“There’s a slower and less painful way of getting this where it needs to go,” said the woman, flicking the syringe with her finger to clear air bubbles. “But there’s no point messing around given the state you’re in, Mand’alor. Direct into your bone marrow. Two shots to go.”
“Just do it.” He took his hands off his chest and parted his shirt. Mirta was surprised how bony he was: he looked such a fit, strong man in full armor. She never wanted anyone else to see him like this. “Is this the best Mandalore can offer me? A veterinarian who spends her working day with her arm up a”
“Believe me, I prefer treating nerfs. Keep still. Or I’ll miss and puncture a lung. Or worse.”
“How long is this going to take?”
“Mand’alor, do you know what the alternative site to the sternum is for this treatment?”
“Amaze me.”
“The pelvic bones.”
Fett’s expression was predictably blank, and he didn’t say another word. He looked away, and anyone else would have thought it was casual annoyance at having his schedule interrupted, but Mirta knew him well enough by now to see he was in excruciating pain. She took the risk of stepping forward and folding her hand around his. He took it, too. She thought he’d break every bone in her fingers when the vet lined up the needleso big that Mirta could see the hole in the tipand pressed it hard into his breastbone, as if she were preparing a nuna for roasting.
There was an awful squelch. Orade swallowed loudly.
“If you’re going to faint or throw up, son, go do it outside,” the vet said irritably. “Failing that, find some analgesics. Where do you keep them?”
“Forget it,” Fett said. “I need to know if you’re doing me any damage.”
“It’s okay, Ba’buir,’” Mirta whispered. “You’ll be okay.”
“If the Sarlacc didn’t finish me off, she won’t, either.”
The vet, all smiling menace, inserted the syringe in a glass vial to refill. “Last one. Shut your eyes and think of Mandalore.”
Mirta glanced over her shoulder at the man in the multicolored armor. He slipped off his helmet.
“Just making sure he doesn’t die before he does something useful for Manda’yaim,” said the man. “If it works, and it should, then he’ll start to show signs of recovery in a few days.”
He looked a lot like Fettand Jaingand the resemblance was unsettling. The Kiffar part of her, the one that cared about bloodlines, told her this was her kin. Clones got around a bit during the war. She probably had a lot more genetic relatives than she’d first thought.
Fett crushed Mirta’s fingers again and didn’t make a sound.
The vet straightened up and opened a bottle of pungent-smelling liquid to clean her hands. “Normally, I swat my patients across the rump and let them get on with grazing. But seeing as it’s you, I’ll skip that and suggest you take it easy for a day or so. Expect a big bruise.”
Fett gave her a silent nod of acknowledgment as she left, and fastened his undershirt. Then he looked up at Mirta. “Say hello to your uncle Venku.” He indicated the man in the motley armor, who still hadn’t acknowledged her. “Alias Kad’ika.”
It was all making sense now. Kad’ika had to be the son of a clone trooper. There must have been a lot of them out there, and she wondered how many of them had any social graces or senses of humor, or if they all took after Ba’buir.
“Just doing my bit for Mandalorian unity,” Venku said, slipping his helmet back on as if her close inspection was making him uncomfortable. “Wouldn’t do for the Mand’alor to snuff it just when we’re on the rise again.”
He leaned over Fett and put two fingers against the pulse in his neck. Mirta expected her grandfather to flatten him for daring to lay hands on him, but he simply looked at the assorted plates of beskar’gam with idle curiosity and tolerated the examination.
“Your heart rate’s up,” Venku said. “Get some rest.”
“Field medic.”
“Yeah, they say I have a healing touch.” Mirta found that hard to believe. Venku straightened up. “Any problemstell the folks at Cikartan’s tapcaf in town. They’ll know how to contact me.”
Venku made for the door. As he brushed past her, he stopped and tapped his finger against the heart-of-fire dangling from her neck. He obviously never worried about getting a punch in the face.
“Interesting,” he said.
He was a chancer, a man who could obtain thingsand obviously information as well. It was worth a try.