“What’s that?”
“The warrior trial. When you become an adult at thirteen.”
“Does six decades of war and bounty hunting qualify me?”
“You’re dar’manda without your culture. You don’t have a soul.”
She was probably right. “Let’s go find your clone. And recover my father.”
“What about my mama’s ship?”
“I’ll get Beviin to collect it. You’d be amazed what that man can find.”
“Even that clone.”
“Yeah. Maybe even that clone.”
Fett eased into the cockpit of Slave I and set course for Geonosis for the first time since he was thirteen. Mirta, subdued, waited for his gesture to sit up front. He’d teach her to pilot if his time held out.
The galaxy would say that the Mandalorians had finally given up. Staying out of a galactic war was unthinkable; Mando’ade had always fought. Well, there was such a thing as a strategic withdrawal, and this was one. It was time for Mandalore to put its own house in order, and if he could grab that time and defeat his illness, he’d do it. If he didn’t … then maybe this Kad’ika would do it instead.
Either way, Boba Fett was going to let the Jedi and Han Solo fight their little war without his intervention this time. Because he had more pressing business.
Because Jacen Solo was becoming a pale imitation of his grandfather, Lord Vader, and would take on more than he had ever bargained for.
And because Fett had a granddaughter now. Family-and Mandalore-came first.
Good night, Dad. We’re going home.