And there was Slave I, sitting on a makeshift landing pad. That was home. His ship, his father’s ship, the cockpit where he had spent literally years of his life.

  “So am I coming with you or not?”

  Mirta was more trouble left to her own devices. Besides, he didn’t want to let that heart-of-fire necklace stray too far. It was the one link he had to finding out how Sintas had died.