The kitchen was full of good comforting smells, and the general noise level was high. That was what a clan home should have been like: the bustle of existence. Skirata summoned everyone to the table, and they ate. Ruu picked at her breakfast, looking as if she was studying him whenever he wasn’t looking. He felt he’d picked up where he left off with her, and in the worst way—leaving her to fend for herself while he got on with more important business. Eventually, he got up and moved next to her, putting one arm around her shoulders.
“You okay, ad’ika?”
“Just taking stock, Dad.”
“I’m sorry.” Skirata didn’t specify what he was apologizing for. She had a long list to pick from. “I’m neglecting you all over again.”
Ruu shook her head. “You’re into some dangerous stuff, Dad. And things must be pretty bad for you at the moment. It’s okay.”
It wasn’t. The last thing he wanted now was sympathy from her. If she’d raged at him, he’d have felt better.
“What are you going to do with Arla?” Besany asked. “Poor woman’s been stuck in her room for days now. It’s no improvement on the Valorum Center.”
“I’m going to visit Concord Dawn, and see if there’s any distant relatives around. I don’t expect them to look after her, but it might help her get her cogs back in gear.” Skirata thought about it; he had use of a fortune, maybe more than Fett ever amassed. Some of it would be well spent on Arla. Even if she didn’t ever get better, she’d at least have some comfort. “I don’t imagine Boba’s going to want to see his long-lost aunt, if we ever find him.”
“Are you looking for him?”
“Not really.”
There was no hurry this morning. It was a bitter winter, so even if the farm had been up and running, there’d have been no work to do. It was another project on the list. In the meantime they could afford to sit and plan while they waited for Uthan to come up with some results.
A’den came in and helped himself to a bowl of boiled grain. He liked his meals to have the sticking power of gasket compound. “The Empire’s looking for mercs and bounty hunters,” he said. “I’ve been down to Enceri, and there’s a lot of talk about opportunities.”
“You thinking about it?”
“I’d have to be very bored,” A’den said. “And I’m not, not yet. But I’m worried about some other business heading our way. I hear the Empire’s offered a lot of creds to lease land for a garrison here, so they’ve got a base for operations in the quadrant.”
Ordo just looked. He had eloquent eyebrows.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Besany said.
“It’s a lot of creds, and there’s a lot of folk here who don’t have our assets and liquidity,” A’den said. “Can’t blame ’em.”
Skirata didn’t need the Empire in his backyard, even if the base was a long way south nearer Keldabe. The planet wasn’t big enough as far as he was concerned.
“So who are they putting the offer to, in the absence of a Mand’alor?” Laseema asked. She was a bright girl. She was getting more confident every day, and becoming a shrewd businesswoman. There’d been very few Twi’lek Mandalorians, so she was going to have to be discreet about her location and circumstances whenever she ventured into town. She’d be noticeable; there was no anonymity under a helmet for a being with head-tails. “Does it even count as foreign policy?”
“Chances are it’s a simple lease deal with the guy who owns the land, wherever that is.”
“Sounds crazy to me,” Laseema said.
“Sounds dangerous,” said Ordo. “And that’s a good reason to anoint a Mandalore soon.”
“Sounds messy,” Fi said. “Does it involve ointment?”
It was messy, in the other sense. Skirata didn’t want to be conspicuous, and he didn’t want to get involved in the politics of Mandalore as long as he was trying to run an escape network for clone deserters. But he needed to get things straight.
Maybe it was time he saw Fenn Shysa. If there was anyone capable of steering the clans away from short-term thinking and long-term disaster, it was him.
And that wasn’t saying much.
Skirata sat Kad on his knee and helped him tackle a small plate of shirred eggs. He was at the age when little clones had played games designed solely to improve their coordination, visuospatial ability, and reasoning skills. Skirata tried to put that out of his mind now.
“Lots of protein makes you big and strong, Kad’ika,” he said. “Like your daddy. He’ll come home one day, and he’ll be so proud of you, won’t he? And then all the Mando’ade will stay at home, and never have empires, and never fight aruetiise’s wars for them. So they’ll have to find some other silly people to do the dying, won’t they?”
Kad looked into his grandfather’s face with grave, serious eyes. He didn’t smile at everyone like he used to. Jusik said he sensed that his mother was gone, and probably had an awareness of death that ordinary children of that age didn’t. Skirata liked to think that Etain’s Force certainty that Kad would change many lives was actually true, and that he might grow up into someone who could put Mandalore on its feet again.
“You’re politicizing him young,” Ordo said. “What if he wants to be a waster, hunt a few bounties, and drink ne’tra gal to excess?”
“He’s the son of a Jedi and an elite commando,” Skirata said. “He’ll choose his path without career advice from me.”
“I’ll take some, then,” said Ruu. “Got time?”
Skirata took the hint. “Of course I have, sweetheart.”
After breakfast, he walked her around the lake to the north of the bastion and showed her the memorial site. It felt like amnesia. It was as if he’d simply forgotten all the years between but somehow knew exactly who she was, everything that mattered. She wasn’t a stranger at all; there was simply a lot to find out about her. A sheet of ice spread from the shoreline toward the center of the lake like a pier. Vhe’viine—small rodents that robbed the grain fields in packs—popped up from their burrows to watch warily, almost invisible in their white winter coats.
“Where do you want me to start?” Skirata said. “My side of the story? Yours?”
“No, let’s hit the reset button.” Ruu puffed clouds of vapor into the icy air. “What’s the phrase? Cin vhetin. We begin again.”
Life needed a reset button. It would have solved a lot of problems. Skirata suspected he’d make the same mistakes again anyway, and settled for putting right the ones he’d already made instead.
“Tell me what your life’s been like, ad’ika,” he said, linking his arm through hers. “I want to hear it all.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Oyu’baat tapcaf, Keldabe,
next day, 1,096 days ABG
So Palpatine has a new army. I have no doubt he’ll find our cloning operations a threat one day very soon, and seek to destroy our capabilities. But he’s a fool if he believes we handed over all the combat-trained Fett clones to him.
—Lama Su, Kaminoan prime minister, on discovering Palpatine’s new Imperial Army
“Boba’s out there somewhere,” Shysa said. He had a habit of putting his boots up on the nearest chair, which was poor etiquette even in a bantha’s backside of a joint like the Oyu’baat. “He might be his father’s son, or the poor wee lad might be so shook up that he’s lost his guts, but if he’s a true Fett—Mandalore needs him.”
“Maybe so.” Skirata wished he hadn’t come to Keldabe now, because Shysa was a very persuasive man, and part of Skirata—the part that didn’t want to shut himself away from the aruetyc world, the part that wanted to keep tabs on it so he knew how to kill it when it next threatened all he held dear—needed to stay on top of events. He found himself mired in a discussion. “But Boba’s not here, and he’s barely come of age anyway, so what are we going to do for a bit of direction while we wait for the savior to show and lead us to glory?”
“Ah, you’re mocking me now, so you are.”
“Yeah, mayb
e I am.” Skirata indicated an empty mug. “I get less mocking with a few mugs of ne’tra gal inside me. I’m told I get sentimental and sloppy, in fact.”
Shysa let out a long sigh. “Spar was right. Touting him as the son and heir was a canny public relations exercise, but it’s no substitute for a real Mand’alor.”
“I nominate you, Fenn.”
“I was worried you’d say that.”
“Everyone’s saying it.”
“The clans are reassured to see Palpatine offering paid work now, with no hard feelings, so they’d cheer for a bantha wearin’ a buy’ce these days.”
“Talking of which, why is anyone seriously considering leasing a base to the Empire?”
“They’ve offered a good price.”
“Who did they offer it to? The individual clan, or Mandalore?”
“The clans met, and it’s just a temporary land deal.”
Skirata didn’t hold it against Palpatine for being a Sith. It wasn’t a big deal for Mando’ade; they’d worked for Sith in the past, and they’d fared better with the Sith than they had with the Jedi. No, Skirata didn’t trust Palpatine because he was a politician, and just as the slimeball had wanted to impose the Republic’s nice shiny democracy on the galaxy, he now had a new name for his megalomania, Empire. Only the branding had changed, really.
“Palpatine never did anything temporary in his life, Fenn.” Skirata huddled over his mug of ale. “I know. He’s just spent thirteen years—at least—building a galactic war and two armies purely to get rid of the Jedi. I’m not complaining, but you can’t have failed to notice that he’s occupying the galaxy a system at a time, so what part of the phrase Do not let this man camp in your backyard do we not understand?”
“Which part of We haven’t had a credible army since Galidraan do you not understand?”
“So the only option is to roll over and become an outpost?” Skirata couldn’t believe that the Galidraan losses were still irreplaceable. This was Mandalore: the raw material of fighting men and women was all around them. “Look at the holochart. What are we a convenient base for? I can only think of Roche, and if Palps really likes Verpine kit that much, he can walk in. He doesn’t need a garrison here.”
“You’re a suspicious man, so you are.”
“I’m a man who worked for the Republic’s army for more than ten years. The one that wiped out the Jedi. And I didn’t see that coming.”
“What would Palpatine want here, anyway? It’s not like we’ve got prettier views than Naboo.”
“We’ve got two things here—beroyase bal beskar. Men and metal. Although now that he’s removed the Jedi, he might not need so much Mandalorian iron. But there’s nothing else of value here, except us.”
Shysa was smarter than he liked to let on. The amiable rogue image didn’t fool many. It was probably why he didn’t want to be pushed into being Mand’alor. “Look,” he said. “If we said no to the base, the garrison, whatever you want to call it, then we might get his attention the wrong way, clans would lose creds, and he might well show up with his great big hairy new army anyway, and there’d be sweet naas we could do about it. We’ve got four million people here. He’s probably got armored divisions bigger than that.”
This is not my problem. My problem is to bring home my boys, cure them all, save more clones, look after my own. Nothing else.
Skirata repeated that to himself, because the temptation to grab Shysa by the collar and warn him that things would go to osik almost got the better of him. He needed to operate covertly; he couldn’t do that if he got involved with clan politics.
“See, if we can’t say no, and if we can’t raise the kind of conventional army that can show unwelcome visitors the door,” Shysa said, “then our only option is to be ready to do the kind of sneaky fightin’ that your good selves are so fine at.”
Selves? “Me and Vau, we’re too old.”
“Ah, sure, you’re the cutest age for training young soldiers.”
“I came here to talk you into being Mand’alor and putting some common sense back into how we do things. Don’t sidestep the issue.”
“I don’t want power.”
“You’d be Mand’alor. Power’s not the word. Focus. Direction, maybe. Despite the scruffy hair, Fenn, you’ve got focus, and you’re young enough, too. Yeah, get your hair cut, your scruffy shabuir, and we’ll make a Mand’alor of you yet.”
“Ah, I love me hair, me crownin’ glory…” Shysa still had a reassuringly dull sense of responsibility under that smooth-talking ladies’-man patter. “Okay, if the garrison looks like it might turn ugly, I’ll step up and keep the seat warm until Boba shows up.”
Shysa was making an awfully big assumption about Boba’s willingness to take over where his dad left off.
“Fett’s got an older sister, you know. Arla.”
“No, Vizsla killed them all.”
“Not all.”
“Now you tell me. Are you having me on, Kal?”
“No, ori’haat. I swear. Jango thought they all died, but the girl survived somehow—at least, what was left of her when Vizsla’s latrine dregs were done using her. She showed up on Triple Zero some years ago.”
“If Vizsla wasn’t dead, I’d be wanting to kill him again a few times myself.” Shysa shook his head. “How did she get from Concord to Corrie? Why didn’t Jango know?”
“She wasn’t in any state to make contact with him. We don’t know what happened to her between the time the Fetts were killed and when she… well, I brought her nearer home, anyway. She’s had a bad time.”
“Here? Oh, that’s fine news.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“High time we had a female Mand’alor again. The ladies know how to keep us fellas in line.” Shysa wasn’t joking; he seemed to clutch at the idea of a real live adult Fett. It smacked of hereditary royalty, and that was very un-Mandalorian. “We could give her plenty of support. She’d be a fighting girl, no mistake.”
“She’s not Mandalorian, Fen’ika. Only Jango joined us.”
“She could become Mandalorian.”
“Yeah. She could. But she sits rocking herself in a corner for most of the day, and she’s never quite sure where she is even when her meds wear off, so I don’t think she’s the woman for the job, do you?”
“Ah.” Shysa closed his eyes for a moment at the brutal slap-down. But the man had to be told. “So why’d you bring the poor lass back?”
“Because she was rotting in a lunatic asylum, and I can’t walk away from a locked door when someone’s inside being treated worse than an animal.”
Skirata surprised himself. He heard his voice as a stranger might, and felt like a hypocrite. You’re such a great guy that you let Etain fend for herself, and she’s dead because of you. Shysa grabbed his shoulder and squeezed it so hard that it hurt.
“You’re a good decent buir, Kal, so you are.”
“Maybe I just like thieving so much that I steal people, too.”
Shysa screwed up his eyes for a moment, caught out by memory. “I’m sorry, Kal. I shouldn’t be leaning on you at a time like this. I’m sorry about your wee girl. Terrible, it is.”
Mandalorians didn’t distinguish between daughters and daughters-in-law, or even between daughters and sons. All were ad’ike. If Shysa had any inkling that Etain had been a Jedi, he didn’t let on. Skirata fought an urge to tell him because he was so proud of her—so proud, too late—but any surviving Jedi were on a death list now, and the son of a Jedi wouldn’t get the benefit of the doubt. Kad was doubly at risk.
“We cremated her.” Skirata found he needed to keep saying that to convince himself she was dead. He still expected her to walk through the doors at any moment. “She was from…” He didn’t know. For the first time, Skirata realized he had no idea on which world Etain had been born. It was sudden and terrible; he would never know. “Shab, I don’t know. She married one of my boys.”
“Ah, the baby’s a soldier’s son… I�
�ll bet he won’t be the only one. Big strong healthy lads.”
Skirata hoped so, too. He gave Shysa a friendly shove, anxious now to leave the Oyu’baat and shut himself away with his family to do some healing. “I’ve got diapers to change. You go be a leader, Fenn Shysa. You’ll be a great one. I know it.”
Skirata got up to go. The barkeep jerked his thumb at a holo-display on the back wall. It was the current bounty-hunting list, images and details of miscreants and other unfortunates with a price on their heads and therefore of interest to whichever of the Oyu’baat’s patrons were looking for work.
“You’re a popular man,” said the barkeep, indicating a frame that said SKIRATA, K, PREFERABLY ALIVE. There was no image, and he didn’t check the size of the bounty in case it was insultingly low. “The Emperor obviously took a real shine to you.”
No Mando would come after him, Skirata knew. It wasn’t the done thing. But there was an image of Jilka, and nobody here knew she was off-limits yet. They’d have to be careful.
“I’ll send him a holocard,” Skirata said.
Skirata’s pace picked up as he walked toward the speeder, and he broke into a run for the last few meters. His ankle was fine, like it had never been shattered at all. Now it was his chest, his heart, that hurt. Once the hatch closed and he stared up through the transparisteel canopy at the brilliant turquoise sky, he wept again. Better out than in, but am I ever going to stop? The clan needs me in control. It still took a few minutes for his vision to clear enough to steer.
Dar, if I miss her this bad, what are you going through? You should be here with us, ad’ika, home with your son.
Darman’s comlink was still down. Obrim’s was down, too, and there was no word of Niner. Mereel said they were upgrading the comm kit to be compatible with the vast new Imperial Army, but he’d find a way to contact Dar and Niner even if it meant going back to Coruscant and walking into the barracks.
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