“Lost a lot of people,” he said. More than a million. Nearly one in three Mandalorians had died defending the planet. Mirta seemed to be expecting some statesman-like behavior, so he tried. “And no memorial.”
“This isn’t a war grave,” Mirta said. “Mando’ade usually bury in mass graves anyway. We all become part of the manda. We don’t need a headstone.”
The exceptional fertility of the soil suddenly made sense. There was no point wasting organic material.
“Manda.”
“Collective consciousness. Oversoul. We don’t do heaven.”
Fett winced. “I know what it is.”
“And it gives back to the living. You’ll get a marked grave, of course, being Mand’alor. Unless you choose not to.”
“Probably just to make sure they know the old Mandalore won’t show up again to reclaim the title.”
“Maybe just to show respect.”
“Has it occurred to you,” Fett asked, “that all this is a rationalization of the fact that Mandalorians were always on the move, couldn’t maintain graves, and needed to dispose of lots of corpses? And that it’s free fertilizer?”
Mirta took off her helmet, probably to let him see the full thundercloud of her disapproval. “There’s nothing profound that you can’t reduce to banality, is there?”
“I’m a practical man.”
“We’re a practical people.” We. Kiffu had ceased to exist for her. “But there’s nothing wrong with seeing the bigger picture.”
“Can I opt out of the manda? I’m not spending eternity with Montross or Vizsla. Or do we take guests from other species? If we adopt them in life, makes sense we take them afterward, so what about the rest of the galaxy?”
Mirta seemed about to spit something vitriolic at him but instead sighed, jammed her helmet back in place, and went back to the speeder. Fett pondered how tedious it would be if there really were some existence after death, especially if it weren’t ticket-only. The one person he wanted to see again was his father. The rest of the deadloved and hated, but mostly just unloved and dismissedcould stay dead.
He resolved to keep his mouth shut in the future. It had always been the best policy in the past, and meaningful conversation was one of the few things he couldn’t seem to master. He took her into the center of Keldabe following the twisting course of the Kelita, skimming above its meanders and river cliffs. The ancient river had gradually kinked back on itself as it ground away patiently at the banks, and it looked as if one good flood would break the narrow necks of land and straighten the course again. A quick inspection with his helmet GPR showed dried-up oxbow lakes pressed like hoofprints into the land on either side. Until the crab-boys had showed up, most of Mandalore had been as it had since before humans arrived: primeval, wild, and still full of the undiscovered. Fett hated the Yuuzhan Vong afresh for ruining that.
Novoc Vevut, Orade’s father, built and repaired weapons. He was in the yard of the workshop that also served as his house, machining
blaster parts. Fett shut the speeder down at the entrance and Mirta slid off the saddle.
Vevut pushed his transparent protective visor back onto the top of his head and gave them both a big grin.
“Aw, nice to see you two doing stuff together,” he said. “Osi’kyr, Fett, are we going to be related?”
Mirta looked at him with a warmth she didn’t direct at her own grandfather. Fett hadn’t picked up on how far the relationship with Vevut’s son had progressed, then. “If beskar is such a good defense, how come you’ve got so many scars, Buir?” she teased. “Forgot to wear your helmet?”
She’d called him Papa. Vevut grinned. “I cut myself shaving.”
“With a Trandoshan.”
“Marry Ghes, and I’ll make you a blaster that can take the head off a dozen Trandoshans with one shot.”
“You know how to turn a girl’s head,” she said, and removed her helmet and boots before disappearing into the house.
Vevut brushed shiny coils of swarf from the grinding bench. His long woolly black braids were tied back with a piece of string while he worked, but the gold clips strung along them like trophies still rattled and chinked as he moved. Combined with the striking scars in his ebony skin, they made him look formidably battle-hardened. Beviin said the gold had come from his kills over the years, and that he’d melted it down to make the ornate clips. They made Fett’s braided Wookiee scalps look low-key.
“When I adopted Ghes,” Vevut said, not raising his eyes from the workbench, “we had a hard time accepting each other at first, too.” He rasped glittering shavings from the metal he was shaping and held it up to check the edge. “And I’d known him all his life. His parents were my neighbors. Just because Mirta’s your own blood doesn’t mean it’s automatic.”