“That was a good clean thing you did there, sir,” said one trooper, grinning. “My rifle parts feel more efficient already.”
Lekauf gave him a thumbs-up. “Your grandfather would have done the same, sir. Nice move.”
In these barracks, that was an honest compliment and not a warning of the temptations of the dark side. Jacen preferred the judgment of ordinary soldiers to the arcane philosophical debate of the Jedi Council.
It’s all going to change.
No more wars flaring up in each generation.
No more career politicians wringing what they can out of the system.
No more talk of freedom that just means a handful can do as they please while the rest struggle for survival.
No wonder the old guard feared the Sith, if that was what they threatened—the end of chaos that served only the few.
Jacen returned the thumbs-up to Lekauf. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
HM-3 plucked out a datapad. “I’ll keep you apprised of the progress of the amendment, Colonel Solo. Is that all for today?”
“I may consult you again. You make all this easier to understand.”
“That’s my job.”
Jacen just wanted to check. He had the germ of an idea. “Funny thing, laws and regulations, aren’t they? That amendment gives me—and others, of course—the ability to change the amended law itself, doesn’t it? It’s quite circular.”
HM-3 didn’t care about right and wrong: just legal and illegal. If Jacen had designs on manipulating the amendment for uses beyond speeding up the dispatch of medical supplies, then the droid didn’t regard it as part of his remit.
“Yes,” HM-3 said. “It is.”
Jacen tackled the pile of intelligence reports that had stacked up on his desk with renewed enthusiasm. The air was alive with imminence, of things about to happen. The endless thoughts of whom he would have to kill to achieve his sacrifice had gone away for a while, but they’d be back. In the meantime, he had a new tool with which to effect change.
I can change the law that lets me change laws.
If I use that wisely, I can bypass the Senate when I need to.
The power of simple human reason was as effective as the Force some days.
TEKSHAR FALLS CASINO, KUAT CITY, KUAT
“What happened to the clones?” Mirta asked.
Kuat City stank of credits. Fett had never been able to understand how an industrial society whose wealth was built on heavy engineering still had an ancient aristocracy. Funny place. Anachronistic. Ahead of him, the smarter part of Kuat City glittered, elegant towers and spires that seemed a refined echo of the industrial skyline of cranes in the orbital shipyards.
He knew Kuat well. He’d once saved its shipyards from an attempt to destroy them. He hoped the place was going to show him some gratitude.
“Cannon fodder,” he said, answering Mirta at last. He brought the speeder bike to a halt by an arcade of smart shops. “They died.”
“Not the one I saw. He said some left the army.”
“The only way out,” said Fett, “was death or desertion.”
“None of them retired?”
“Depends what you mean by retired. I heard a few ended up in care homes run by well-meaning peace campaigners, though.”
Mirta seemed to be working out what retire meant for men who were trained to kill, who’d been kept apart from regular society, and who had an artificially shortened life span. The slight jut of her chin—a sure sign she was annoyed—communicated itself through the helmet. There was only so much she could hide.
“Did you ever hunt deserters?”
“No.” He’d seen plenty, though. “Didn’t pay enough.”
“Did you care about them, Ba’buir?”
Okay, she finds comfort in playing Mando. But I’ll never get used to that name. “Not really.”
“They were your brothers.”
“No, they weren’t.” He motioned her to get off the speeder. “Blood isn’t everything. You know that’s the Mando way.”
“But I bet you’ll be shooting that clone a different line,” she said. “How else are you going to get him to help you? Beat it out of him? He looks as tough as you are.”
“Maybe I’ll just ask nicely,” said Fett. “Right now I need to walk into the Tekshar and have a chat with Fraig. That might be a little inconvenient for him.”
The Tekshar Falls was one of those feats of architectural near impossibility at which the Kuati excelled. Other establishments in the galaxy had impressive water features, but the Tekshar was a waterfall, a raging, hammering torrent from a river diverted at vast expense into the entertainment center of the city. It provided its own hydroelectric power, which was just as well given the ferocious array of lights that pierced the curtains of water. The casino was set within the waterfall itself, part construction, part natural stone, with turrets jutting through the water like tree fungi. To get to the entrance, gamblers had to walk through water plummeting five hundred meters.
“Pity, I’ve just had my hair done,” Mirta said, solidly encased in armor from head to toe. “Is this how they stop the riffraff from coming in?”
“We are the riffraff,” said Fett. “And we’re going in.”
He paused to hack into the Kuat police database from his HUD system. They wouldn’t mind. He was just contributing to law and order around here. Images of scumbags, petty villains, and serious bad boys—and girls—scrolled down the display inside his helmet. He waited, and shortly FRAIG, L., appeared. For gangland vermin, Fraig looked remarkably respectable: fresh-faced and framed with gold curls that would have made a mother weep. Fett suspected that if Fraig still had a mother, he’d have sold her to a Hutt by now.
“So you’re just going to stroll in,” said Mirta.
“I only want to ask him a question.”
“It’s never that easy, is it?”
“We’ll see.” Fett strode down the tree-lined boulevard that led to the foot of the falls and forked around it. Only the stupidly wealthy had the time to gamble this early. It said a lot for Fraig’s business acumen. “There’s no reason for him to get upset. Just check that your jet pack’s primed.”
“We might be leaving rapidly, then …,” Mirta said, keeping up with him without apparent effort, a reminder that he was slowing down. “Will they make a fuss about letting us in dressed like this?”
“It’s all about making an entrance.” Fett wiped the windborne spray from his visor. “People usually find my dress acceptable. Sooner or later.”
He walked straight across the bridge at the wall of roaring water and churning white foam. The falls parted like a curtain to create a wide portal. Behind, the casino was a vividly lit—and completely dry—haven.
“Very impressive,” said Mirta.
It was a nice trick played by automated force fields triggered by a motion sensor. But it was, as he often thought, all about presentation. A little theater. It always helped.
“Keep up,” he said.
The lobby of the casino was a study in opulence, as if someone had taken a bet on how many credits they could spend on each square meter. It was everything Fett didn’t care for: flocked wall coverings, gilding, mirrors, and low-level lighting, all the trappings of illusion, and hard to clean, too. The lobby parted into two sections, one leading to the restaurant and the other to the gaming tables. Fett consulted his investment portfolio via his HUD. He noted TIRUAL CONSTRUCTION HOLDINGS.
“Let’s not do too much damage,” he said. “I think I have shares in this place.”
There was a steward at the front desk and a few very large assistants—humans, Trandoshans, and Gran—walking in slow, considered circles around the thick purple carpet that dragged at Fett’s boots like tar. He’d never seen a Trandoshan in a formal suit before, and wondered what poor old Bossk would have made of that. It was also unusual to see a Gran in this line of work. It was clear none of them was there to help diners make informed choices from the wine li
st.
The steward was scanning a screen in his desk, probably matching Fett’s image to the database of guests he needed to recognize for one reason or another. Judging by his sudden flinch, he’d found FETT.
“Do you have proof of identity, sir?”
Fett touched his blaster. “This used to do nicely.”
The steward—human, male, utterly ugly—was doing a very good job of not wetting his pants. Fett had to hand it to him. “Ah … haven’t seen you here in a long time, sir.”
“I’ve come to visit someone.” Fett indicated Mirta with a thumb gesture. “With my associate.”
“Will that seeing require repairs afterward?”
Fett flicked a very large-denomination credit chip onto the desk. “Keep the change in case it does. Where’s Fraig?”
Credits talked. Blasters talked, too, but credits could whisper menacingly every bit as well.
“He’s hosting a private sabacc game in his suite on the thirtieth floor, sir.” The steward smiled valiantly and snapped his fingers at the hired help. “I’ll let him know you’re on the way up.”
The nattily attired Trandoshan rushed to his summons, looking like he’d picked the wrong outfit for a costume party.
“Take … the … er … President of Mandalore up to Master Fraig’s suite. All drinks on the house.”
So they didn’t quite grasp what being Mandalore meant. That was okay, because Fett didn’t, either. Mirta stifled laughter, but only Fett heard it. He switched to the helmet comlink with a blink.
“So you do have shares here, Ba’buir,” she said.
“Depending on how many guests Fraig’s got, I might need your help. Try not to kill them unless they ask for it.”
“Yessir, Mister President!”
“I liked you better without a sense of humor.”
He didn’t dislike Mirta. She’d tried to kill him, but that was a couple of months ago, and things had moved on. She worked hard and she wasn’t mired in fluffy trivia like fashion and holovids. She was strong in every sense. Beviin—and Fett listened to Beviin—said she was a real Mando’a, a solid Mandalorian woman, because she could shoot straight, cook passably well, and had the shoulders of an armorsmith. Mando’ade valued the frontier kind of female, not decorative trophies who couldn’t even dig a defensive entrenchment.
She’s just like Sintas. Not as pretty, but she’s so much like her.
He hadn’t known Ailyn long enough to tell if Mirta took after her mother. Sin. I used to call her Sin, and she called me Bo. Did Mirta have a nickname? What had Sintas told Ailyn about him, and what had Ailyn told Mirta, to breed such hatred toward him?
Fett pulled his attention back to the present and followed the Trandoshan, aware of a full 360-degree vista around him, the dulled pain in his guts, and the fact that the closer he got to death, the more he thought about people who hadn’t been on his mind in a long, long time.
The turbolift doors opened onto a floor of the same thick purple carpet as the lobby, with small salons leading off it. Gaming tables rattled, clicked, and flashed with lives ruined and fortunes lost. Even through his helmet’s filter, he could smell the cloying amalgam of a hundred different perfumes distilled from plants facing extinction and parts of animals he didn’t even want to think about.
The Trandoshan led them along a corridor to an imposing set of gilded doors, then beat a lumbering retreat. The doors parted and Fett found himself visor-to-nose with a Hamadryas who didn’t seem to know how to blink. Behind him, a group of six splendidly dressed gamblers—three human males, two females, and a Weequay—sat around a gilt-framed sabacc table with Fraig. There were two more heavies standing by the kitchen doors, probably on drinks patrol.
“Master Fett,” said Fraig, not looking up from the table. “How good to meet you.”
Fraig had a great hand. Fett could see it embedded in the table’s display as he loomed over him. It was a pity to interrupt. His guests were trying to concentrate on the sabacc game, but it was hard to give the cards full attention when there were two bounty hunters paying an unexpected visit. They all found reasons to go to the kitchen to top up their drinks while the Hamadryas watched silently, one hand now on his holster.
“Got a few questions for you,” Fett said. “About your predecessor.”
“Depends on what you want to know.” Fraig was as well spoken as his hair was coiffed. His gangster dad must have sent him to a very exclusive school. But he hadn’t been tutored in the subtle art of putting his hand under the table to check his hold-out blaster discreetly. Fett hoped he didn’t have to shoot the man before he got some answers. “I do hope you haven’t been sent by Cherit’s associates to express their displeasure.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Fett said. “If I did that, then you wouldn’t be able to tell me things. And I want you to tell me things. I’m a curious man.”
The Hamadryas on the door already had his blaster visible on his belt, but Mirta had him covered. Fett could see from their HUD comlink connection that she was watching him, the helmet sensors responding to her eye movements.
Fraig shrugged. “What exactly do you want me to tell you?”
“The Mandalorian who killed Cherit. I need to find him.”
Fraig had the kind of smile that spread like a crack in ice. “I’ve been asked some subtle questions, but that’s a good one. I assure you I didn’t order Cherit’s death.”
“I don’t care if you sent a wreath and took care of his widow. Do you know where I can find the man who killed him?”
“Shall we step outside onto the balcony?” Fraig gestured and picked up his drink. “It’s a sensitive matter to discuss in front of my guests.”
“Suit yourself,” said Fett, and decided instantly where he was prepared to be maneuvered. Step outside. Right. Mirta stood guard at the open doors, but the Hamadryas bodyguard tried to move her out of the way. He made the mistake of putting his hand on her back, and a little too low at that. She simply raised her clenched fist to shoulder height and ejected her gauntlet vibroblade.
“Touch me again, chakaar, and I’ll ram this into your carotid artery.”
“I haven’t got one.”
“Then I’ll have to keep stabbing you until I find somewhere else that bleeds copiously.”
Fraig intervened. “Serku, let’s not upset the lady, shall we? Let her wait wherever she wishes.”
Fraig was making a lot of mistakes tonight for a crime boss. It was just as well Fett always assumed the worst. Fraig might have thought that a balcony reduced Fett’s options, but it didn’t represent much of a problem for a man with a jet pack. Fraig didn’t have one. He also lacked a fibercord line.
This wouldn’t take long.
Amateurs.
Fett had to fight an urge to explain to Fraig how to do it right. Out on the balcony, Kuat City’s lights shimmered through a veil of rushing water in the dusk. An overhang diverted the water a couple of meters from the face of the building.
Fett leaned one hand on the rail, feigning casual disinterest but actually testing the strength of the metal. He cast an eye over Fraig to estimate his weight. “Let me repeat that simple question. Tell me anything you know about the Mandalorian who whacked your predecessor.”
“I had nothing to do with it. Cherit upset a lot of folks. Occupational hazard.”
“Question still stands. I’ll bet your organization was keen to find out, too.”
“We didn’t know who he was. All we knew was that he had a grudge against a certain Twi’lek clan. We do business with Twi’leks in the entertainment industry.”
“I’ll bet.” Fraig meant Twi’lek girls. “What kind of grudge?”
“He didn’t think we were treating them properly. We lost a couple of very popular entertainers thanks to him.”
Fraig was lying scum. And the clone in Mandalorian armor was settling a score for some Twi’leks, but he wasn’t a bounty hunter. Another link, then: personal, not professional.
Time
. He didn’t have time for this.
“Seen him since?”
“No.”
“Want to tell me who the Twi’leks were?”
“Why do you want this man so badly? It has to be something big for you to be hunting him.” Fraig examined his manicured nails. “Or perhaps some of my associates regret Cherit’s passing, so they’ve hired you to come after me.”
“Not for hire right now.” Fett could never understand why they didn’t listen. They never heard what he said. He played it straight, and they always looked for a second meaning. “I want the Mando in one piece. I need him to do something for me.”
Fraig had missed his chance. Fett switched to the helmet comlink and got Mirta’s attention, which was fixed on him—and the Hamadryas—anyway. “I’m just going to help our friend remember a few things.”
Useful stuff, fibercord.
Fett shot out the line in a loop from his backpack and whipped it around Fraig, jammed the grappling hook between the bars, and shoved him over the railing. It took two seconds. Fraig screamed, clinging to the top rail, but a good hard whack on the knuckles with the butt of the blaster made the scumbag let go. Fraig plummeted and Fett braced for the inevitable thump into the rail when the rope ran out. It nearly winded him. Fraig bounced and twisted in the line’s strangling grip, still shrieking. Fett kept a few meters of line secured in reserve in the winch assembly.
Mirta was taking good care of the Hamadryas. She’d half closed the transparisteel doors on him, but the bodyguard wedged his body in the gap and tried to get a blaster shot through the opening. His arm was trapped. Fett watched, impressed, as Mirta head-butted the guard a second time, shoved the vibroblade into his thigh, and forced him—shrieking in pain, nice touch—back through the doors so that they crashed shut. Then she fired a few rounds into the controls.
“Make it quick, Ba’buir.” She flexed her shoulders as if easing torn neck muscles. “The doors might be blaster-proof, but they’ll get them open sooner or later.”
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