501st: An Imperial Commando Novel (54 page)

The barkeep gave them a weary look and set up two mugs of
net’ra gal
.

“I told you—we asked the garrison to stay out of the place.” The thin head of pale amber foam settled on the black liquid like a mat of pond-barley as he contemplated it. “I’d lose half my custom if nobody could take off their
buy’ce
without being arrested.”

Skirata noted his mug shot was still on the bounty poster behind the bar, along with everyone else’s. The sheet was splashed with some unidentifiable dark stain that might have been blood or even gravy. Some wag had inked in pointy schutta fangs on his image. Vau and Skirata grabbed their ales and found a quiet booth near a noisy hot-air unit, where they huddled over the mugs and tried to keep their voices down.

“Well?” Vau said. “I know what I think that is.”

“So do I. But nobody else seemed to be taking any notice.”

“When did anyone last see the Death Watch here? Nearly thirty years ago. Update the badge, change from dark red to dark blue, and there you are. Nobody remembers. Some fancy diner used a symbol exactly like the winged circle of the Guuko Pure Light party and nobody under fifty thought there was anything wrong with it. Folks forget, and kids don’t get taught. And so these
hut’uune
get reinvented.”

Skirata shut his eyes for a second to recall the symbol. It was a definite W shape. Older Mandos reacted to the Death Watch emblem just like the Guuko reacted to the Pure Light circle, which would always spell genocide to Guukosi who remembered the invasion.

“Maybe we’re letting the personalities of the two
hut’uune
concerned shape our judgment,” said Skirata, realizing he was clutching at straws.

“You know that’s
osik
. This isn’t the time of life to suddenly discover benefit of the doubt.” Vau leaned closer, almost nose-to-nose across the table with Skirata. “I don’t care if they’re cozying up to the Empire or the Holy Children of Asrat. It’s not the company they keep.
It’s what they
are
. No true Mandalorian can live alongside the Death Watch.”

Skirata wondered how many
Mando’ade
had given a mott’s backside about the power struggle between Jaster Mereel and the Death Watch. It hadn’t touched Mandalorians living off-world. It probably hadn’t even touched most of those living in the Mandalore sector. It was between two factions, relatively
small
factions. But it swallowed up the core of the full-time army and the leading clans, and it had been a battle for the heart of
Manda’yaim
—the very culture, how Mandalore would conduct itself for generations to come. The Death Watch represented the worst excess of an ancient imperial Mandalore.

They’re rotten to the core. They’re dangerous
.

Skirata knew that no compromise could be reached with them. He could rationalize about the folly of trying to rebuild old empires, but in the end it was something he felt in his guts like a reflex revulsion at finding a decomposing body. He couldn’t help seeing the Death Watch as something disgusting.

“Like we don’t have enough to keep us busy,” Skirata said. “So who do we deal with first?”

Vau’s lean face betrayed every twitching muscle. He wasn’t just angry. He was possessed. Skirata knew it was stoked by his guilt at not being at Jango Fett’s side at the Battle of Galidraan.

“We haven’t fought a war of expansion for thousands of years,” Vau said. “We’re strictly home defense or mercenaries. Whatever the Death Watch have in mind, they’ll always drag us into the kind of war we can’t win.”

The Death Watch had melted away after Fett finally defeated them. But they had enough Mandalorian spirit in them to guarantee one thing.

They knew the strategic value of
ba’slan shev’la
. And that meant they’d be back one day.

That day could be coming all too soon.

“I hope Mereel isn’t getting
Bard’ika
into bad ways.” Ordo checked his chrono, trying to work out where in the city they’d be by now. “Corr was the quiet stay-at-home type before
Mer’ika
got hold of him.”

But Gilamar wasn’t going to be distracted by small talk. He wasn’t strolling, spreading his virus carefully, but walking with his head thrust forward like a hunting strill on a scent. Ordo knew what was on his mind; Dred Priest and Isabet Reau.

“Kal’buir
shouldn’t have commed you,” Ordo said.

Gilamar shook his head. “I knew they were here. It was only a matter of time.”

“I meant about the Death Watch angle.”

“That,” Gilamar said, “only makes me want to kill them
twice.
”

Ordo found himself wondering how hard a stranglehold he’d have to put on Gilamar to break up a fight without hurting the man. Keldabe wasn’t a big place. The public areas—marketplaces, alleys full of shops, the main cantinas—were all crammed into a small sector, and on a busy day like this the entire population seemed to be circulating around it just waiting to run into folks they knew. But Gilamar was a pro, a man used to keeping a low profile. He wasn’t going to start a brawl and draw attention to himself.

“So where have the Death Watch been all these years, then?” Ordo said.

“Depends who you ask.” Gilamar obviously kept tabs on them, which was worrying in itself. “Anywhere from half the planets on the Outer Rim to Endor. Also holding hands with Black Sun and any other crime syndicate that’ll pay them.”

Ordo tried to calm him down. “Let’s distinguish between the lowlife sporting a badge to look tougher to their criminal buddies, and the real Death Watch. If someone wants to be a designer thug, that’s not our problem.”

“But anyone who wants to change Mandalore and its culture to achieve galactic domination—that’s very much our problem. You remember Priest, Ordo. You know what he’s like. And they’re all like that, all of them. Ask Arla.”

Gilamar’s resolve to leave the galaxy’s ideologues and firebrands to rebel against Palpatine seemed to have been swept aside by a knee-jerk urge to start an equally dangerous fight with other Mandalorians. Ordo scanned every unhelmeted face he passed, hoping that he’d spot a familiar one before Gilamar did.

“I still don’t see what the Death Watch would get out of siding with Palpatine,” Ordo said. “If they want to restore the Mando empire, he’s not the power-sharing kind.”

“Maybe he’s franchising dictatorships. The Death Watch gets this concession to keep an eye on the place.”

“That won’t be enough for them.”

“No, not if they’re still spouting Vizsla’s party line.”

“What was Jango doing recruiting them? He had more reason to hate the Death Watch than anybody”

“Priest and Reau weren’t exactly card-carrying members. Jango thought they were all talk. He only cared about results.”

So even legends made bad choices. Ordo found that oddly comforting. Gilamar took off his helmet as he walked and slipped on a sun visor. Combined with a bandanna tied over the hair, the visor gave Gilamar some anonymity in this crowd, and even his broken nose wasn’t as distinctive in Keldabe as it might have been on Coruscant. A lot of people had one—including females.

I feel like I’m roasting. This fever had better be over as fast as Uthan promised
.

Ordo could still smell frying food whether his nose was running or not. He opened the filter on his helmet and savored the scent. Gilamar, a pace or two ahead of him, was forced to slow down by the press of bodies as they got closer to the market square.

“I’ll be glad when this is done.” Gilamar’s voice
rasped. “I feel as rough as old boots. Qail can make me a nice pot of shig when I get home, maybe with a splash of
tihaar
in it.”

“We’re hard as nails,” Ordo said. “Not.”

He willed the day to be over without incident. Just a couple more turns around the block, and they could meet up with the others in the
Oyu’baat
, then head back to Kyrimorut, job done, population immunized. The next problem was waiting to be solved; erasing the memories of their Jedi guests before transferring them to Altis’s care.

Ordo spotted a few items on the stalls that Besany might like—a decent butchering knife, a ruby glass vial of perfume—and paused to check them over. Gilamar scanned the crowd, managing to look casual. The stormtroopers had vanished. Ordo paid for the knife and the perfume, then commed Jusik for a routine check.

“How’s it going,
Bard’ika?”
he asked.

“Mereel’s just met a new woman. I’m sure she’ll be sneezing and coughing very soon.”

Ordo couldn’t begrudge Mereel grabbing whatever chances he could to be young and carefree but he wanted to tell him to keep his mind on the job. “Can’t ever call that boy
slow.
”

“What’s the problem? I can feel a lot of angst around.”

Ordo still tended to forget that Jusik sensed things. “Oh, Priest and his crazy woman are in town, and
Kal’buir
said they had Death Watch insignia or something.”

“That explains what I can feel.”

“See you later. Make sure Mereel doesn’t wear himself out.”

Ordo shut the comm and turned to share the joke with Gilamar. He’d only taken his eyes off him for a few seconds. For a moment, he lost him in the sea of shoppers; then he spotted his brown bandanna, and realized Gilamar had moved on a few meters. He stood on the
corner of an alley that became steep steps leading down to the river.

Better stick with him. Can’t be too careful
.

Ordo edged through the crowd and reached out to tap Gilamar’s shoulder. Gilamar turned slowly, but it wasn’t toward Ordo. It was as if someone had called him and he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to respond.

“Fancy seeing you here,” said a voice that Ordo hadn’t heard in years.

By the time Ordo got to Gilamar, he could see Dred Priest almost face-to-face with him, and Ordo knew he’d have to intervene.

Come on, Mij
, udesii.
Stay cool. Don’t make a scene
.

Ordo saw Gilamar literally hold himself back, straining to walk away and save his anger for later. But it was too late; Priest had cornered him. There was nowhere to run, too dense a crowd. Gilamar stood his ground.

“Small world,” he muttered.

Priest took off his helmet.
Kal’buir
had described him as having the sort of face he could punch all day; it was that thin, lopsided mouth that did it. There was no sign of Isabet Reau. She was no work of art, either.

“You never were the kind to worry about the wanted list, were you?” Priest said. “Been a long time.” He glanced at Ordo. “Who’s this?”

“My nephew,” Gilamar said. Ordo took that as a hint to keep quiet and not give Priest a clue who was under the helmet. “I’d like to say I’d missed you, but you’d know I was lying. So … working for the Empire?”

The emblem on Priest’s shoulder plate really did look like the old Death Watch badge. Even Ordo could see that, and he hadn’t lived with it as a specter of dread like Gilamar and the others had. He kept his arms at his sides, but flexed his right fist discreetly to make sure the vibroblade in his gauntlet was primed to eject. Gilamar still had his thumbs hooked on his belt, deceptively casual.

“You know how I prefer winners,” said Priest.

Gilamar stared pointedly at Priest’s emblems. “Interesting paint job.”

“Is that a question?”

“Was that an answer?”

“No hard feelings about the pounding you gave me.”

“Oh good.”

“And if you’re worried I’m going to turn you in to the garrison, I’ve got more pressing business.” Priest looked around. Maybe he was checking for Reau. “Times change. Are you looking for work?”

Gilamar froze. Ordo thought he was bracing to throw a punch. “Not with the Death Watch,
hut’uun.
”

“Things have changed since Vizsla.” Priest took that ultimate insult calmly. “The galaxy’s a different place. Mandalorians need to look after themselves better. Not just scramble for crumbs like the deadbeats here.”

Ordo couldn’t just walk away now that Priest had identified Gilamar. Plenty of folks here knew that Skirata and his clan were back somewhere on Mandalore, and even if they did some work for the garrison, that didn’t make them Imperial sympathizers. But Priest was different, almost an enemy to start with. There was no telling what he’d do.

“So—new Death Watch?” Gilamar said quietly. His voice was steady, as if he’d suddenly forgotten the past and every blow he’d ever landed on Priest. “New policies?” Then he looked around as if he was checking for eavesdroppers. “You better tell me about it.”

Gilamar turned and jerked his head at Priest to follow him. Ordo took the cue instantly, closing up behind them. Gilamar led the way down the alley. It grew steeper and became cobbled steps that dipped down to the level of the river, deserted and damp with spray. It was just a dead end that had once led to a sluice gate or something, but the gate had long gone, and now the archway cut from the solid granite foundations of Keldabe was sealed off by a metal safety rail. Foaming, hammering white water rushed beneath them, echoing under the arch and drenching the walls with a permanent mist.
Deep green frond-grass thrived in the cracks. It was the kind of hidden spot where you could lean on the rail and lose yourself in contemplation of the raging river, or meet a lover, or just hide.

It was a great place to discuss the Death Watch without being overheard. But Ordo had no idea what Gilamar was up to.

He’s going to shake Priest down. Double agent stuff. I hope he knows what he’s doing
.

Gilamar put one hand out to lean on the wall, which would have looked relaxed to anyone who didn’t know him. Ordo stood back, ready to do whatever needed doing. Priest kept glancing at him. He’d obviously pegged him as the hired muscle who’d give him a clip around the ear if he got out of line.

“I never did like you much, Dred,” Gilamar said. “Or your
chakaar
of a girlfriend. What could I possibly do for you?”

“Same as always. You’re either with us, or you’re against us.”

“And
us
is …”