Fett didn’t like many beings in the galaxy. He was indifferent to 99 percent, and most of the remainder were on his target list. But he could manage a scrap of approval for Daala. She talked his language.
“You sound like a woman who cares what happens in the Core, “he said.
“If I did-you’re the resident Jedi countermeasures expert. Would you be too retired to do some consultancy work for me?”
Fett indicated his forearm plate, a weapons platform in its own right. The flamethrower needed servicing, he noted. “Consult this. I’m always negotiable.” “Seriously.”
“If you’re ever in the position where you need a place to lock up your Jedi-we can do you a good price on bcskar restraints, and we’ll always have the troops to make use of them.”
“Let’s keep that in mind.” Daala raised her glass, and Fett thought she was going to make some informal deal. But she indulged in a little sparing sentimentality, and he approved of that too. “To Gil Pellaeon. The last of the Empire’s true gentlemen. Safe harbor, my friend.”
Fett just inclined his head. The galaxy liked its heroes better dead, when they didn’t hang around doing inconvenient things like shaming everyone else and setting glittering examples. Or being fallibly mortal. The worst thought he’d ever had in his life was that if his father had survived, he might not have lived up to the dead paragon that still shaped his every waking moment. It was one of the few missing pieces he didn’t want to track down, and he still hadn’t found time to shoot the barve who’d planted and watered the doubt in his head.
So what if Jango Fett wasn’t the holy Fenn Shysa. He was my dad, he loved me, and I loved him. That’s enough of a hero for me.
“I forgot how effective your iron can be against Force-users, “Daala said, dragging him out of his thoughts. “You’d be amazed what ended up at the Maw Installation when the Emperor’s closets got cleared out.”
Daala never disappointed. She was solid granite, always on the ball, always looking for the angle, even when she could have relaxed her guard. Fett liked being kept sharp.
“I always wondered what the Empire did with the beskar ore they strip-mined out of Mandalore.”
“Found they couldn’t make it work the way your people could, that’s what they did…”
Fett enjoyed the idea of all that beskar needing Mandalorian expertise.
“Yeah, you need to ask a Mando metalworker, and ask him nicely.”
“I’m glad we understand each other, Fett.”
“Crystal clear, Daala.”
“Mind if I visit your fine but challengingly rustic world?”
“Come and have an ale at Mirta’s wedding.”
“I’ve got a son and a granddaughter. Where did the years go?”
Fett almost asked where she’d found time to have a fam-ily. But the way years just collapsed on themselves, and how you woke up one morning to find you were suddenly fifty years older than the last time you checked, reminded him of the looming task of coming clean with Sintas.
“Better go find my tame Jedi, “he said, sliding his un-touched glass toward her. “Before you give me back our iron to make a box to put her in.”
Jaina was pacing the silent hangar, completely in a world of her own, swinging her lightsaber-deactivated-in some drill or other. He wasn’t sure if it was unalloyed good news to see her getting on with Mirta or not, but it beat having Mirta rip herself apart dealing with the sister of the man who had killed her mother. Jaina stopped and looked up at Fett on the gantry.
“Come on, “he said, and trotted down the durasteel mesh ladder. “Time for bounty-hunting class.”
“Aren’t you whacked after today?” she asked.
“No.” Fett checked his fibercord line, coiled ready to fire and trap, and flexed his fingers. “If I don’t hand you back to the space bum smarter than I found you, he’ll just brag about being my nemesis for another forty years, and then I’ll have to shoot him to shut him up.”
“Just remember to shoot first…” And she almost grinned. Almost.
Jaina Solo was okay, he thought. And she couldn’t help being a Jedi.
Fett thought of a Jedi agent called Kubariet, and wondered if he had a granddaughter out there somewhere.
“Okay, “he said, waiting for her lunge. “Come and get me, Jedi…”
OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STATE, CORUSCANT: FOUR DAYS LATER.
Routine-salaries paid on time, nightly holodramas, predictable prices-was the anesthetic that had kept Coruscant docile in Caedus’s brief absence. He inhaled the familiar scent of carpet, warm datapad plastoid, and fresh-brewed caf as his office doors sighed apart and he limped to his desk.