“Keeps you fit, Mand’alor, “he said. “Just seeing how fast we can acquire a target.”
Carid pointed to more handwheels and valves. “See? The whole ship can operate on zero power for a while if everything goes to osik. If we’re fried, all the critical systems can be operated manually by gearwheels, cables, or compressed gas. We’ve even got zero-power fiber-optic screens that kick in so we can aim or see what’s going on topside. Okay, it’s hard labor, but this is a real beauty for getting out of trouble.” He winked. “Or causing it.”
Fett squeezed into alcoves and peered down a hatch that went straight through the belly of the Tra’kad, good for defended troop extractions. It was a perfect ship for a pes-simist or a very unlucky man.
Would have been good to have this when we fought the Vong. Dinua’s mother might have survived.
Fett wondered if Dinua thought about her mother as much as he thought about his dad. “How many crew?”
“One pilot can fly it in an emergency, and from various positions in the ship. Crew-five. How many bodies can you cram in? Haven’t tested that yet. Next one will have waterborne capability.”
“Another multimission vehicle, “Fett said. Yomaget squeezed in behind him. He was a man obsessed with mak-ing vessels that could do everything. It was a very Mandalorian attitude, wanting to be self-contained and ready for anything the galaxy threw at you, a kind of frontier mentality. “What’s the compromise?”
“Speed.”
“Okay. Next chance we get-let’s give her a workup.”
Fett hauled himself out of the top hatch and found that he was already thinking of ways to exploit the zero-power capability. You didn’t have to be dead in the water to make use of that.
Ambush.
Beauty wasn’t everything.
A vhe’viin skittered across the floor, a high-speed scrap of tan fur that triggered Fett’s HUD sensors. The small rodents were also enjoying a prosperous time, gorging on the new fields of crops. Everyone was doing better; when Fett walked out of the rear hangar doors, he could see a snaking line of dark soil, excavations to lay a water pipeline to the new settlement five kilometers south. Being Mando, they were digging wells too, ret’lini-just in case, a Plan B.
“So you paid for all that, too, Yomaget.”
The MandalMorors boss stood beside him and took electrobinoculars from his belt. “Yeah. I ship in food for the workforce, too. Farm output isn’t keeping pace with the incoming settlers. It’ll catch up in time.”
Fett was fascinated by the way that Mandalorians, who liked credits as much as any species in the galaxy, needed no law to make them share what they had with the community when times were good. It was a survival trait. It didn’t come naturally to Fett, but he’d finally learned it.
“If Jaina Solo tells me what barbarians we are, I’ll show her all this.” Fett fired up his speeder bike’s drive. “Time for me to continue her higher education.”
He was glad that Beviin had been willing to take her off his hands for a day. It gave him breathing space, something he needed with Sintas around. Mirta seemed to expect him to sit patiently by the bedside, but there was nothing he could usefully do. He could tell Sintas her life story, minus the years he hadn’t been around-most of them-but it wasn’t going to aid her recovery.
What if the Jedi could heal her?
Fett did most of his thinking on the speeder now. If he retreated to Slave 1, laid up on spare land next to his drying-shed quarters, folks came by wanting to ask him things. If he was moving, they couldn’t. And there was something therapeutic about just swinging onto the saddle and heading randomly into the wilderness, the same as setting Slave I on a course and heading for the Outer Rim.
They could still comm him via his helmet link, though. The amber icon pulsed in his HUD, and he blinked to activate it.
“Been a long time, Fett.”
It was a smoky patrician voice, one that got his attention a heartbeat before he put a name to it. Twelve years, more or less; she always resurfaced sooner or later.
“Admiral, “he said. “Always a pleasure.”
“So you’re not dead, and I’m not dead.”
She rarely had jobs for him, but when she did, they were always interesting. “Want to add a Bes’uliik to your collection?”
“You’re so commercial, Fett.”
“Well?”
“Good honest mercenary work.”
That didn’t quite offer the relief of filling his time the way it used to; he’d have been reassured by the offer before, confirmation that he was on top of his game and in demand. Daala was still A-list clientele. But old habits died hard. “Maybe. What is it?”