Bloodlines

by Karen Traviss

  Goran Beviin was waiting for him at the plush Horizon Hotel. He sat at the bar with a large mug of Tarisian ale and a bowl of something that might have been deep-fried crustaceans of some kind. He had almost deferred to the bar’s dress code—his helmet was placed on the bar beside him—but in his deep blue battle-scarred Mandalorian armor he still didn’t fit in among the beautifully dressed patrons. Fett walked up behind him.

  “You always sit with your back to the doors?”

  Beviin turned, apparently not startled to hear the voice of his Mandalore, ruler of the clans, Commander of Super-commandos. Fett had never quite come to terms with his peacetime role.

  “When I’ve assessed the risk, yes.” He looked at Fett’s helmet with slow deliberation. “Can I get you an ale and a drinking straw?”

  “You’re a riot. What are those?”

  Beviin popped one of the fried things in his mouth and crunched with exaggerated relish. “Coin-crabs. Reminds me of those happy days we spent frying Yuuzhan Vong.”

  “Sentimentalist.”

  Beviin gestured around at polished wood and expensive upholstery. “This is pretty comfortable. I always think of Taris as a dead world.”

  “Maybe that’s why I feel a kinship with it.”

  “What?”

  “People often think I’m dead, too.” The quip didn’t seem quite as amusing now. There was no point telling anyone else about his condition, not yet—and maybe never. “So what have you got for me?”

  Fett sat down on the stool next to Beviin, adjusting his holster carefully. The bartender—a middle-aged human male whose high-collared uniform looked as expensive as his customers’ evening dress—had a question forming on nervous lips. Fett knew it was probably a reminder that sir should remove his helmet. He turned his head so that it was clear he was staring at the man through his visor and waited for him to change his mind. He did. Fett turned back to Beviin.

  “Get on with it.”

  “Thrackan Sal-Solo approached me with a contract on the whole Solo family.”

  You know, I’d really like an ale now. Relax. Never done that. Not like ordinary people. “Direct?”

  “Via an intermediary, but he forgets how good my comlink surveillance skills are. And my contacts, of course.”

  “Wonder why he didn’t ask me to go after Solo,” said Fett. He considered the coin-crabs and thought better of it. “Everyone else did.”

  “Maybe he thinks you’d be bored with it. And too expensive.”

  “Right on both counts.” Han Solo was irrelevant now, truly irrelevant. Fett had never had a feud with him anyway: just a string of contracts, and contracts were never personal. “So?”

  “So I hear he’s had a few takers.”

  “Not you.”

  “I don’t do families. I only hunt criminals. I don’t want to be one.”

  “I’m still waiting.”

  “Okay. Word is that Ailyn’s back and interested in the contract, too.”

  Fett was glad of the privacy of his helmet. He rarely registered surprise, because there was almost nothing left in the galaxy that could surprise him. But this felt suddenly raw even after decades.

  His only child was alive. He’d heard nothing of her since the Yuuzhan Vong invasion, when billions had lost their lives. How old would she be now? Fifty-four? Fifty-five?

  Somehow I knew she wasn’t dead.

  “It beats her taking a contract on me.” His stomach chilled. No, you don’t mean that at all: you mean that she’s your daughter, however much she hates you, however much she blames you for her mother’s death, and you’re dying, and you want to see her one last time. She’s all you’ll leave behind to prove that you ever existed. “Who else knows?”

  Beviin—late fifties, gray-haired, but with a grin that made him look like a mischievous kid—seemed to be staring into his eyes, concerned. Fett’s helmet never appeared to be a barrier for Mandalorians: somehow they looked straight into the core of him. “I thought nobody did, because she’s calling herself Ailyn Habuur.”

  Fett waited. Beviin took a pull of his ale and said nothing.

  “So what makes you think she’s Ailyn Vel?”

  “My source tells me she’s about fifty, has a Kiffar facial tattoo, and flies a KDY assault ship that I think you’d recognize. But I don’t think that means much to anyone else these days.”

  His daughter had hated him enough to kill him and take his ship and armor—at least, that’s what she’d thought had happened. Had she ever found out she’d killed a clone instead?

  Fett had managed to shrug off the news at the time. It was more than twenty years ago. But it felt different now. He wanted to know where she had been, what she had done. But it was stupid and irrelevant—and far too late. He put the impulse aside.

  “I hope she’s careful, then,” he said.

  Beviin was waiting for more reaction, eyebrows raised, but he wasn’t going to get it. “Is that all?”

  “Yes. I’m more interested in Kaminoans. What do you know about Ko Sai?”

  “Apart from the rumors?”

  “I’ll take rumors right now.”

  “They said she was killed during the Battle of Kamino, but the general view was that she defected to the Separatists. Then there’s a big black hole, and the next rumor is that someone sent her back to Kamino.”

  “I’d have known if—”

  “A piece at a time.”

  “What?”

  “Body parts. Well, some of them.”

  Only kidnappers did that kind of thing. They did it for credits—and that didn’t fit a wartime defection at all. So that was how Koa Ne knew someone had located Ko Sai.

  “Fingers?” That was the usual removable body part of choice if a kidnapper wanted to focus someone’s mind. “Kaminoans don’t have external ears.”

  “Not exactly. Parts she really needed, or so I hear.”

  Fett tried to imagine what the scientist could have done to end up dead and dissected. Maybe she’d tried to withhold her data. But why send the parts back to Kamino unless whoever held her wanted to pressure her government, or teach them a lesson?

  And the data had never been sold. It would have been in use by now if it had. And as far as he could tell, the Kaminoans had never been asked to surrender anything—credits or data—in exchange.

  That sounded like revenge. And that didn’t help him find what he was looking for.

  “Why are you interested in a disappearance that long ago?” Beviin asked. “If anyone wants you to find the rest of her, it’s a bit late.”

  This was where things became uncertain for Fett. He had trusted only his father, who had put every scrap of his energy into making his son totally self-reliant. Boba Fett hunted alone. But from time to time he was reminded that he was also the Mandalore; he had a responsibility to a hundred warriors, and—this was the aspect that gave him the problem—a nation that wasn’t only geographic but a nomadic culture, too, except that it had a homeworld, and a sector, and … no, it wasn’t clear at all. He wasn’t sure what being Mandalore meant anymore.

  And he wondered if he thought of himself as Mandalorian first and bounty hunter second.

  He didn’t.

  “Verd ori’shya beskar’gam.” Beviin took a pull at his ale. “A warrior is more than one’s armor.”

  Fett rounded on him. “What?”

  “Ailyn. Wearing your armor, flying your ship. No substitute for a fighting spirit.” Beviin never appeared to fear him and never called him sir. A traditional Mandalorian never would, of course. “You still don’t speak Mando’a, do you?”

  “Basic and Huttese. That’s what I do business in.”

  “Maybe we need a little less business and a little more Mandalore, Bob’ika.”

  Bob’ika. Some of his father’s associates had called him that as a kid. His father never had. But he ignored the over-familiar form of his name. “I’m busy right now.”

  “Nothing else you want done?”

  �
��No.”

  “I’d better be going. Just call if you have orders for me.” Beviin drained the last of his ale and scooped the uneaten coin-crabs into a napkin to fold them up and pocket them. “You’re my Mand’alor, after all.”

  It might have been sarcasm. “You sound very tribal these days.”

  “Spirit of the times. Seems to be catching on.”

  Fett hadn’t visited Mandalore or the surrounding sector for a couple of years. There was no reason why it should feel like home in the same way Kamino did.

  We don’t even know how many Mandalorians there are in the galaxy. You don’t need an ID or a birth certificate to be one … of us.

  Beviin replaced his helmet and walked out without a backward glance. Without a drink in front of him, Fett had no reason to sit there any longer, either. He slid off the stool, to the visible relief of the bar staff, and wandered back to Slave I, taking in the sights along the way.

  There was a share-dealing shop on the walkway. Upper City was full of them, open all hours to catch trading on the thousands of trading floors throughout the galaxy that made up the Interstellar Stock Exchange. Share dealing had become an entertainment for the wealthy on this forgotten world. Fett paused and walked into the vividly lit lobby to stand in the constantly shifting interactive holodisplay of the various markets.

  Coruscant’s CSX—its domestic stock index—had taken a sudden dip since he’d last checked the markets on his inbound journey. The little red line was still edging down against the Top Million ISE index. Something must have spooked the traders: it didn’t take much. A bantha could belch and wipe billions off stock prices if the market was nervous enough.

  Fett stretched out a gloved finger and touched the index that read BIOTECH. A cascade of subindices tumbled out in a table and he ignored SELECT COMPANY to choose VOLUME SHARE MOVEMENT. That brought up the ranked list of comparties where most shares had been traded over any given period. He chose ONE STANDARD MONTH.

  Three companies topped the list: SanTech, Arkanian Micro, and AruMed. Arkanian Micro share prices hadn’t shifted more than 10 percent, though, and they were always among the top-priced shares. It was AruMed that caught his eye; the green icon beside the name told him it was small and relatively new. But someone had bought a 25 percent block of its dirt-cheap shares in the last week.

  Let’s see what looked so appealing to them, then.

  Fett checked the database that fed through to his helmet’s internal display but found nothing remarkable at all about the company’s activities. AruMed had been trading for a year and specialized in genetically tailored pharmaceuticals, and no dramatic new product seemed to be on the horizon to warrant speculative share buying.

  Unless this is insider trading.

  Unless someone knew the company had taken on a Kaminoan scientist recently, the shares wouldn’t have been very appealing at all.

  Fett noted the assistant watching him with discreet concern. He probably didn’t get too many customers with jet packs and flamethrowers in the store.

  The database located AruMed’s headquarters on Roonadan. It seemed unusual for a small biotech company to be based in the Corporate Sector under the nose of the aggressively acquisitive Chiewab laboratories, so Fett recorded the details and went back to the holodisplay to browse general pharmaceutical companies. Only two more showed unusual share-dealing activity in the period since Taun We had gone on the run—and one of those was Rothana-based Con-Care, which seemed to focus on drugs for older citizens.

  Like me.

  Kaminoans really didn’t like being far from home. Rothana was within stone-throwing distance of Kamino in galactic terms. He made a special note to check that one out after AruMed.

  “Care to invest, sir?” said the assistant.

  Fett always did his share deals through his accountant, Puth, a Nimbanel who could launder and erase an audit trail almost as well as Fett himself. There was no point having an accountant who was smarter than you were, after all. But even a bounty hunter could be prone to impulse buys.

  He took out a credit chip. “I’ll take fifty thousand shares in SteriPac.”

  “They make battlefield dressings,” said the assistant. His fixed stare told Fett he rarely sold a hundred thousand credits’ worth of shares in one deal, and his hand folded around the chip as if he thought it would escape. “Expecting a war?”

  “Always. And I’m never disappointed.”

  Fett made his way to the sparsely furnished apartment he’d bought a year before that would not, for once in his life, become an asset that made a quick profit. Taris wasn’t a fast-moving property market, but it was worth paying for the relative privacy.

  So someone sent Ko Sai home a piece at a time.

  His helmet sensors told him a human was walking behind him, maintaining a constant distance.

  Kaminoans could easily have done a little forensics work on that and figured out where the packages came from.

  It was a young woman—eighteen, maybe—with dark curly hair cut close to her head. He could see the image in the HUD of his helmet, relayed from the range finder’s rear view. And while she had a blaster holstered on one hip—who didn’t go around armed these days?—she looked neither local nor hostile. She was wearing gray body armor, basic chest and back plates like a Mandalorian, but without colors or markings.

  But she’s following me. I know it.

  So … if the Kaminoans knew who had grabbed Ko Sai, they had a very good reason for not going after them. And her research had never resurfaced.

  Fett was troubled when he couldn’t spot motives. Everyone had a motive.

  Tomorrow, he’d set off for Roonadan and give Puth a call. He needed to get his fortune in order in case he lost his race against time.

  What am I going to do with it?

  He always thought he’d know one day, until that one day was overtaken by bad news. Behind him, the girl quickened her pace and caught up with him, close enough now to reach out, take two quick steps, and touch him.

  He turned before she could do it, and stood blocking her path, irritated. She didn’t seem startled. She stared into his visor much as Beviin had, which was unusual in itself.

  “You’re Boba Fett,” she said.

  “You passed your eyesight test.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Whatever it is, you can’t afford me.”

  “But can you afford me?”

  Fett thought for a moment that he’d really read her completely wrong, but she held out her clenched fist, palm up, and parted her fingers to reveal a flat disc of opalescent stone, gold shot with red, blue, and violet. A leather strip was threaded through a hole drilled on one edge.

  It was a heart-of-fire gemstone. He knew, because he had given one like it to Sintas Vel when they were married: it was from her home, from Kiffu. He’d been just sixteen, Sintas not much older.

  No: he had given this very stone to her. This was the same gem. He could see the carved edge, like rope.

  Four lines of a Mandalorian marriage vow that we didn’t understand. A stone that she said had some part of my spirit and hers held in it forever.

  Forever amounted to three years. They’d split up before Ailyn was two. Sintas had gone bounty hunting when Ailyn was sixteen and never returned.

  That’s why my own daughter was ready to kill me.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked as calmly as he could. It was clear that the girl knew he would recognize it. There was no point bluffing. He didn’t need to.

  “From the man who killed your wife,” she said. “Your daughter owes me a bounty. And I know exactly where she is.”

  CARD’S TAPCAF, BLUE SKY BOULEVARD, CORONET.

  It was how you behaved that made the difference, Han decided.

  He sat in the tapcaf facing the window and watched for Leia through the rain-streaked transparisteel. He’d thought he’d be recognized at last, but once he’d got used to not striding purposefully and drawing attention to himse
lf, and started to move like a regular person—matching everyone else’s pace, shoulders relaxed—nobody seemed to notice him.

  He became just another Coronet citizen having a caf and whiling away the time on the boulevard. There was a holo-screen on the wall behind him, and NewsNet was running. Normally it washed over him as part of the background noise, but even over the hiss of steam from the caf machine at the bar, he heard very clearly the words bomb and Corellian.

  So did everyone else in the tapcaf. Silence fell. The staff even shut down the hissing caf pressure filter, and everyone turned in their seats or on their stools to watch the bulletin.

  The scenes from Coruscant were terrible: one hovercam shot tracked down from a shattered hotel frontage where the remnants of a sign, just the letters ELI, hung from a dangling section of permacrete clinging to the tower by a thin strand of durasteel reinforcing wire. The cam dropped level after level to the bottom of the urban canyon, showing less damage as it descended, but then settling on a shocking image of what had fallen finally to the ground level: speeders, masonry, and bodies. Han, a man used to war, looked away and shut his eyes.

  The stunned silence gave way to debate among strangers brought together by common outrage.

  “We didn’t do that,” said a woman.

  “We fight clean.”

  “If we wanted to bomb Coruscant, we’d use the fleet.”

  “They’re blaming us. Why? Don’t they know us by now?”

  No, terrorism wasn’t Corellia’s way of doing things. There was military sabotage, but Corellians tended to be pretty clear-cut about who was a legitimate target and who wasn’t. Han wondered if the blast was a slick bit of black ops by Coruscant and the Alliance in general to polarize positions by bombing their own people.

  I’m going crazy. This is Luke I’m talking about. The Jedi council wouldn’t let the Senate get away with it.

  But there were all kinds of murky agencies that the Senate probably bankrolled and didn’t keep too close an eye on for pragmatic, plausibly deniable reasons. Luke wouldn’t even know. He was just the same decent, idealistic kid at heart that he’d always been.