Mandalorians liked a sensible compromise. The best deals were where both sides were happy, or where one was happy and the other dead. Fett stopped short of asking to fly the first beskar fighter off the production line. He wanted that privilege to go to Beviin, the nearest he would ever have to a friend.
He looked forward to seeing the reaction when MandalMotors opened their order book. Jacen Solo would have the choice between letting the GA’s enemy buy better fighters than his, and showing up here. Fett had no doubt which he’d choose, but it would be fun seeing him have to handle the messy presentational issues in public. That could be arranged.
“It’ll be called the Bes’uliik,’” Yomaget called after him. “The Basilisk. I always had a soft spot for the ancient battle droids. Good old Mando name and old-fashioned Mando iron in a state-of-the-art package.”
Fett nodded to himself. Bes’uliik. It had a nice ring to it. A name from the past, a name that wouldn’t go away, however hard the rest of the galaxy tried to make itever.
Bes’uliik.
It was the kind of news that made other men walk away whistling.
CHARBI SPACEPORT, VULPTER, DEEP CORE
Ben pressed as close to the viewport as he could to peer at the permacrete below. It was hazy daylight outside, but his body said it was still last night and he needed more sleep.
As far as the rest of the spaceport was concerned, the well-maintained but very old Incom tourer was not a Galactic Alliance Guard ship carefully contaminated with Corellian dust, Corellian food waste, Corellian fabric, and any number of other touches designed to show a forensics team that the vessel definitely came from Corellia. And the battered intersystem delivery cutter tailing Cal Omas’s shuttle wasn’t a spy vessel with top-of-the-line comms, spoofing devices, and an overpowered hyperdrive.
Jori Lekauf wasn’t a GAG assassin, either. He was just a nice ordinary young Corellian on an adventure with his younger cousin in an elderly ship he’d saved every spare credit for a couple of years to buy. The trouble was that Ben could believe that all too easily, even though he’d seen the range of weapons Lekauf carried under his jacket.
“If I’d kept my hair red, the family resemblance would have looked more convincing,” Ben said. He wanted another caf to keep him alert, but he had a vision of being desperate to visit the refreshers at a critical point in the operation if he drank any more. “Your hair’s reddish, really.”
“More sandy blond,” Lekauf said. “One redheaded human is noticeable, but two is asking to be remembered by witnesses. If we have any, that is.”
“Could have dressed as Ubese … with masks.”
“I think that’s been done before.”
“I’m just worrying.”
“I know.”
It was a long wait. Shevu would make contact with them when he landed. His last transmission said he was a few minutes behind Omas’s shuttle, which wouldn’t attract suspicion; Charbi was a busy port freighting cheap and shoddy goods, and ships landed almost too close together for safety and comfort. Nobody cared who you were as long as port fees and taxes were paid.
They said Vulpter had once been a lovely planet. It didn’t look lovely now: the skies had that polluted smoky haze that meant there were wonderful red sunsets here, and not much else to be grateful for. And this was after they’d tried to clean up the environment. The vast landing striplanding field, more likewas scattered with dozens upon dozens of craft in varying stages of disrepair, some taking on
board supplies and fuel, some berthing next to freight warehouses where conveyor belts disgorged crates into their holds. Their outlines shimmered in the heat haze from idling drives. And there were all kinds of species wandering around on foot between the vessels, stretching their legsanywhere between one pair and four of them, it seemed. The only concession to landing field safety was a tracery of red and white painted lines across the permacrete bearing the warnings pedestrians DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE and BEWARE GROUND TRAFFIC.
But everyone was crossing the lines as they pleased, and battered speeders with Charbi Port Authority livery swerved around them, honking in annoyance.
Ben decided it was the last place anyone would expect two heads of state to conduct a top-level meeting.
“Stand by,” Lekauf said quietly, pressing his fingertip to his ear. “It’s the captain … yes, sir … copy that.” He looked up. “About twelve minutes before Omas lands. Shevu’s right behind him in the landing queue.”
Ben perked up. The Karpaki was folded in two inside his jacket, right on the limit of what he could hide, and the vibroblade was tucked in his hip pocket. He’d rehearsed it all in his mind on a continuous loop of what-ifs and if-onlys: rifle to drop Gejjen, preferably at very long range, and vibroblade to escape if seized.