[Legacy Of The Force] - 05(7)

“You wanted a decision from me. You got it.” Fett felt time accelerating past him, and it eroded what little patience he had. Every bone

in his body ached right through to his spine. “Galactic Alliance or Confederation—you think it’s going to make any difference to us?”

“No,” said another voice, thick with a northern Concordian accent. “Coruscant won’t be asking us to disarm anytime soon. They might need us if they get another vongese war.”

“Chakaare!” someone laughed. But the debate picked up pace, still mostly in Basic.

“And what if the war comes too close to home? What if it spreads to a neighboring system or two?”

“Even if we side with the Alliance, what’s to say they won’t turn on us and expect us to toe their nice tidy disarmed line?”

“It’s not disarmament they want, it’s pooling every planet’s assets into the GA Defense Force, and we all know how slick and efficient that’s going to be …”

Fett stood back and watched. It was both uplifting and entertaining in its way. It was the kind of decision-making process that could happen only in a small population of ferociously independent people who knew immediately when it was time to stop being individuals and come together as a nation.

Funny, that’s the last thing Mandalore is: a nation. Sometimes we fight on different sides. We’re scattered around the galaxy. We’re not even one species. But we know what we are and what we want, and that’s not going to change anytime soon.

The arguments were all coming down to one thing. A lot of people needed the credits. Times were still tough.

Fett brought his fist down hard on the nearest solid surface—a small table—and the crack brought the hubbub of discussion to a halt.

“Mandalore has no position on the current war, and there’ll be no divisions over it,” he said. “Anyone who wants to sell their services individually to either side—that’s your business. But not in Mandalore’s name.”

He braced for the eruption of argument from the sudden silence, thumbs hooked in his belt. His helmet’s wide-angle vision caught a fully armored figure standing at the rear of the hall. It wasn’t always possible to tell if a Mando in armor was male or female, but Fett was sure this was a man, medium height and with his hands clasped behind his back. The left shoulder plate of his purple-black armor was a light metallic brown. It wasn’t unusual to see odd-colored plates, because many Mandalorians kept a piece of a dead loved one’s armor, but this was striking for a reason Fett couldn’t work out. Something glittered in the central panel of the man’s breastplate, a tiny point of light as the sun cut across the chamber in a shaft so sharp and white that it seemed solid.

I should do that. I should wear a piece of Dad’s armor with my own, every day.

He felt bad that he didn’t, but jerked his attention back to the meeting.

“That’s okay, then,” said a cheerful, white-haired man sitting a few paces from him. A dark blue tattoo of a vine emerged from the top of his armor and ended under his chin. Baltan Carid, that was his name. Fett had last seen him dispatching Yuuzhan Vong with a battered Imperial-era blaster at Caluula Station. “That’s all we needed to know. That there’s no ban on mercenary work.”

“I’ll make it clear to both sides that there’s no official involvement in their dispute,” Fett said. “But if any of you want to get yourselves killed, it’s your call.”

“So we might see Mando fighting Mando in this aruetiise’s war.” Everyone looked around at the man in the purple armor. Fett saw no need to learn the language, but there were words he couldn’t avoid: aruetiise. Non-Mandalorians. Occasionally pejorative, but usually just a way of saying not one of us. “Hardly conducive to restoring the nation, is it?”

“But fighting’s our number one export,” said Carid. “What do you want, make Keldabe into a tourist spot or something?” He roared with laughter. “I can see it now. Visit Mandalore before Mandalore visits you. Take home some souvenirs—a slab of uj cake and a smack in the mouth.”

“Well, our economic policy right now seems to be to earn foreign credits … get killed … and neglect the planet.”

Carid had a magnificent sneer. He was far more intimidating without a helmet. “You got a better idea? Oh, wait—is this going to be the all-day diatribe on kadikla self-determination and statehood? ‘Cos I ain’t getting any younger, son, and I’d like to be home in time for dinner, ‘cos my missus is making pea-flour dumplings.”