He was the head of a ragbag of scattered Mando'ade. There were farmers and metalworkers and families scraping a living back on Mandalore, and there were any number of mercenaries, bounty hunters, and small communities in diaspora across the rest of the galaxy. It was hard to call them a nation. He wasn't even a head of state, not in the way Corellians or Coruscanti understood it. In the wake of the Yuuzhan Vong war, he had just a hundred commandos to call on, but they were still doing what Mandalorians had done for generations: eking out a grim existence in the Mandalore sector, defending Mandalorian enclaves, or taking on the wars of others. He had no idea how many more people who thought of themselves as Mandalorians were spread across the galaxy.
A hundred Mando warriors was still a force to be reckoned with, though. And every Mandalorian was still a warrior at heart, man and woman, boy and girl. They all still trained from childhood to fight.
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.
"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. 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."
Fett disguised Slave I's armaments with a sensor screen and prepared to land. If anything went wrong, he had the firepower of a small warship to get out of trouble-turbolasers, ion cannon, torpedoes, and concussion missiles. He'd added conventional armor-piercing detonite ordnance on the last refit just in case he was ever low on power and stuck in a tight corner. Leaving things to chance was for amateurs.
"You got any names?"
Taun We stiffened. "Do you remember that aggressive little human called Skirata? The one who . . . threatened my colleagues with a knife so frequently?"
Yes, he remembered Kal Skirata, all right. Sometimes his father swore he was the best of the bunch; sometimes he just swore at him and lashed out. Jango Fett rarely lost his temper, but Skirata had a talent for making that happen. He was ferociously and uncompromisingly Mandalorian.
"Mand'alor!" said a voice Fett didn't recognize. "Gal'gala?"
The soldier took off his Mandalorian helmet and gave Fett a stiffly formal nod. A baby's handprint in charcoal paint adorned the helmet of his gray-blue armor, a curious foil for the Verpine rifle slung over his left shoulder.
"This is Ram," said Beviin. "Ram Zerimar. He's our star sniper. For those delicate jobs."
There was nothing like half a dozen fully armored Mandalorian warriors to guarantee you a table to yourself in a crowded bar. Beviin introduced them: Zerimar, Briike, Orade, Vevut-and Talgal, the only woman, and one who looked as if she ate Yuuzhan Vong for appetizers. Apart from Beviin, none had fought with him against the Vong and he didn't know them.
Orade-buzz-cut blond hair, broken nose, a brush of gold beard on the point of his chin-folded his arms on the table and made a fresh scrape in the polished surface. "What do you think?"
"Unenthusiastic," said Vevut. Another stranger: he had long, black, woolly braids bound with gold rings, and the dark skin of his left cheek was scored by an impressive scar. "Maybe we wait and see before we commit ourselves."
