Sacrifice

by Karen Traviss

  “How do you cope?” Mirta asked.

  “What?”

  “How do you cope with being alone?”

  “Are you going to yap all the way to Kuat?”

  “You can’t bring yourself to tell me to shut up, can you?”

  “I cope because I like it that way,” Fett said.

  “Well, Mama was all I had and I don’t like it that way.”

  Fett paused, and there was the faintest movement of his lips—as if he was stopping himself from saying something he’d regret. He ought to have understood, she thought. He’d lost his father at the hands of a Jedi, too.

  “Yeah,” he said. “What about your dad?”

  “He died in a hull breach. Not even in combat.”

  “Why’d Ailyn marry a Mando? Sintas must have warned her we’re bad news.”

  Mirta found she was clutching the heart-of-fire pendant tight in her fist. It was just half of the original stone. The other slice, split from it with a blow from the butt of Fett’s blaster, was buried with Ailyn Vel in a modest grave outside Keldabe, in an ancient wood that the vongese hadn’t managed to destroy.

  I can’t feel anything from this stone. It ought to tell me something. I’m Kiffar. Part Kiffar, anyway.

  “She hung around Mando’ade to get a better idea of how to hunt you. Then she met Papa. It didn’t last.”

  “Romantic.”

  “She cared about him.”

  “And she let him make a Mando of you.”

  “I spent two summers with Papa on Null, after he and Mama split up. He taught me everything he could. And then he got killed.”

  She didn’t say it to shut Fett up. He was hardly a talkative man anyway, but there was quiet, and then there was breath-holding silence. That was what she heard now.

  “That’s too bad,” he said.

  “Don’t try to out-orphan me, Ba’buir. I know what it’s like.”

  She struggled between the hatred she’d been taught to feel for him and the evidence of her own eyes that he wasn’t a monster—at least not the monster painted by her mother. The very thought felt disloyal to the dead. After almost two months, she’d reached the stage where she had days when her mother wasn’t her first waking thought, and didn’t haunt her dreams. That felt like betrayal, too.

  But life had to go on. She had to make sense of this, and not let Ailyn Vel’s death be for nothing.

  “No need to discuss it, then.” He inhaled. He looked like he’d been holding his breath all that time. “Are you okay living where you are?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I could buy you a house of your own. Anywhere.”

  Mirta never knew when he was going to flip over into awkward generosity. Beviin said he had his moments. He might, of course, have been trying to get rid of her with the lure of a place on a far planet.

  “I’m okay where I am, thanks.” No, that sounded dismissive. “I meant that I like living with Vevut’s family.”

  Fett said nothing. She knew what he was thinking now.

  “Yes, I do like Orade,” she said. “He’s a good man.”

  “You’re a grown woman. None of my business.”

  But everyone knew she was a Fett now, and that carried with it some burdens. It took a brave man to risk a Mand’alor for a grandfather-in-law, especially one with Boba Fett’s reputation. Mirta shut her eyes and tried to listen for whispered messages from the heart-of-fire.

  “Why can’t you get information from that?” Fett asked suddenly.

  “I’m only part Kiffar. I don’t have the full ability to sense things from objects.” She opened her eyes again. Fett was still an implacable statue of detachment. She studied his profile to see what of him might be in her. “It’s called psychometry. They say some Jedi can do it, too.”

  Mentioning Jedi might not have been a good idea, but Fett didn’t show any reaction. “The stone absorbs memories from the giver and receiver,” he said. “Sintas said so.” Ah. Under the veneer there might have been a man who wanted to either relive happier times or hide the ones he preferred to forget. The stone held a little bit of Sintas Vel’s spirit, and a little bit of his. There was more veneer to him now than core, Mirta suspected, but she’d seen him cry; and nobody else had ever seen the adult Boba Fett weaken, she was sure of that. Maybe he hadn’t even cried as a kid.

  “I’m trying hard, Ba’buir.”

  “Worst thing you did was tell me you knew what happened to Sintas.”

  It was a slap in the face. When she’d said it, she hadn’t even known if it would do the trick and lead him into her mother’s ambush. Now she regretted hurting a dying man, even if she had been raised to loathe him.

  “We’ll find out how Grandmama died, I promise.”

  “After I get that clone,” Fett said, all gravel and calculation, “I’ll find a full-blooded Kiffar to read the stone.”

  Mirta took it as a cue to shut up. Playing happy families wasn’t the Fett way. She wondered how many other families had the record of violent death and attempted murder that theirs did. I hope what’s in me is more like Papa. Then she recalled Leia Solo deflecting her blaster shot at Fett, and knew that it was Ba’buir’s blood in her veins after all—Grandpapa’s.

  “Stand by,” said Fett.

  He didn’t deploy full dampers when Slave I jumped. He never did. The acceleration to lightspeed and beyond felt like being punched in the chest and then sat on by a Hutt. She made a point of biting her lip discreetly as the stars streaked to lines of blue-white fire and the crushing sensation passed.

  That had to hurt him, too. He was a sick man. Mirta fumbled in her pocket, pulled out some painkiller capsules, and held them out to him. He took them without a word. His fingertips were cold.

  It felt like a long, silent lifetime to Kuati space. Mirta filled it with planning how she would disembowel Jacen Solo if and when she got the chance. There was already a line forming for the privilege. Ba’buir wouldn’t say what he had in mind for him; all she was certain of was that Boba Fett never turned his back on a score that required settling.

  “Decelerating in half a standard hour,” he said.

  She wanted very badly to love him, but couldn’t. If she had found out what happened between him and her grandmother, she might have found it easier, but she knew it might also have confirmed her legacy of revenge. One thing she’d learned fast was that it was a subject to avoid. It wasn’t that she was afraid of asking; she just couldn’t get past the silent routine. He could make the world outside vanish if he wanted to.

  Bador was a striking contrast to Mandalore. Slave I swept on a descent path past orbiters and over cities studded with straight roads and open plazas. Mirta checked her datapad to orient herself.

  “What was your dad’s name?” Fett asked.

  “Makin Marec.”

  Fett always had a reason for asking questions. Perhaps he was wondering who else he might be related to. They landed at one of the massive public ports in Bunar and Fett went through his ritual of setting all the alarms, trip-beams, and other lethal traps that would greet anyone stupid enough to try breaking into Slave I. He’d brought a small speeder bike in the hold, and he swung onto the seat a lot more easily than he had last time. The painkillers were strong enough to anesthetize a bantha.

  “You’re navigating,” he said. He bounced a little on the leather saddle as if testing whether he could feel any pain. “Get on.”

  Mirta patched her datapad into her helmet’s system. “Head down that speeder lane and go south for five kilometers.”

  She was getting used to wearing a buy’ce. At first, it had seemed suffocating and disorienting, but weeks of being surrounded by people who relied on theirs had made her feel a misfit without one. The streaming data on the HUD now got her attention without distracting her. She hadn’t fallen over anything for a while.

  And—it made her feel Mando. Her father would have approved, but she tried not to think what Mama would have said. I miss you, Mama. I miss you so much,
and I never even said good-bye. Fett’s tattered cape slapped against her visor in the slipstream, jerking her out of her memories, and Mirta wondered if she’d eventually become like her grandfather—or like her mother. Bitter resentment about being robbed of a parent seemed to run in the family.

  Fett steered the speeder through increasingly seedy neighborhoods and canyons of high-rise warehouses and apartment houses. Bounty hunters tended not to ply their trade in the better parts of town. The number of shabby family homes decreased and the scattering of unsavory characters loitering on corners and in speeders increased.

  “So what were you after here?” Fett asked.

  “Recovering stolen data.”

  “You mean people around here can read?”

  “No, I have clients who can. The locals steal anything, even if they don’t know what it is. I go and persuade them to hand it back.”

  “And your clone with the gray gloves was definitely here.”

  “Yes.”

  After a couple of wrong turns, the cantina appeared right on cue. In daylight, it looked even worse than it had when she’d last visited. A peppering of blaster burns had left blisters in the paint on the doors, and the masonry was pocked with holes from ballistic rounds that hadn’t been there last time—as far as she could tell. A trail of blood drops from the door ended in a larger pool, dried to a dull tarry blackness. Street cleaning wasn’t frequent here.

  A sign above the door said WELCOME TO THE PARADISE CANTINA. It also said NO HELMETS.

  “I’m offended that they don’t respect cultural diversity,” Fett muttered.

  “That’s how I know what the clone in gray looked like. He took his helmet off.”

  “Fine.” A couple of low-life males—a human and a Rodian—ambled to within ten meters of the speeder and stared at it. Then they seemed to notice Fett, and then his blaster and rocket-loaded backpack, and suddenly they appeared to remember pressing business elsewhere. Fett locked the speeder and set the anti-theft device with a thermal detonator. The two males broke into a run in the opposite direction and vanished. “They don’t seem to know me here, anyway. Fame’s fleeting.”

  Mirta took off her helmet. Fett ignored the request above the doors. The bar smelled as bad as it ever had, a mix of vomit, stale ale, and oil that could have been from machines or very old fried food. The clientele matched their environment, possibly because they’d spent their disposable income on state-of-the-art weaponry. The Kuati barkeeper was filling small dishes on the countertop with pickles that bore an unappetizing resemblance to eyeballs, so they stood at the bar trying to look normal—normal for the Paradise, anyway.

  The barkeep caught sight of Mirta first. She must have been staring at the pickles too carefully.

  “You got to buy a drink,” he said. “No snacks without—” Then his gaze swiveled. The helmet got his attention the way a chest plate alone didn’t. “Ohhh, you got the nerve to come in here, have you, you Mando slag?”

  He ducked below the counter for a split second, and that meant only one thing. Mirta wasn’t sure if she had her blaster level before Ba’buir did, but when the man straightened up with a highly illegal short-barreled Tenloss disruptor that could have reduced them both to ground nerf, he was looking down the muzzles of Fett’s sawn-off EE-3 and her BlasTech 515.

  It startled the barkeep long enough for Fett to land a left hook straight in his face. He fell back against the glasses stacked behind him, and a couple smashed on the tiles. Fett caught the disruptor as it clattered onto the counter; Mirta instinctively covered his back, but none of the customers moved. She was starting to feel comfortable doing this double act. The sense of camaraderie—a long way short of family bond—had crept up on her.

  Fett examined the disruptor and jammed the safety catch on hard, one-handed. “Remember—no disintegrations.”

  The bartender staggered upright, cupping one hand under his nose to catch the dripping blood. “The last Mando who came in here wrecked this place. You’re all the kriffing same, and I don’t want you in here, so why don’t you—”

  Mirta realized she must have missed some fun and games after she’d left the gray clone to his hunting. “That was a long-lost relative,” she said. “We’re looking for him.”

  “Well, when you have your family reunion, I want him to pay for the damage from last time.”

  The man didn’t seem to recognize Ba’buir, but then Fett wouldn’t have taken a contract from this low down the food chain. Senators, crime lords, and the wealthy who could afford him knew his armor. Barkeeps tended not to.

  “Time we shared some reminiscences about my wayward kin,” said Fett, tapping his forefinger impatiently against the trigger guard of his blaster. “I’m not as careful as him. My name’s Fett.”

  The barkeeper’s face drained of what blood there was left in it. Mirta actually watched his color change to a pasty gray. She’d never seen physical fear like that before. The man’s eyes scanned Fett’s visor, and the revelation was almost comic.

  “It was awhile ago …”

  “Mandalorian in gray armor with gray gloves. Called Skirata.” If the bartender was expecting some credits to be slapped on the counter to jog his memory, Fett wasn’t playing. “What do you know?”

  “Okay, he killed a guy here. Lot of damage. Lot of attention from security, too.” The barkeeper stared at Mirta now, and he was evidently piecing things together. “Yeah, you were with him, weren’t you?”

  “Not for long,” said Mirta. She’d moved out of the clone’s way fast—into a different cantina, in fact. “Who did he kill?”

  “Gang boss called Cherit. It made the local holonews, even.”

  Obviously most shoot-outs here didn’t warrant a headline. Mirta made a mental note to check the archives. “What do you know about Cherit that didn’t make the news?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I realize a blow to the face can affect your memory.” Fett still hadn’t lowered his blaster. “Try again.”

  “Okay, Cherit’s outfit supplied rak, lxetallic, and Twi’lek girls to some minor Kuati nobs. He was doing his deals here for a while. Maybe he was muscling in on your relative’s turf.”

  “Doesn’t sound like our line of work.”

  Fett stood facing the man for a long, long time. The barkeeper looked like he was grasping for something else to say to fill the silence. Eventually Fett leaned his blaster against his shoulder, muzzle up in the safety position, and seemed appeased.

  “If you see him again, tell him little Boba wants to see him about a job.”

  “How’s he going to get in touch with you?”

  “Mandalore. Right turn off the Hydian Way. Can’t miss it.”

  “Okay …”

  “And where does Cherit’s gang hang out now?”

  The barkeeper turned to the shelves behind him and fumbled frantically in a pile of flimsi sheets. “Don’t tell Fraig I gave you this.” It was a napkin embossed with a logo that said THE TEKSHAR FALLS CASINO. “You’ll find Fraig there most afternoons at the sabacc tables. Kuat City. Fraig took over from Cherit.”

  Fett pocketed the napkin and strode out. Mirta followed him, backing through the doors more from habit than fear of attack.

  “You reckon Fraig paid the clone for a change of management?” she said, scrambling astride the speeder behind him. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  “If he did, he’ll know how to find him.”

  The speeder bike swooped over the rougher parts of Bunar and headed back to Slave I. “Do you play sabacc?” Fett asked.

  Mirta knew without asking that her grandfather wasn’t a recreational gambler. “No.”

  “Plan B, then.”

  “What Plan B?”

  “I’ll tell you when I’ve worked it out.”

  “What was Plan A?”

  “Dress you up nice, send you in to play a hand or two, and wheedle something out of Fraig.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’d never have worked
anyway. You’re not the wheedling type.”

  It might have been an insult or a compliment, but she had no way of knowing with Fett.

  I want to like him. He’s not likable, but he’s not what you told me he was, either, Mama. How could you even know?

  Mirta found herself arguing with a dead woman, hating herself for it, and finding that nothing she thought she knew was solid any longer. She took one hand off the speeder’s grab bar and eased the heart-of-fire from under her chest plate to grasp it. Maybe it would tell her something sooner or later.

  “Great painkillers,” said Fett. She could see the dried blood on the knuckles of his left glove as he flexed his fist. The stain was bothering him. “Thanks.”

  There was the faintest tinge of warmth in his voice. It was a start.

  JACEN SOLO’S OFFICE, GAG HQ, CORUSCANT

  There was a voice in Jacen’s head, and he never knew whose it was.

  At times it was clearly Vergere, clearly a memory, but at others he wasn’t sure if it was his own thoughts, or Lumiya’s suggestions surfacing from his subconscious, or something else altogether. There were times when he even thought it was his conscience.

  It was his conscience now, he was sure of it. All he could see was his daughter, Allana.

  So you’re not thinking about Tenel Ka, then …

  Whatever act he had to perform to become a full Sith Lord, it would be extreme. It had to be harder than killing a fellow Jedi; harder even than herding Corellians into camps, or turning on his own parents and sister, or subverting democracy.

  It had to be the most painful decision he’d ever taken.

  I just can’t kill my little girl.

  Who says I have to? What would that prove?

  That you’d do anything to acquire the powers to bring peace and order to the galaxy.

  It was Allana’s future that had made him start down this path. Now it would be a secure future for everyone’s kid except his own.

  That’s what it’s about, Jacen. Service, painful service. Embrace that pain.

  No, it wasn’t service. It was insane. He wouldn’t do it. But was it any different from sending your own children to war, making the same sacrifice as millions of other parents? Wasn’t it always harder to give a loved one’s life than your own?