“Okay, I’ll have that second tihaar if you’re still offering,” Skirata said.
Shysa smiled to himself and poured two more glasses before taking a datapad out of his belt pouch and shoving it across the dusty table. Skirata picked it up.
“Business is good, Kal. The Empire wants to spend. It’s just the nature of their shopping list that’s giving me a few concerns, so it is.”
Skirata sipped the tihaar, scrolling through the messages and purchase orders on the ’pad, noting the usual bounty-hunting business and contracts for mercenary units. Nothing surprising there; that was how Mandalorians had put food on their tables for generations. What caught Skirata’s eye was the document addressed to MandalMotors, closely followed by the offer of eight hundred million credits for beskar mining rights in the Tokursh region.
Initially, we require three hundred operational prison ships with beskar enhancements. The contract will be for refurbishment of those vessels mothballed since the last action against the Jedi, as well as construction of new vessels. We also wish to place orders for specialist equipment made from beskar, including manacles, holding cages, security doors …
“So Palps wants beskar,” Skirata said, sliding the ’pad back to Shysa. “But unless he’s up against Force-users, why does he need it? Mundane creatures like us can be kept in check pretty well with heavy-gauge durasteel at a fraction of the price.”
Shysa raised his glass and winked. “It’s a serious case of overkill. And a lot of creds for the privilege.”
A few hundred million. A few weeks’ interest on the Skirata Clone Resettlement Fund. But you don’t need to know that, Fenn, much as I like you. Even if you are my Mand’alor.
“You’re worried. Please tell me you’re worried.”
“Cautious, let’s say.”
“Who’s he afraid of?”
“Maybe just us, on account of us having the beskar and knowing how to use it.”
“We haven’t fought the Sith for millennia. You know the chakaar’s a Sith, don’t you?”
“I’d guessed as much from the word I’m hearing about some big fella with a red lightsaber. Vader.”
“But he’s wiped out … pretty well all the Jedi.” Skirata hoped that Shysa put his pause down to the alcohol. Shysa could have had no idea that Etain had been a Jedi, or that Kyrimorut was now crawling with Force-users. “Some Sith feud?”
“If Palps was having a misunderstanding with other dark side folk, we’d have known about that by now. Maybe he’s buying up beskar to stop anyone else from re-arming against him.”
Apart from mercenaries, Mandalore’s only exports worth a cred were its unique iron, and the secret metal-working skills to make the most of its resistance to lightsabers and Force tactics. Even Skirata wasn’t privy to what went on in the forges, and he prided himself on being able to get hold of any information he liked. He only knew that without Mando artisans, Palps wouldn’t get his creds’ worth for the beskar. That was starting to look more like a liability than a trump card.
“Remember the royal tomb-builders on Belukat? The ones the kings enslaved and shot so they wouldn’t tell anyone how to rob the tombs?”
“I hadn’t missed the similarities, ner vod … ”
“If the whole Jedi Order couldn’t stop Palpatine, there can’t be many Force-using threats left to worry him.”
Shysa held his glass up to the light slanting through the grimy window, squinting with one eye to examine the clarity of the tihaar before inhaling the aroma like a connoisseur.
“Ah, there’s a little list, so there is, Kal.” He sipped appreciatively and shut his eyes for a moment as if the bliss of the flavor had overwhelmed him. Maybe he just realized how big a job he’d taken on. “A few escaped Jedi … his own dark side minions, if they get out of line … all the little sects that went underground to avoid the Jedi … and the unlucky individuals who just happen to get born Force-sensitive. Oh, and folks in places like Haruun Kal, where everyone’s got the talent. I wouldn’t be buying any real estate there if I were you, not unless you like your front yard all charred and glassy.”
“Suddenly you’re the expert on midi-chlorians.”
Shysa paused. “There’s an interesting word.”
“There’s no point trying to wipe out Force sensitivity.” Skirata tried to brazen it out, worried that he’d now revealed he knew a little too much about Force-users. “Where do you think Jedi come from? They don’t have families—for the most part. Force stuff just shows up. He knows that.”
“The point isn’t whether it’s true, but whether he believes it is.”
“Maybe he wants to stamp out the training. If a sensitive isn’t trained, then they can’t do all the clever stuff like telekinesis and mind-bending.”
“You know quite a bit about this midi-chlorian business, yourself, then, Kal.”
Skirata felt his scalp tighten. He’d played this game of verbal sabacc with too many beings over the years, and it made him assume the worst rather than anything at face value. He was usually right. When he was wrong—well, it was safer than the alternative, and he was prepared to lose a few friends rather than risk something far worse.
“I’ve worked with enough Jedi over the last few years,” Skirata said carefully. For a second or two, he felt regret for General Zey, who’d had the makings of a decent human being if only he could have been cured of that Jedi osik. “You pick it up as you go along.”
“Ah, that’d be right. So you would.”
Shysa went quiet and poured a third tihaar for himself. He tilted the bottle at Skirata in a mute offer of a top-up, but Skirata shook his head. If he wanted to get completely haryc b’aalyc—tired and emotional, as Mando’ade called it—then he’d wait until he got home. He really needed his wits about him now.
The silence was seductive. It was all too easy to fall into it and fill the gap by volunteering information. But Skirata had played that game before, too. He could sit it out in silence.
What kind of Mando am I? A Mando with a Force-sensitive grandson, and an ex-Jedi who’s as dear to me as my own sons, that’s what. And a Mando who isn’t going to drop his boys into another war they didn’t volunteer for.
Shysa let the silence go on for a while, then tipped his chair back on two legs to put his boots up on a nearby stool. It was always a matter who could sit and wait the longest.
“See, Kal, I recall meeting an unusual young fella in the Oyu’baat not so long ago,” he said at last. “One of the Jedi generals who loved our stylish beskar’gam so much that he left the Jedi Order for a beroya’s way of life. Ah, there’s dedication to fashion.” He tapped his datapad and held it for Skirata to see. The screen showed an Imperial bounty list with a grainy security-cam image of a very young, bearded, long-haired Jusik in his Jedi robes. “This dashing wee warrior.”
So that was what Shysa really wanted to talk about. Skirata couldn’t deny it. The wanted list had been widely circulated among the bounty-hunting community so Jusik was hardly a secret. But Jusik had an altercation with Sull right under Shysa’s nose. It was hard to dismiss.
“Yeah, that’s General Jusik,” Skirata said. The glow of the tihaar vanished from his gut and ice took its place. “He objected to using clones and told the Jedi Order where to shove its conscience.”
“Now, if he were on your comlink speed dial, for the sake of argument, you’d let me know, would you not, Kal?”
“No.” Skirata stayed genial, but he couldn’t lie now. He could only stall. “I would not.”
Shysa paused, but the faint smile never left his face. “We don’t get too many Mando Force-sensitives, which is a bit unlucky, given how many worlds our fine population’s drawn from. Imagine how handy it’d be to have some Mando’ade who could use the Force.”
“Imagine,” Skirata said. “But one Force-user in armor isn’t going to help us much against Palpatine. The whole Jedi Order couldn’t stop him.”
“I was thinking longer term. Maybe young Genera
l Jusik will have plenty of kids who take after him.”
“No.”
“I didn’t ask a question, Kal.”
Shysa knew. He knew. Well, it didn’t take a clairvoyant to work out the association, just a friendly chat with the staff in the Oyu’baat. Skirata stood his ground. “If anyone knew how to breed for Force sensitivity, they would have done it by now,” he said. “We’ve survived well enough against Force-users for five thousand years without it. It’s not a deficiency. It’s what we are.”
“Fine sentiments, but they won’t be much comfort when the Empire decides we’re a problem. And they will.”
“We’d be better off relying on Verpine tech and a bit of honest sweat than on genetics. Makes us no better than aruetiise—than Jedi, with their genetic superiority. No thanks.”
Shysa wore his patient look now, a slight but well-meaning frown. “I hate to spoil that fine illusion, Kal, but take a look around you at the Mando’ade. A mixed bunch, and no mistake, but don’t you think we’ve self-selected and bred a hardy, stubborn type? What’s the difference?”
“That’s not the same as trying to produce Force-users,” Skirata said, trying very hard not to lose his temper. He was angry with himself, not Shysa. He knew he’d already lost the argument. “We’ve bred an attitude, Fenn—self-reliance, tenacity, guts. That’s not in the genes.” He tapped his temple. “It’s available to anyone who is willing to work for it. It’s up here.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Palps that when he rolls in with a whole fleet of warships. We’ll just think hard and see him off.”
Skirata waited for the inevitable question, and knew that if Shysa asked it then it would be the last time he spoke to the man. That scared him. It told him that he put his own wishes above his people. This wasn’t how Munin Skirata had raised him. Communal responsibility. That was the watchword. A Mandalorian who thought only of himself wasn’t a Mando’ad at all.
But I look out for my clan. Clans build the people. Can’t have one without the other.
“Kal, I’m just asking you for Manda’yaim,” Shysa said. “If you ever run into this Jusik, and he still thinks of himself as one of us, then he’s got skills we’ll need in years to come.”
Skirata felt his world shrink. His focus shifted so that the rest of the shabby hut was a blur but Shysa was so sharply vivid that Skirata could see every pore and hair.
We could sit out this trouble. Go anywhere. Jusik’s earned some peace, every bit as much as my boys. But if I mention this to him—he’ll think it’s his duty.
“I can’t help you, Mand’alor,” Skirata said.
“Ah well, I was just asking, just in case you ever saw him.” Shysa shrugged. “Anyway … if any of your fine clone boys are minded to do a little bit of observation, seeing as they can pass for stormies easy enough, then I’d be grateful.”
Skirata knew that Shysa couldn’t have guessed just how much espionage the clones could do. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. But he still couldn’t bring himself to commit them to Shysa’s fledgling resistance. Everyone thought the ends of their own cause justified its means. But that was where Skirata had to draw the line, even when he didn’t want to. If he made that choice for the clones, he was no better than a Jedi general. He wasn’t even sure that he could face asking them. They’d say yes, just like Jusik; he knew it. They’d do anything for him.
“It’ll be their decision,” Skirata said. “If I’ve struggled to give those ad’ike anything, Fenn, it’s a choice.”
Shysa looked at him for a long time, not a trace of frustration or disappointment on his face, and then pushed the bottle toward him.
“I appreciate your time, Kal,” he said. “Keep the tihaar.”
It was a clear glass bottle. No tracking device could have been hidden in it, but Skirata was too wary to accept it.
“Save it for next time,” he said, knowing there might never be one. “I’ll keep you supplied with intelligence. Just accept that I’m dealing with things you’re better off not knowing about for the time being.”
A terrible feeling of finality almost overwhelmed him. He was tempted to offer Shysa some concession out of sheer guilt that he hadn’t leapt to offer everything he had to protect Mandalore against the Empire.
How can I fail the Mand’alor at a time like this? What would my father think of me?
Skirata had vast resources at his disposal now, from wealth to bioweapons to … Jedi blood, whatever use that would actually be. The resol’nare, the six tenets of Mandalorian identity, said he was obliged to look after his kids, his clan, and his culture, and to rally to the Mand’alor in times of need.
Shysa smiled. “I trust you, Kal.”
It was one hell of a knife to twist in Skirata’s gut. He clasped Shysa’s forearm in farewell, the traditional Mando grip with the hand just below the elbow, and left.
The speeder was parked nearby. The hatch popped as he got closer, and he could see Ordo sitting in the pilot’s seat, arms folded.
Ordo raised one eyebrow a fraction. “What’s wrong, Kal’buir?”
“Let’s get out of here and I’ll tell you. Nobody’s been near you, have they? Nowhere near the ship?”
“If you’re asking if anyone’s had the chance to slap a tracking device on us—no, they haven’t. The place is deserted.”
The drives started up, rising from a low rumble to a high-pitched whine before the speeder lifted into the air.
“It’s a bad sign when you don’t trust your own Mand’alor,” Ordo said, confirming Skirata’s guilt.
“What did he want?”
Skirata wrestled with his divided conscience, knowing which part would win but not feeling proud of that.
“Too much,” he said.
5
Controlling a population is an economical business. We have twenty-six Imperial enforcement officers overseeing Oznar, a city of a million beings. Ninety percent of the reports of anti-Imperial activity and crime comes from the good citizens themselves spying on their neighbors and denouncing them. The biggest task we face is sifting that information. Far from having to be coerced, far from struggling under the so-called yoke of Imperial oppression—the average galactic citizen is only too happy to seize the opportunity to settle scores or merely make a show of being loyal. And I guarantee that in years to come, they will deny all knowledge of doing so.
—Armand Isard, Director of Imperial Intelligence
Imperial City
Ennen didn’t accompany Niner to Imperial Security to deliver the datachip. He stayed in the shuttle, hunched in the pilot’s seat.
“I’m waiting here until I get an answer about Bry,” he said, answering the unasked question. He picked up the comm mike from the console. “I want them to treat him right. Ops, I want to speak to the Special Unit duty officer. Now.”
Treating Bry right meant cremation, the traditional funeral for Corellians in exile. Ennen and Bry seemed every bit as Corellian as Omega Squad and the Nulls were Mandalorian. Niner was reminded just how central the Cuy’val Dar training sergeants and the cultures they brought with them had been in shaping the clones they raised.
Niner ushered Darman off the shuttle. “Let’s get this chip off our hands.”
“Who are we delivering it to?” Darman looked back over his shoulder as they walked away from the shuttle. “Don’t we just give it to Cuis?”
Niner consulted his datapad again. It definitely said to deliver the material personally to Imperial Security’s IT division, part of the Anti-Terrorist Unit, and not to deviate. The last thing he saw as he walked away from the landing strip was an Imperial commander, a tall thin guy, jogging toward the vessel. Niner hoped he was the sympathetic type. Ennen wasn’t in a negotiating mood.
Niner took a waiting speeder bike, and they headed for the IS offices. Someone could get some data off that chip, he was sure. If only he could make contact with Jaing—or Mereel. Those two could do just about anything with information technology, most of it ill
egal and dangerous. But he’d lost contact with them. The Imperial comm codes and firewalls had all changed, and as far as he knew the Nulls were safe and well on Mandalore with Fi, Corr, and Atin.
He missed them all. He tried hard not to dwell on that. It left him churning over the whole idea of desertion, which had seemed totally wrong at first, and then started feeling a lot more right as the war reached its final days. He’d psyched himself up to go at last, and then—the moment was snatched away.
He still wanted to go. He hadn’t changed his mind. And neither Jaing nor Mereel would have been much interested in helping the Empire catch renegades even if they’d been around to help.
“They let us out without a spook,” Darman said. “They trust us more than I thought.”
Niner measured every word carefully, still not sure if his helmet comm kit was bugged. It was starting to get to him now. He felt under siege, uneasy, violated. Maybe he was paranoid in the medical sense, though, not just over-careful, and this was how really crazy people felt. He just didn’t know.
He took off his helmet and switched off all the comms. “Replacement for Bry,” he said, changing the subject. “Ennen’s going to have a hard time of it. Let’s help him along best we can, Dar.”
“We’ve got to work with a new guy, too. As long as it’s nobody from Reau’s squads, that’s fine by me.”
“Might get one of the cross-trained meat-cans instead, like Corr.” Changing the dynamics of a four-man squad was never easy. Omega had worked out fine in the end, but losing a brother and absorbing a new one always upset the harmony for a while. “Don’t worry about it.”
We won’t be here long enough, Dar. We’re leaving. Soon.
Darman was having one of his it’s-not-happening days. Niner could see him straining to be the normal Dar again. Most of the time he managed it, but when his attention wandered, the pain was visible in his eyes. His expression didn’t match his tone of voice.
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