[Legacy Of The Force] - 08(29)

Jaina noted that for future anxiety sessions, shut down the systems, and prepped to pop the hatch, wondering it Amber Nine would end up appropriated by the locals and painted bright purple like an old X-wing sitting in a corner of the strip.

“Get down from the cockpit, aruetii, and we’ll check you out.”

Now…. do I take my lightsaber or not?

Jaina took the risk and left it in her grab-bag in the cockpit. She jumped down and stood on the permacrete, an anonymous gray flight suit in a sea of clattering Mandalorian armor. The air smelled of fresh-sawn resin trees and hot metal. “Just tell me what aruetii means.”

“Foreigner, “said the pilot. He pulled a short-stock BlasTech blaster from his belt with a casual movement and ran a hand scanner over her with the other. “Outsider. Not one of us. Even traitor. Okay, you’re clean.”

She thought he would have been far from pleased if he’d picked up her lightsaber on that scan. “What happens to me now?”

“Someone’s coming to check you out. Can’t let just any old riffraff pester our Mand’alor, can we?”

Should she admit who she was now? The man had a blaster. If he took the revelation badly, she’d have a choice of taking whatever came next, or drawing on her Force skills unarmed while surrounded by hundreds of Mandalorians, every single one of them with some weapon, even the children. It would all get out of hand before she knew it. And she needed Fett’s help badly.

“Absolutely, “she said.

Jaina was already having to think differently, to suppress all her own training that said she should have been treating this environment as a serious threat and preparing to defend herself. The feeling of helplessness was both utterly alien and disturbing. The Bes’uliik pilot didn’t say anything else to her, and just stood with his blaster resting in the safety position against his shoulder. They waited. People were starting to stare. Eventually a speeder bike edged through the crowd on the perimeter and headed straight for her.

“She’s all yours, “said the pilot. “Unarmed.”

The rider was a man in royal blue armor, and she sensed that he was agitated, but in a distracted way that said he was worrying about something else.

“I’m Goran Beviin, “he said, looking wary. A short but serious-looking metal saber hung from his belt as well as a blaster. “The Mand’alor is tied up at the moment. So you can tell me all about it. Get on.”

It was tempting just to come clean and tell him she was Jaina Solo, yes, that Jaina Solo, but a black object dangling from his shoulder plate distracted her. It was alien hair, somehow familiar. Mandalorians loved their trophies. Fett went in for braided Wookiee scalps. It was pretty disgusting, but she wasn’t here to be judgmental about their customs. She needed Mandalorian help.

“Is that Yuuzhan Vong?” she asked, trying to be casual.

“Indeed it is, “said Beviin. “Nothing I like better than killing crab-boys.”

That was the sum of their conversation until they reached Keldabe. Mom had been right: there were some tree-houses along the way. But the city was just that, a tight urban chaos of granite blocks, wood, plastoid, and durasteel, with the houses packed together like a close-quarters battle. There were still signs of war damage on many walls, and even MandalMotors’ hundred-meter tower bore scorch marks. A few new offices and other buildings looked grander, but this didn’t appear to be a rich city or even a planned one; it looked like a battered survivor.

Beviin stopped the speeder in front of what could only be a cantina, its doors parted and the smell of cooking and brewing wafting onto the street. Above the entrance was lettering Jaina couldn’t read, and-helpfully-a few words of Basic: UNIVERSE TAPCAF-NO STRILLS INSIDE-BARTEC ACCEPTED.

Jaina followed Beviin inside. He took off his helmet, laid it on the counter, and ruined another stereotype for her: he wasn’t some granite-faced thug but an ordinary gray-haired man about her mother’s age, with the kind of face that looked on the edge of a big smile all the time. And the Fett-inspired image of Mandalore that she’d nursed for so long kept crumbling. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she found herself in a cantina full of armored Mandalorians, not all human, helmets stacked under tables. They were watching a big holovid screen in intent, reverent silence, mesmerized by a bolo-ball match.

“Meshgeroya, “Beviin whispered, as if he was interrupt-ing an act of worship. “The beautiful game. Our other national pastime.”

Something small and furry zipped past Jaina’s foot, but she didn’t dare look too closely. One of the patrons, a stocky man with white hair and a vine tattoo curling up his neck, glanced at her and guffawed.