Star Wars: The Mandalorian Junior Novel

by Joe Schreiber

  “I’ll be fine,” Mando said evenly.

  Ran shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “You know the policy. No questions. And you”—the smile returned, and he rested a companionable hand on Mando’s shoulder—“you’re welcome back here anytime.” He gestured to an elevated walkway. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”

  The Mandalorian followed him along the walkway, the two of them making their way above the various fighters and freighters that had settled in for maintenance. Sparks flew from soldering irons and power tools, raising odorous clouds of smoke. This was a busy place, and there was no shortage of ships awaiting repair.

  “So what’s the job?” Mando asked.

  “Well,” Ran said, “one of our associates ran afoul of some competitors and got himself caught. I’m putting together a crew to spring him. It’s a five-person job. I got four.” He turned to look at Mando. “All I need is the ride, and you brought it.”

  They stopped walking. The bounty hunter gazed down at his ship on the pad below. “The ship wasn’t part of the deal,” he said.

  “Well, the Crest is the only reason I let you back in here.” Ran’s seemingly cheerful expression hadn’t changed. “What’s the look? Is that gratitude?” He laughed. “Uh-huh, I think it is.”

  He was still chuckling as he turned and walked away.

  Down below, the Mandalorian met the rest of Ran’s crew, starting with a bald, smirking man named Mayfeld, who wore a specially made blaster prosthetic in a shoulder rig, where he could make sure everybody saw it.

  Mayfeld looked Mando up and down, unimpressed, before turning to Ran. “This is the guy you were telling me about?”

  “Mando and I used to do jobs together back in the day,” Ran said. “We were all young, trying to make a name for ourselves, but running with a Mandalorian, that was”—he glanced over at Mando—“that brought us some reputation.” He gave a gruff, nostalgic chortle. “We did some crazy stuff, didn’t we?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Mando said.

  “Well, I don’t go out anymore,” Ran said, “so Mayfeld, he’s gonna run point on this job.” His voice grew more serious. “If he says it, it’s like it’s coming from me. You good with that?”

  “You tell me,” Mando said, and saw Mayfeld’s reaction, the man’s eyebrows rising.

  Ran burst out laughing again. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

  “Well, things have changed around here,” Mayfeld blustered, and turned to swagger away, making sure that Mando saw he was taking his time about it.

  “Mayfeld’s one of the best triggermen I’ve ever seen,” Ran said. “Former Imperial sharpshooter.”

  “That’s not saying much,” Mando said.

  Mayfeld looked over his shoulder. “I wasn’t a stormtrooper!”

  Ran glanced at his old friend with another rueful laugh. “Doesn’t take much, does it?” he said. “Come on, you might as well meet the rest of them.”

  Down by the Razor Crest, Mando found himself surrounded by the other members of the team—the massive, standoffish Devaronian named Burg; the bug-eyed droid named Zero; and bringing up the rear, a purple-skinned female Twi’lek whose voice the Mandalorian recognized even before he saw her face.

  “Hello, Mando,” she said.

  “Xi’an,” he said.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand?” she asked, and lunged at him, dagger in hand, thrusting it up underneath his helmet.

  He didn’t flinch. “Nice to see you, too,” he said, and the laughter of the others faded as Xi’an leaned in closer, turning her head and clicking her tongue.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whispered, gazing into his visor as if she could somehow see more than just her own eyes staring back at her—or maybe that’s all she wanted to see.

  Mayfeld brought the team together and ran down the plan. “The package is being moved on a fortified transport ship,” he said, indicating the pale blue holodisplay that he’d activated in front of him. “We’ve got a limited window to board, find our friend, get him out of there before they make their jump.”

  Mando looked at the three-dimensional diagram hovering below him and recognized the design. “That’s a New Republic prison ship,” he said, and looked at Mayfeld. “Your man wasn’t taken by a rival syndicate. He was arrested.”

  “So what?” Mayfeld asked.

  Ran looked at Mando. “A job is a job,” he reminded him.

  “That’s a max-security transport,” Mando said. “I’m not looking for that kind of heat.”

  “Why do you think we’re using the Razor Crest?” Ran said. “It’s not much to look at, but it’s off the old Imperial and New Republic grid. It’s a ghost. They’ll never see it coming.”

  They waited while Mayfeld explained the rest. “We’ll drop out of hyperspace close enough to get in their blind spot,” he said. “We’ll have just enough time to scramble their signal.”

  “That’s not possible,” Mando said. “Even for the Crest.”

  Ran grinned and gestured to the droid. “That’s why he’s flying.” Anticipating the Mandalorian’s response, he held up one hand. “I know you’re a good pilot, but this time we need you on the trigger, not on the wheel. Zero may be a little rough around the edges, but he’s the best.”

  Mando waited as Zero followed the rest of the team aboard the ship, until it was just him and Ran standing at the foot of the ramp. “How can you trust it?” he asked.

  “You know me, Mando,” Ran said. “I don’t trust anybody.”

  Mando started up the gangplank to his ship and heard Ran speak up behind him.

  “Just like the good old days, huh, Mando?”

  The Mandalorian looked around and said nothing. Reaching out, he hit the switch to withdraw the ramp and close the hatch, then watched Ran’s bearded face, still grinning, until it was gone. He could hear the engines throttling up and realized that meant the droid was already in the cockpit, starting preflight programming.

  For better or worse, it was time to go.

  THE TROUBLE BEGAN when the Devaronian tried to take Mando’s helmet off.

  They had just made the jump to hyperspace, and Zero was flying, which meant nobody had anything better to do than wait around belowdecks. Mando had caught them rummaging through his arsenal, and Mayfeld told Burg it might be time to see what the Mandalorian looked like under his bucket. When the Devaronian made a move to grab it and lift it off, Mando smashed him hard in the face, knowing he’d have to land as many punches as he could early to get any kind of advantage. Otherwise it wouldn’t even be a fight—Burg would simply pick him up and snap him in half.

  That didn’t happen, but only because the Devaronian fell back and hit the control switch on the wall, opening the hatchway behind him. There was a quick whoosh, and the bounty hunter heard the Child inside chirp in surprise.

  Everyone stopped.

  “Whoa.” Mayfeld stared at the Child, rising to his feet. “What is that?” He glanced at Mando, eyes bright, then back at the Child. “What is it, like a pet or something?”

  “Yeah,” the Mandalorian said carefully. “Something like that.”

  Mayfeld nodded, as if they’d finally found some common ground. “Me, I was never into pets. I mean, I tried, but it didn’t work out. But I’m thinking”—he reached down and lifted the Child up—“maybe I’ll try again with this little fella.” He was looking at Mando, the Child held out in front of him, and opened his hands, pretending to drop him.

  Mando didn’t move. Mayfeld waited to see what would happen, thinking that if the bounty hunter tried anything, there would be one extra share he and the others could divide among them, and they could all fly home in the ship. Ran would be happy to have it.

  “Coming out of hyperspace now.” Zero’s voice through the intercom interrupted, and it was time to go to work.

  “Commence extraction now,” the droid said.

  It had been a rough landing, turbulent enough to throw them all sideways and b
ackward as Zero completed the coupling with the transport. The Mandalorian rose to his feet and heard Mayfeld’s voice behind him. “All right, we’ve got a job to do,” he said. “Mando, you’re up.”

  The Mandalorian bent down over the Crest’s ventral hatchway, rigging the bypass cable to the other ship’s docking port, which was locked from the inside. The red light on the console spluttered and flickered as the system scanned the prison ship’s security code and triggered it. The light on the console turned green, and the hatch opened with a vacuum-sealed whoosh.

  Just like that, they were in.

  Inside, the prison ship was a desolate maze of long white corridors lined with cells, the hallways stretching out in different directions, empty except for a pair of patrol droids. Mayfeld keyed the comm. “Zero, get us to the control room.”

  “Sublevel three,” the droid replied promptly from the Crest. “Disabling onboard surveillance.”

  “All right,” Mayfeld said, “we’re on the clock. The second we engage those droids, they’re gonna be all over us.”

  “I know the drill,” the Mandalorian said.

  Blaster raised, the bald man led the way down the hall, and the others followed in silence. They walked past cells where inmates dangled their hands through the bars, gazing at them and making curious noises.

  “I don’t like this,” Mando said.

  “You always were paranoid,” Xi’an jeered.

  Mayfeld raised an eyebrow. “Is that true, Mando? Were you always paranoid?”

  To their left, something inside one of the cells roared and slammed against the door hard enough to make them draw away from it—except for Xi’an, who leaned in and hissed back at it, making Burg chortle. Zero’s voice came through the communicator again.

  “Approaching control room,” the droid said. “Make a left at the next juncture.”

  As they went around the corner, a small mouse droid swerved across the floor in front of them. “It’s just a little mousey,” the Devaronian said, drawing his blaster and hiding it behind his back. “Come here, little mousey….”

  The droid hesitated and started to back away, and Burg snarled. Whipping out his blaster, he fired, blowing it apart.

  “What are you doing?” Mayfeld said. “You’re gonna—”

  It was already too late. The hallway in front of them filled with four security droids, marching forward, their blasters blazing. Mando and the others took cover along the walls and tried to return fire, but it was almost impossible without exposing themselves. Mayfeld’s shoulder piece extended a blaster on its mechanical arm, firing from behind him, but the security droids just kept attacking.

  “Mando, let’s go! You’re supposed to be something special.” Mayfeld shook his head in disappointment. “I knew it!”

  Then the Mandalorian ran forward, going into a low slide at the last second, hitting the droids low, and knocking one of them over. He sprang up, grabbed the nearest one, and smashed its head against the floor, then fired his cable at another and pulled, yanking the droid forward and flinging it into the opposite wall. The others tried to react, but their mechanical bodies were too big and awkward for that kind of close-quarters fighting. They were still struggling to catch up as the Mandalorian ripped a chunk of the chest plate from one, whipped around, and threw it into the head of the other, impaling it. The fight ended when he used a razor coil to decapitate the last droid standing, sending its metal head rattling to the floor—

  And then two more burst in, guns at the ready. The bounty hunter unleashed his blowtorches on them, incinerating the body of one and firing a blaster through the other.

  In the silence, Mando could hear the prisoners whooping and cheering in their cells. It wasn’t every day they were treated to the sound of a half dozen security droids being reduced to parts. Mayfeld was less impressed. He led the others past the Mandalorian as they stepped over the scattered pieces of mech.

  “Make sure you clean up your mess,” Mayfeld muttered.

  But when they reached the control room, the mess just got worse.

  “There were only supposed to be droids on this ship,” Mando said as they stood in front of an anxious, and very human, corrections officer, who was pointing his blaster back at them. In his other hand, the officer held a tracking beacon, and they all knew what that meant. Once activated, a New Republic attack team would home in on the signal and end the job abruptly, along with their lives.

  It was Mando who spoke first. “Put it down,” he told the guard, whose frightened face showed only faint signs that he was actually listening. “We’re not here for you. We’re here for the prisoner.”

  The guard didn’t budge. Mayfeld wouldn’t lower his blaster, either. It was Xi’an who ended the standoff by knocking the officer out and dropping him to the floor.

  “Would you both just shut up?” she said.

  Mayfeld looked down at the tracker, lying on the floor where the guard had dropped it. Its light was blinking.

  “Was that thing blinking before?” he asked, voice trembling. “Was it?”

  Zero came through the communicator, answering the question for him. “I’ve detected a New Republic tracking signal,” the droid said, “homing in on your location. You have approximately twenty minutes.”

  Xi’an cocked her head and licked her lips, her eyes shimmering with excitement. “We only need five.”

  When they reached the cell, Zero activated remote access, and the door lifted to reveal a Twi’lek male seated on the bench inside.

  “Brother,” Xi’an said, smiling.

  “Sister,” the male Twi’lek said, grinning back. He stared out at the Mandalorian with cold, familiar eyes. “And look who else came along for the ride.”

  “Qin,” Mando said in greeting.

  “Funny,” the Twi’lek said, stepping outside to join the others in the hallway without ever breaking eye contact with Mando. “The man who left me behind is now my savior.”

  Behind him, Mando heard a growl. As he turned, Burg punched him hard enough to hurl him into the vacant cell. Mando spun around and fired back at them, but the door was already closing. The blaster bolt ricocheted around the walls, skimming past his head. He heard the cell’s locking device click into place.

  He was sealed inside.

  After the others left, a security droid moved past the cell. Mando reached out, fired his grappling cable, and snared the droid around the neck, then yanked it up against the other side of the door. He grabbed the droid’s arm and twisted, feeling the wires and servos pulling loose, until he’d ripped the limb free, and then he turned the blaster on the droid, blowing its head off.

  Which left him holding the severed arm.

  Mando activated a switch on the thing’s wiring. A key extended outward, and he plugged it into the port on the door. It drew open, and he stepped out.

  It was time to go hunting.

  “COME ON!” Mayfeld shouted. “Attack fleet’s on their way. We gotta go!”

  Through the communicator’s earpiece, Zero’s voice had the same calm authority as always. “You have ten minutes remaining.”

  Mayfeld and the others were running down the corridor toward the exit point when the power shut off and the doors started slamming down around them. It was as if the entire prison ship had decided to seal them inside. Had the air vents started shutting down, too? Mayfeld felt a sudden flutter of claustrophobia, like a rubber glove squeezing his lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

  I’m not getting trapped here, he thought. I’ll die first.

  He thought about the Mandalorian. Maybe they shouldn’t have double-crossed him.

  Too late now, he thought, and turned the corner.

  Dead end.

  —

  Inside the command center, Mando continued to activate the ship’s remote systems, shutting the doors and closing off hallways. On the video monitors, he could see Mayfeld and the others, their faces bathed in the red glow of the transport’s backup power supply. Divided
from each other, lost in the maze of corridors, they were starting to panic.

  He closed another door.

  Cut off from Xi’an and Burg, Mayfeld found himself alone with the male Twi’lek, Qin. Alarms were blaring, no doubt announcing the impending arrival of the New Republic fleet. They were running out of time.

  The prisoner grinned at Mayfeld. “You got a name?”

  “Mayfeld.”

  “Well, Mr. Mayfeld,” Qin said. “You’re gonna get me off this ship.”

  “What about your sister?” Mayfeld asked.

  Qin’s grin widened. “What about her?”

  As the Twi’lek turned and started walking away, Mayfeld shook his head. “Nice family,” he muttered.

  Inside the command center, the Mandalorian bent down to retrieve the blinking tracker device that the corrections officer had activated. It occurred to Mando that if he waited, at least one of his targets would come to him.

  It was Burg who burst into the command center first.

  The Devaronian stood there, looking around at the consoles of blinking lights and monitor screens. He’d been ready for a fight, but the area appeared abandoned.

  Then he heard the sound above.

  From his hiding place overhead, Mando fired his cable down and yanked Burg off his feet, only to have the ceiling collapse under the Devaronian’s weight, causing Mando to fall on top of him. Furious, Burg snarled and swung his fist at him. He was impossibly strong, and there was no way the bounty hunter could hold his own against him in a physical fight. Mando allowed himself to be picked up and hurled backward as Burg growled at him from the open doorway, preparing to finish the job.

  The Mandalorian slammed the hatch down on him with a resolute clang. A moment passed, and Burg shoved the door upward, rising to his feet with a sneer of victory.

  Mando hit the second button, and the side doors slammed together.

  This time, Burg didn’t get up.

  “Man-do,” Xi’an trilled, her voice taunting. “Where are you?”