“What’s bothering you?”
“The civil unrest it’ll cause.”
“There’s always civil unrest,” Fett said. “The day you start deciding who’s got the moral high ground before you take a bounty, you might as well join the New Republic Army. And they don’t let you pick and choose your battles there, either.”
Beviin buried his annoyance. Fett had a point: yes, he could be over-picky about contracts and he probably drew too many lines about which assassinations and executions were okay and which weren’t. “But this still feels like something beyond punishment for failing to come good for his paymaster.”
“Go on.”
“It’s too strategic. It’s the timing.”
“It’s a hundred thousand creds. When did you last see that kind of money?”
“Okay, let’s go through this.” From the Gladiators cockpit, Beviin noted the nervous glances as passersby took sly glances at the dimly-lit canopy of the fighter and realized not only that it was a Gladiator, but also that it was occupied. When he turned his head they scuttled away, fast. Even in a criminal hot spot like Nar Shaddaa, a cannoned-up assault vessel with a Mando pilot on board was a rare sight ID the parking lot. “He doesn’t just want me to do a bit of leg-breaking or whacking. He wants an opposition politician taken out just before the election. That’s not a reminder that his invoice is overdue for payment.”
“So it’s political. So is dealing with Hutts.”
“No, it’s all very … impersonal.” Beviin, one eye still on the trickle of lowlives gawping at the Gladiator, gave the navigation lights a quick blip and sent the sightseers running. “I’ll exercise … prudence.”
Fett was still rolling the EE-3’s scope in one hand,
clearly distracted. “You need those credits.”
Beviin realized that he must have sounded as if he was asking for help. “Not the best year I’ve had, no.”
“I get more offers than I can handle at my age.” The hologranimc Fett began clamping the optics back to the blaster’s barrel. ” Take a couple off my hands sometime.”
“Mand’alor-“
“Fett out.”
As Beviin walked back to the Jara’s to seal the deal with Udelen, he pondered Fett’s odd blend of scrupulous detachment punctuated by rare acts of what in any other man might have been regarded as pure sentimentality. More offers than he could handle at his age? He was still top of his game. Offereing to put work Beviin’s way had nothing to do with the fact that Fett had a fortune and Beviin was snuggling most years, no sir. Fett had done a few selfless things-and even if he never
admitted
it,
word
got around-because he thought it needed doing.
Because it was right. Fett had his moments. And in the next one he’d blow your head off because it was strictly business.
Beviin reentered the Jara”. Udelen was still there, almost as if he hadn’t moved. Beviin glanced to the tables on the other side of the bar: the mother and daughter in red armor were still there, too.
“Deal,” he said to Udelen.
The man still had a full glass of clear liquid in front of him, and it didn’t appear to have moved, either. He reached inside his jacket-slowly and deliberately - and pulled out a credit chip.
“You’ll know when you’ve completed the task,” he said, “and I’ll know how to get hold of you again to pay the balance. It I like the results, I’ll have plenty of work for you and your comrades.”
Beviin liked the sound of that. He took the chip and slotted it into the dataport on his forearm plate to check that it was valid: fifty thousand creds, enough to transform his family’s life for a while. The pinpoint of blue light verified it.
“Pleasure doing business,” he said.
Udelen bowed his head a fraction, then walked out of the bar with the slow dignity of a funeral hearer. His gait reinforced Beviin’s feeling that this wasn’t just scumbag-on-scumbag violence. There was more to it.
A coup. It had to be a coup. Funny way to go about it, but sometimes the easiest way to grab power was the least direct. Udelen didn’t look like a man who believed in the power of the ballot box. Beviin watched him go, and in a moment of curiosity he pulled off his crushgaunt and dipped a cautious finger into Udelen’s apparently untouched drink. It felt like water. He tasted it.
It was water.
Alcohol and business didn’t mix anyway. Beviin’s business was done, though, so he ordered drinks for the women in red armor and wandered over to their table to put the glasses in front of them. It was just good manners. Some of the patrons lining the bar watched Beviin as if he were trying a pickup line, but they were auretiise, outsiders, and they didn’t understand his obligation.