The soldier took off his Mandalorian helmet and gave Fett a stiffly formal nod. A baby’s handprint in charcoal paint adorned the helmet of his gray-blue armor, a curious foil for the Verpine rifle slung over his left shoulder.
“This is Ram,” said Beviin. “Ram Zerimar. He’s our star sniper. For those delicate jobs.”
Zerimar nodded politely. Fett wanted to ask about the handprint but didn’t.
Mirta gave Fett one of her subtly admonishing looks. He was attuned to them now. “And he says he wants to buy you a drink,” she said.
“Later.” Fett returned Zerimar’s nod. Not even my own men see me without the helmet. “Let’s talk first.”
There was nothing like half a dozen fully armored Mandalorian warriors to guarantee you a table to yourself in a crowded bar. Beviin introduced them: Zerimar, Briike, Orade, Vevut-and Talgal, the only woman, and one who looked as if she ate Yuuzhan Vong for appetizers. Apart from Beviin, none had fought with him against the Vong and he didn’t know them. He studied their faces while they looked suspiciously at Mirta.
“Bounty hunter,” said Fett. “Mirta Gev. Mandalorian father.”
They thawed instantly. Fett watched their shoulders relax. They all muttered “su’cuy gar” like a chorus. It was a pretty logical greeting for warriors, apparently: “So you’re still alive.” Warriors didn’t expect much from life and they frequently didn’t get it.
“So how do you feel about defending Centerpoint Station?” Fett asked.
There was a disinterested silence. He watched them chew it over for five seconds, and he suspected they’d have spat it out like rotting meat if he hadn’t been Mand’alor.
Orade-buzz-cut blond hair, broken nose, a brush of gold beard on the point of his chin-folded his arms on the table and made a fresh scrape in the polished surface. “What do you think?”
“I think Sal-Solo is a self-serving sadistic liar, but then most of my customers are. He’s also going to lose, and losers can’t pay.” Actually, I can’t be bothered. I’ve got bigger things on my plate. “But I’ll hear him out. How do you feel about it?”
“Unenthusiastic,” said Vevut. Another stranger: he had long, black, woolly braids bound with gold rings, and the dark skin of his left cheek was scored by an impressive scar. He drained his ale and clicked his fingers at a nearby droid. “Maybe we wait and see before we commit ourselves.”
“If you really thought it was worth it, you’d get the whole one hundred behind you, Mand’alor,” said Beviin. “But I’m with Vevut. Wait and see. Things have changed since the Vong invasion.”
Vevut turned in his seat, armor creaking, to look meaningfully at the service droid. It lurched toward him. “Yeah, we’re not so desperate for work. Farms keep us busy enough.”
“Sir!” said a droid’s voice. “Sorry to keep you.”
“About time. I’d like another ale.”
The droid pirouetted, reflections of the bar’s garish lighting bouncing off its polished dome, and tilted as if bowing.
“I am Forre Musa, an artist droid, dedicated to your entertainment,” said the droid.
“I’d rather have another ale,” said Vevut, voice low. Mirta’s eyes kept darting toward the doors. Fett’s peripheral vision never lost sight of her hands. “But what kind of entertainment?”
“Oh, it’s of the highest intellectual quality, sir,” Forre Musa said. “I can read you important works of political allegory, comments on current affairs with a unique perspective, great literature—all my own work, of course-and sagas. What’s it to be?”
“We’d rather hear some jokes,” said Mirta.
“I don’t do jokes. I am a serious artist.”
Mirta raised her blaster. “Shame,” she said, and fried his speech circuit with one clean, point-blank shot. “We could do with a laugh.”
The bar hung on one silent second as the fizz of shorting circuitry cut through the buzz of conversation. Then everyone went on drinking. Vevut and the others roared with laughter. Mirta appeared to have passed their test of destructive humor.
Even the Dabi bartender seemed pleased. He rearranged the glasses and polished one thoughtfully while his other pair of arms rummaged in a drawer and pulled out an insurance claim flimsi.
“I’m glad you did that,” he said, scribbling happily on the form while also working up a good shine on the glass. “He was killing trade here. The droid company wouldn’t give me a refund.”
“Glad to help the local economy,” said Mirta.