Supercommando Training Range (after hours)
Pow!
The rifle jerked in Tamai's arms, kicking against the padded cup of her shoulder. The firing range flared red and the faraway dummy twitched on its pole. When the smoky discharge cleared, a seared black bullet hole stood out on its chest, to the left of where the heart should hide.
Not good enough. Not nearly good enough. She huffed and sighted in again, flexing her grip over the rifle's contoured handgrip. The whole contraption felt awkward and alien in her hands, too heavy and angular for her tastes. It was an unsightly beast of sharp gunmetal-gray lines and humming accelerator coils that would have looked more at home in the hands of a brutish Gammorean than a trained Mandalorian. Unfortunately, this wasn't about her personal preference for firearms. If it was—
Pow!
An inch or so closer this time, but still too far left. Still not good enough.
Pow! Pow!
Still left.
She cursed and adjusted her sights. "Damn thing. Must have knocked it out of alignment when I set it up."
Heavy bootsteps thudded against the ground behind her before something nudged at her heel. Cin put a hand on her shoulder, shifting her balance as he pushed her foot further back with the toe of his boot. She frowned but followed his motions, widening her feet and tilting her shoulders to the side.
"Your feet need to be a little wider apart," he instructed. "Lean on your rear heel to compensate for the extra weight."
His hands fell to her hips and shifted her center of balance. "Move your stance a bit more. Like you're trying to strike a pose."
She scoffed but followed his lead as he guided her into the right position. He stayed close behind her, no doubt studying her posture, as he continued, "BlasTech knows their weapons, but they're shit when it comes to weight distribution. You can't lug this thing around like a standard energy blaster without extensive modifications."
"And this is why I prefer pistols." She craned her neck to aim down the sights. She didn't make it far before he tapped the crown of her head and she growled, "I know, I know. Both eyes open when aiming."
"It'll help your accuracy."
"So you say. I still don't see it."
Pow!
Another flash and a roar of discharge. The dummy jumped as if shoved hard in the chest. When the smoke cleared, the impact site was closer to the intended target, but still to the left and this time too low. She sighed and let the rifle drop into her arms in defeat. "Kark it all…"
A gentle chuckle from behind her; not judgmental but amused nonetheless. "You know, I suggested we have a dinner date. Like normal people?"
"And I told you I have to practice," she said. She rested the projectile battle rifle on the bench in front of her to give her tired arms a temporary reprieve. "Field Marshal Dala is testing our weapon marksmanship in a week and I don't want to give him an excuse to lay into me. Besides, the last thing I need is you getting all moody because we're out in public. I'd hate for you to have to—" she rolled her eyes, "— socialize."
She made a show of shuddering in mock revulsion.
"All right, Miss Smarmy-shebs. Don't come complaining that we don't do anything romantic anymore."
"I dunno," she smiled and put her hands over his, which still rested on her hips. She leaned back against him. "I don't think normal range coaches get quite this close to their students."
"Not my fault you look so good in armor," he insisted. "Besides, with the shit stance you keep falling into, you're almost asking me to put my hands on you. Be glad Janada managed to pull some strings and get us in after everyone's gone home or you'd have some grizzled Supercommando screaming at you instead."
She turned in his embrace with a smile and rested her arms on his shoulders. Their foreheads collided with the gentle tap of a kov'nyn kiss. "Lucky me."
"Lucky indeed," he agreed. "Now back to it, cyar'ika. And for te Manda's sake keep both eyes open."
He nudged her back to the range and she picked up the rifle again with a disappointed sigh. A low sigh released all the air from her lungs and she fell into position once more, following his earlier pointers: legs wider, hips tilted back. She murmured to herself as she readied for the shot. "Both eyes open, weight on the back hip, and…"
Pow!
"E chu ta je um doe blastoh!" Tamai cursed in fluent Huttese. "This kriffing gun can go straight to hell!" She tossed the heavy weapon down onto the bench in front of her. The assembled ammunition boxes rattled indignantly. She snatched up her sidearm and leveled it, one-handed, downrange.
"And before you say it," she hissed, "I know I'm closing my eye. Fuck off."
"You aim better with—"
"Suck a spike!"
She fired four times. All four shots right on target, over the dummy's "heart."
But she wasn't done yet. She twisted her outstretched arm palm-down, braced it with her other hand, and a plume of smoke and flame erupted from her forearm as her mounted wrist rocket launched and screamed away. The dummy disappeared within the flash of a concussive explosion, reduced to smoldering wreckage in the blink of an eye. The ensuing backwash of smoke filled the room and washed them both in a fine layer of soot and ash. It took a few moments for the ringing in her ears to stop, but she was filled with a wonderful sense of petty satisfaction at seeing the stupid dummy blasted apart like a mynock in a hyperdrive manifold.
"There," she huffed, turning back to Cin as bits of charred rubble continued to rain down around them. She spun her pistol lazily around her finger before holstering it on her hip with a single smooth motion. "Problem solved."
Cin brushed a piece of smoldering fabric from his shoulder before it could singe his flight suit. "As a bounty hunter, I'm not opposed to overkill. Though I'm not sure Tobbi Dala will approve of your methods."
"Target's down," she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. "That's what matters."
"And now you're covered in debris and ash," he pointed out, picking a piece of charred dummy from her blonde hair. "You're going to need a shower."
"Wonderful idea," she said. She grabbed his hand and pulled him after her. "And you're coming with me."
"What?"
"I need to let off some steam. After we're done, we'll get back to it. Now hop to, before I start to get the wrong impression. Barrack showers are in Section Delta."
"Yes, ma'am."
Maybe it was because she had so often found herself in the wildlands of the frontier, far from the slightest passing sign of civilization. Maybe it was because she had spent so much of her initial training in the deep north, where nothing but frozen plains of ice and winter wind greeted wayward travelers. Maybe it was a lot of things, but for Tamai, there was something wonderful about the simple pleasure of a shower. Not the standard sanisteam so popular among spacers or one of those godawful sonic showers, mind you, but a real, honest-to-manda heated water shower. After a long day punching hard into training, scouting, or brawling, it was an indescribable relief to let a spray of hot water soothe away the complaints of an aching body.
And when she got to share said shower with someone else, well…
The barrack's 'freshers were far from luxurious, cramped and grimy from overuse as they were, but they more than got the job done. Hot water poured in rivulets from the ends of her sopping hair and traced gentle zig-zags down her bare back. Steam wafted thick and heavy through the room, enveloping her in a pocket of pleasantly muggy air. Her eyes drifted closed and she let the downpour patter across her face, streaming down her neck and arms and washing away all the strain and stress of the day.
With a sigh, she rested her forehead on Cin's shoulder. His arms came up around her without prompting and she smiled at his attentiveness. It had been a long time since someone had held her like this, since she'd had the time and trust to close her eyes and relax.
His lips ghosted with gentle affection across the faint white line of a scar that stretched across her neck. It had become a familiar dance between them in recent weeks, both of them exploring and re-learning each other's bodies and the remnants of old wounds left there. It was an unspoken tradition among estranged Mandalorian lovers: each scar painted a picture of an adventure one had experienced and the other had missed. And between them, they had many adventures to catch up on.
"What was this one?" Cin murmured against her neck.
She smiled and arched into his touch with a pleased sigh. "Hmm… beskad. Bandit attack near the equator. Tried to take my head off, but the di'kut missed his mark. Still bled like a stuck hog, though. Hyperion actually thought I was dying. Got all teary-eyed and everything."
He hummed against her skin as she traced her fingers across a jagged mark of lumpy flesh just below his shoulder. "This one?"
He let out a breath that tickled below her ear, along the sweet spot at the curve of her jaw. "A souvenir from the Kassh contract. Nasty job. No time to patch it up before jumping into the next fight, so it opened and re-opened a couple times. Never healed quite right."
Her fingers drifted down his chest, over hard planes of muscle and rough patches of wound-warped tissue. Tamai had more than a few new marks to show off in these private, intimate moments: battle scars and memories of stupid accidents, marks she was proud of and a few she wasn't. The marks made her less attractive to some outsiders, who ignorantly believed a woman should be smooth and perfect. Among her people it was the exact opposite: a flawless complexion meant one had never lived a life worth fighting for. Tamai was proud of her body: her toned runner's muscles that complimented her gentle curves, accentuated by all the evidence that she had, in fact, fought for her life on many occasions and emerged the victor every time.
But her old war wounds were nothing compared to the sight of the man in front of her. Where her body was a patchwork of smooth skin and tough warrior's hide, Cin's body was a veritable forest of battle trophies with barely a hand's breadth left unravaged. She could feel the texture beneath her palms, rough and ragged like pebbled duracrete beneath the spray of the shower. His marks ranged from small, thin scratches on his pale flesh to jagged divots that carved deep into his body, all dominated by the garish, mangled marks of twisted and knotted tissue that marked the accident that had first brought him to Mandalore.
She tilted her head as her touch went lower, fingers finding a long lump above his ribs. "What about this one?"
"An interesting story, actually." He squirmed, tickled by her probing fingers. "Shot with an arrow by a low-tech merc on Folbyr."
She smirked at him. "Sure."
"It's the truth. Arrow went under my arm, right into the weak spot my flak vest didn't cover"
"What happened?"
"An ambush. Locals were being attacked by Imperial forces hungry for their land and hired out some big-shot frontiersman to protect their villages. I was called in to track down a trio of terrorists hiding out in the towns. Mr. Merc mistook me for a stormtrooper and hit me from the trees. Got lucky. Didn't even say sorry either."
"Looks like it was painful."
"It was. Especially when the idiot med-tech in the village expedition karked up when he set the cracked rib again. It healed crooked, hence the scar."
"I like it." She smiled. "And the story behind it."
"I'm glad you approve." He brushed her sopping hair behind her ear and touched a mark on her left temple carved into otherwise unmarked skin. "Let me guess: Jaig Hawk attack?"
"I wish. No, I got hit upside the head with a knotted water pipe. Never underestimate a drunk farmer with a grudge, especially when you forgot your helmet at the bar."
Another of his small, charming smiles tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'll keep that in mind."
His hand drifted over her collar and down to her stomach. A small ring of puckered tissue stood out in a starburst pattern above the toned V of her hips.
"You were shot," he observed. Those eyes of his didn't miss a thing, did they? "Mid-sized projectile weapon."
"Sniper," Tamai explained. "Trandoshan hunters trying to sneak into the heartlands for some big game hunting. Damn bolt slipped right between my stomach plate and my belt and left a hell of a mess for the medics to stitch up. They took a chunk out of my small intestine while they were at it."
"Ouch."
"Ouch indeed. You'll notice I can't eat some of the same food anymore without throwing it all up again. The bullet wound was a breeze compared to that."
He stretched an arm up and pointed to a mottled purple-brown line near his armpit. "See that? Stabbed with a vibroblade by a would-be assassin. Docs said it missed my heart by centimeters. Still managed to puncture my lung, though, and on cold days I can't lift that arm completely above my head."
She leaned down and gestured to a similar mark on her leg. "I got hit with a vibroblade by a bastard I thought was dead. Almost popped my kneecap clean off, and I walk with a limp whenever it's too humid."
He cracked a smile. "I can imagine us in our twilight years, sitting on Rame's back porch and complaining that a storm's coming 'cause we can feel it in our bad hip."
She replied with a wry smile of her own and rested her head against his shoulder again. "We are a pair of messes, aren't we?"
"Gives us character, I think. Would you have it any other way?"
She looked up at him, smiling through the film of steam.
"No." She took his hand, placed it over the expansive floral tattoo on her hip. "I wouldn't. Now come here. Talked enough."
She kissed him then, and all thought of old war wounds and missed adventures were long forgotten.
Ten minutes later, a stiff-limbed protocol droid patrolling the halls outside the barracks heard their commotion and briefly debated whether to intervene in such unsanctioned activity. It was after hours, and Field Marshal Dala had been quite insistent after several recent "incidents" that coital relations in the staff locker rooms were very much against Supercommando protocol.
The droid decided against it; Mandalorians grew so very cross when their couplings were interrupted, and it had no desire to sport yet another indignant blaster burn on its chassis. It let out a mechanized sigh of simulated exasperation at the noises of human pleasure breaking the evening quiet, then shuffled on.
Three days later
Tamai tuned her attention down the sights, keeping her focus on the dummy at the end of the range. The rifle was as heavy as always in her arms, but she wouldn't let her aching limbs or her racing heart distract her. She flexed her fingers and shifted stance for what felt like the fifth time.
Come on, she thought. Calm down, you practiced this until your damn eyes bled. Now, legs apart. Weight on the back heel. Both kriffing eyes open…
She squeezed the firing stud and the projectile rifle kicked in her arms, jarring hard against her shoulder. The boom of the weapon's blast filled the firing range and the faraway dummy danced. A single scorched impact blast tore through its painted chest. She wanted to punch the air and cheer, but instead she dutifully looked to the burly man standing at her shoulder, waiting for his input.
Come on, she thought. Come on, come on…
"Hmm," her range coach said, inspecting the dummy through pull-down macrobinoculars affixed to his helmet. He paused for a moment, then…
"Miss. Not a kill shot. Close, but too far left."
Her heart sank, all warmth rushing away from the heady feeling of elation she had felt. But at the coach's instruction she raised the weapon and sighted in again. It felt heavier now than during training, made all the more distracting by the very noticeable tremble of her aim as her heart thundered in her chest. She needed to do well in this certification. If she couldn't make the mark—
Come on, she thought again. Against her better judgment, she closed one eye as she aimed. Come on…
The rifle bucked in her arms, hard enough to surprise her. She almost lost her hold on the weapon entirely this time, but managed to fall back into stance before her range coach noticed - hopefully. She cursed under her breath, already knowing what the man beside her would say.
"Miss," he reported. "Barely nicked the shoulder that time."
He glanced over at her with a concerned cock to his helmeted head. Her blush stared back at her, caught in the reflective expanse of his bottomless T-bar visor. "You seem to be struggling. How does the weapon feel?"
"Like a sack of mud bricks," Tamai admitted, letting the weapon lower to a resting stance. "I don't know why I can't get the hang of it."
"You know the drill," her coach reminded her. "Heavier weapons—"
"—are more accurate at range," she echoed him as he spoke. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I've been practicing every day."
"You've still got time before the final certification. It'll be a few days before Field Marshal Dala combs over the test results. He'll have the final word."
"And where is the Field Marshal?" she inquired, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. "Is he… you know, coming to observe the training himiself?"
If so, it would be a double-edged sword. The last thing her nerves needed was Tobbi kriffing Dala breathing down her neck during certification. But he was also a family friend. Maybe he'd be able to give her some pointers or put in a word with the certification board—
She shot down such an idea without hesitation. No matter how irritating this damn projectile rifle proved to be, she wouldn't sink to skirting the rules of her certification. That wasn't the Mandalorian way. Hell, even thinking in such a manner was dishonorable. She'd just… have to keep practicing until whatever was holding her back finally clicked.
That or flunk the certification, she thought with a knot in her stomach. I don't even want to think about what happens then. Hyperion will kill me if Dala doesn't first.
She was a Shysa, family by blood to the Mand'alor himself. Great things had always been expected of her, and if she couldn't make the cut it wouldn't just embarrass her, but her entire clan. Tamai Vasser, the apple who fell so far from the tree she couldn't even land a bullet on a thirty-meter dummy without sweating like a—
Her range coach, a Supercommando Ruus'alor sergeant, craned his neck and ran his gaze over the assembled Rangers gathered in training. There were over thirty today and every range berth was full with even more waiting at the rear of the room. The heavy booms of projectile weaponry rumbled through the expansive room, overpowering even Tamai's ear protection.
"Hey! Ver'alor!" the sergeant shouted over the noise. A Supercommando officer in green armor looked over at the summons, pulled from his task of observing the day's field reports. Tamai's range coach tapped his gauntlet timepiece. "You know where the Field Marshal's hiding?"
"Probably in the main offices," the lieutenant called back. "You know he doesn't like to inspect the troops until he's had his caf."
"And we don't like him until he's had his caf either," the sergeant replied, finishing the second half of the old joke.
The studious lieutenant's green-helmeted stare fell on Tamai and he jerked his chin toward her. "You there. Ranger Vasser, right?"
Tamai nodded.
"Dala sent out a request for you at the end of first shift. Wants to talk to you once your observation period is complete."
With his back turned, the range coach couldn't see her concerned frown. Dala wanted to see her personally? That was never good. In her experience, Tobbi Dala rarely elected to interact with others unless it involved quite a bit of sass, maybe even some cursing and yelling. How Uncle Fenn managed to put up with the crank-monster on a daily basis was beyond her.
With a fresh worm of unease making its way through her gut, Tamai glanced to her sergeant. "Your assessment?"
The ruus'alor rested his hands on his hips. "You've still got a long way to go before certification. Focus more on stance and shot follow-through. You let the barrel move as you anticipate the shot and relax, and it's hurting your accuracy. Keep practicing, and don't do it alone. You'll need someone to correct your mistakes."
She squirmed inside at the gentle chastisement. But, satisfied with the lecture, the sergeant waved her away. "You're dismissed, Ranger."
"Vor'e, sir," she said and gave him a short salute before leaving the range, pulling on her helmet as she went.
The sergeant motioned forward the next Ranger waiting to approach the firing line. The replacement had no problem with the rifle; in her HUD's 360-degree viewscreen, Tamai saw the woman heft the rifle and plant three shots right on target with barely a pause to aim. She shoved the ensuing resentment from her mind with effort; she had bigger issues facing her now than jealousy.
She slunk out of the firing range and moved deeper into the base, heading for the administrative wing where the higher-ups took care of the bureaucratic branch of the Supercommando militia. The army wasn't currently mobilized, but its headquarters was still busier than usual. No surprise: the Rangers had commandeered the base for their counter-terrorism training, utilizing rally centers and overstock equipment left to collect dust until the Protectors gathered together.
Everywhere she looked she seemed to see armor: stored in cargo cases, proudly displayed on recruitment holoposters, or worn by base personnel. But unlike the dizzying rainbow of colors one usually spotted on the streets, here the battle plate was all a drab Supercommando green. Tamai, in her blue-gray-gold kit, stuck out like a gundark in a village of jawas.
And what in haran did I do now? she wondered as she walked. Ah kriff, they better not have found out about Cin and me sneaking in that night. The last thing I need is another lecture about "extracurricular activities."
It didn't take long to find Dala's office. As the highest-ranking Field Marshal and second-in-command to Mand'alor himself, he was the de facto leader of the militia and its troops; it stood to reason that he had the biggest office. Not that it seemed to matter to him, since the man's workspace featured unadorned walls and a single desk as the sole furnishing. The office was all empty space, dominated only by a large holoprojector table most often used for battlefield simulations. The office was currently vacant of even its owner.
It was a familiar sight after years of knowing and working with Dala, but Tamai knew better than to make herself comfortable. She instead settled for a parade rest in front of his desk, looking absently out the transparisteel window at the Mandos hurrying about outside.
It had taken a few weeks for all assigned troops to arrive from the most distant territories, but Ranger training was in full swing now. Frontiersmen from across the planet (and a select few outrider squads from offworld) had all arrived in Keldabe for re-certification and new training sessions focusing on counter-terrorism tactics. After the bombings that had wracked the city over half a year ago, all had been uneasily quiet. It was clear to all that Mand'alor Shysa intended to keep it that way through force if necessary. The great war machine of Mandalorian society had begun to rattle to life once more. Soldiers in service to the Mand'alor were becoming a more familiar sight than bounty hunters.
That said, unity was still an elusive concept these days. The Supercommandos were too scattered and disorganized to serve as long-term peacekeepers, mustering only when Shysa had an offworld mercenary assignment to pique their collective interests. The Marines were needed "upstairs," guarding the incoming space lanes from potential attackers like Tyber Zahn and his ilk. The city guard was swamped as it was dealing with Keldabe's day-to-day raucousness. So the duty of protecting the Mandalorian homefront seemed to be falling to the Rangers.
Tamai found herself wondering if they would eventually be re-tasked as a kind of city militia, or even put into service in orbit with the Home Defense Fleet. The thought didn't exactly excite her. She didn't mind Keldabe and most of her closest friends called the place home, but she'd always had an inborn lust for the open frontier. Grasslands, mountains, and forests were where she felt free, not here in the shabby duracrete maze that was her homeworld's capital.
The door finally sheathed open and she turned to find Tobbi Dala's short, stocky form prowling through the door. Unsurprisingly, he was scowling. What was a surprise, however, was that he wasn't alone. Next to him walked a portly man in his mid-fifties, garbed not in armor but a wrinkled Imperial uniform. He'd combed his thinning hair over to hide his balding spot and sported a fat mustache that gave the appearance of some fuzzy insect crawling between his mouth and nose.
Ne'al Utam, Imperial Regional Governor of the Mandalore Sector. Tamai's eyes narrowed at the sight. She'd never met the man herself but knew him by sight and reputation. Neither comforted her.
The situation must be worse than she thought if the Governor had gotten himself involved. Or were they just wrapping up a meeting? She found herself wishing someone else was here with her; Cin, maybe, or her steadfast friend Hyperion Lee. The prospect of facing down both powerful men strained her already-frayed nerves.
Dala was perusing a handheld datapad, his customary frown on his face as Utam hovered at his shoulder and gestured to several points on the pad's scrolling readout. The former looked up when he drew closer and nodded in greeting. She snapped off a salute, thumping her fist against her chest and bowing her head.
"Kyrbej'alor," she said. "I'm answering your summons."
"Skip the formalities, Vasser." He grimaced and waved away her salute. Utam stopped near the office's holoterminal and folded his thick arms over his chest, looking her up and down with a narrowed, suspicious glare.
"Yes, sir." She dropped the salute. "You wanted to see me?"
"I did." Dala settled himself behind his desk and tossed aside the datapad. "I assume you're familiar with Governor Utam?"
"Sir." Tamai turned to the man and saluted him as well. Utam, however, did not dismiss the sign of respect and made no motion to return it. His lip curled in a scowl that was definitely meant for her. Tamai flushed in equal parts frustration and embarrassment and let the salute drop, turning back to Dala. The man was rooting around in his desk, organizing folders of flimsiplast and shuffling through stacks of holodisks.
"I hear you're having some trouble with your latest training assignments," he grunted as he searched. "You're falling behind in your classes."
"The training is challenging," she replied evenly, hoping he couldn't see the heat crawling across her cheeks. This was starting to feel like less of a meeting and more of an interrogation. What the hell had she done? "As it should be. It's nothing I can't overcome with time and practice."
"Let's hope so."
She frowned. "Sir?"
Dala stared at her from across the desk, a strange look in his eyes. He shared a glance with Utam, who shook his head and rolled his eyes before turning away to tap a few commands into the holoterminal. The device booted up with a pale blue-white glow.
"I have a new assignment for you." Dala rose from his desk with a thick data console in one hand. "A new post. Orders straight from your uncle's office, effective immediately."
"Mand'alor has orders specifically for me?" Her heart sank. Home Defense Fleet, here I come.
"He does. He was impressed by your adventure on the frontier. How you managed to survive alone in the jungle while also evading the attention of the local Kar'ta Epar'e, the Rangers looking for you, and the forest beasts. You know how to cover your tracks. Shysa hopes you can show that same level of discretion now."
She was still confused and growing more so by the minute. She rubbed at the collar of her combat suit. "Is this some kind of covert assignment, sir? If so, you'd have more luck with a Supercommando ops unit than a Ranger."
"Shysa has made his choice," Dala said, a little steel in his tone now. "And he expects you to follow his orders."
She straightened up, knowing a command when she heard it. "Of course, sir."
Dala sighed, that same odd look painted across his features. At the press of a desk-bound button, the office's transparisteel windows tinted and threw them into partial darkness. Tamai was now very confused and more than a little concerned. Dala was a blunt man in the best sense of the word, never one to gossip behind closed doors. It wasn't like him to act so paranoid.
"What I'm about to tell you," the man growled, moving around his desk and making for the holoterminal, "is not to leave this room under pain of exile and potential execution. This is top-secret material you're about to see. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Governor Utam didn't seem so moved. "Repeat it."
She drew up to attention and met the man's watery, narrowed gaze. "Top-secret orders. Not to leave the room."
"Good." Dala handed Utam the console and began transferring data from the pad in his hands to the terminal in the center of the room. The heavyset governor slotted the deck into the terminal. It buzzed and sputtered before two life-sized holograms sprang to life in the center of the room: Mandalorian men in full battle gear, both bearing the sharp-edged mythosaur skull unique to the supercommando militia painted proudly onto their armor.
"This," Dala said with a snarl of irritation, "is Torq Vindo and his partner, Talazar Cren. Decorated ori'ramikade with over twenty successful combat deployments between them. They're talented warriors and have made names for themselves in service to te Mand'alor."
Utam leaned back and folded his arms again with a sour shake of his head. Tamai took a cautious step closer, circling the terminal as she studied the two. One was tall, dressed in green-black battle armor. The other was shorter, stockier, and garbed with matte red and gray. Both had made extensive modifications to their traditional beskar'gam.
"Bounty hunters?" she inquired.
"Of course."
"What does my uncle want with them?"
"Last week," Dala explained, "these two went rogue. Devised a joint attack on a data storage cache near the equator. Broke in, killed the local techs, sliced the servers. Made off with a lot of valuable information. We believe they were hired by an information broker, though why they would turn against their own people is beyond me."
"What was the extent of the data that was lost?"
"Unclear. We have our best data junkies going over it now. But preliminary analysis suggests it was a targeted strike. The data they stole contained a highly sensitive cache of files."
"Which files?" she ventured.
"MandalMotors Special Assignment LS-Three-Nineteen," Dala said. "Project Lifespark."
She paused at that. There was only one Project Lifespark she knew of and her heart leaped into her throat at the insinuation. The Empire wasn't supposed to know about the Basilisk droids, lest the Mandalorians be outed for breaking millennia-old treaties. What was Dala playing at, bringing the Imperial Regional Governor in on such delicate matters?
"I've… never heard of it, sir."
"You can stop trying to be coy," Utam said with a sneer. "I have been briefed on the entire debacle."
"But…" She glanced to Dala. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Go ahead."
"Sir, the Empire wasn't supposed to know about Project Lifespark. Ranger-Commander Chedaje made that clear when the project was started. The consequences—"
"Those orders still stand. Governor Utam is an exception to that rule. He's agreed to keep this situation under wraps."
"Why?"
Utam rested his hands on his wide hips. "I am aware that I have made few friends among the Mandalorians. Frankly, I could care less. My first and greatest priority will always be to maintain the peace and prosperity of this sector. If information about this Project Lifespark were to release to public scrutiny, life would become very… difficult. For all of us."
"You'd keep our secrets?" Tamai fixed him with a suspicious stare of her own.
"Out of necessity?" Utam said. "Yes. The Caranthyr bombings brought a slew of investigations across my desk. I don't want a repeat of that scenario. Mandalore Shysa has given me his word that these Basilisk droids will be used to ensure such an attack doesn't happen again. So for as long as he maintains the security of the Project and utilizes these war droids with discretion, I will maintain my silence."
She glanced to Dala for confirmation and the Field Marshal nodded, looking grim. She frowned deeper and slowly said, "So… these rogue mercs stole the Lifespark plans?"
"Specifically our reverse-engineered blueprints. Planned prototypes for updated, more efficient models. Cross-sections of fuel requirements, power supplies, and internal AI data-lattices."
"Whoever has those plans," Utam said, "has everything they need to begin manufacturing Basilisks themselves. And with such data up for grabs, every black market droid forge across the Outer Rim is going to be clamoring for the opportunity to do just that."
"I thought that was… well, the most closely-guarded secret MandalMotors has!"
"It was," the governor grunted. "Until these two decided to snatch the data in transit as it was being transmitted from the Dark Forest outposts to MandalMotors Tower. We're not sure they even know what they have. But if they do…"
He let the threat hang. Tamai didn't need him to explain the dire consequences if they leaked the information. If word got out the Mandalorians were ignoring Old Republic sanctions and rebuilding their infamous Basilisk droids, the Empire would be on their doorstep within the week with an occupation army. If the blueprints subsequently leaked into the underworld, advertised as ancient Mandalorian firepower that once helped conquer half the galaxy, well… Fenn Shysa would most likely be arrested, possibly even executed. It would be a disaster of untold proportions.
"All right," she said, pushing down the crawling coil of unease that had twisted up her insides. "So where do I come in?"
"Mand'alor Shysa has given you the honor of bringing these two renegades in," Dala said. "They have already been internally declared dar'manda and stripped of their status, but that alone isn't enough. We need them — and most importantly their data — in our custody so we can figure out why they did this and who they're working for."
There was something in Dala's tone she didn't quite like. "I assume you already have a theory as to the culprit?"
"Several," the Field Marshal replied with a scowl. "But that's not your concern. At least not yet. The ringleaders can wait for another day. Right now we need the thieves and their data locked down. Those plans cannot be allowed to reach the black market or it'll be hell to pay for all of us."
"I understand, sir."
Dala folded his arms. "By Shysa's orders, you are authorized to use any means or methods you deem necessary to bring your targets in. Assemble whatever outside resources or assistance you may need. But it is of the utmost importance that you be discreet. No running through the streets blasting everything and everyone you see. The fewer eyes you have on you, the better."
"Don't worry, sir. Like you said: I know how to remain out of sight."
The Field Marshal nodded with a low sigh. "Your first step will be to interview the targets' friends and families. We brought them into custody yesterday, but they currently don't know why they're being held. It'll be your job to interview them, get them to spill any potential clues, without compromising the true meaning of your questioning. I'll be expecting a report via holocomm once you've tracked down the next lead."
"Understood, sir."
"At Shysa's request," Dala continued, "you've also been authorized to engage with a third-party resource. A source of underworld intelligence we've brought into the employ of the Mand'alor. Our cooperation is highly classified, almost as much as Project Lifespark itself."
"A third party?" Tamai frowned. "Who? The Sentinal Wraiths?"
"A local information broker, code-named Null," Dala said. "He's agreed to supply us with information in a face-to-face meeting, but on the condition that you do not compromise his cover in the city. It's rare for him to offer his services without demanding considerable pay, so we're going to meet his demands. You'll receive coordinates for a neutral meeting place after this briefing is complete."
The Imperial Governor now leveled a commanding finger at her. "I cannot stress how important it is to maintain good relations with this information broker. He has been indispensable to our operations across the northern frontier, and he is a resource we cannot afford to lose. You are authorized to meet with him, but know that your authority does not supersede his. I would use him only as a last resort. Am I understood?"
She nodded. "Understood, sir."
Dala returned to his desk and ran a hand along his bare scalp. "We're all treading on dangerous ground, Ranger Vasser. The Mand'alor is trusting you with this mission. Don't let him down."
She saluted once more. "I don't intend to."
He gave a satisfied nod and motioned to the door. "You're relieved from your training until the mission is complete. Dismissed."
"Sir." She headed for the door, her thoughts already racing from one worry to another. Illegal blueprints for Basilisk droids, bound for the black market… it was a political nightmare! Why hadn't Uncle Fenn reached out to the supercommandos for this mission? Hell, even the Journeyman Protectors were pledged by creed to come to Mandalore's aid when called. Why give this mission to her of all people? She wasn't a bounty hunter. She wasn't even a soldier!
She closed her eyes and drew in several slow, deep breaths to calm her galloping heart. Shysa had trusted her with this mission. There was no backing out now, and she needed to keep herself collected or she wouldn't accomplish anything.
First: she needed to prepare. This would not be an easy assignment and she couldn't hope to do it alone.
Cin was the first person who came to mind. He was the most experienced hunter she knew and he knew better than anyone the importance of secrets. But that was no good; he'd left with Jay two days ago to hunt the remnants of Project Whiteclaw, and the two had since gone radio silent. She couldn't contact him even if she wanted to. Both he and his partner were out of play for this one.
Next was Rame and Mia Omotao, but they were sadly absent as well. While Rame's bounty hunting skills and Mia's history with Imperial Intelligence would have been a great help, their responsibilities with the local harvest sale had taken them far from Keldabe, along with several of the Skirata brothers.
Brianna was in town, but Tamai knew better than to go that route. Even if the woman agreed to help her (and Tamai was pretty certain they'd both rather lick a Hutt than work together), Brianna's loyalty was questionable at best. Cin had always stood by her, of course, but Tamai had never been so trusting. The huntress was no Mandalorian and had no motive to keep the details of the mission to herself.
But that line of thought did bring her to another intriguing possibility: Jay's friend, the Echani Handmaiden. She was in Keldabe, stalking the streets like a particularly surly white-clad ghost. Tamai had spoken with her before and found her to be a hardy, level-headed woman. She was abrasive as a nexu's backside, sure, and she had no love for the Mando'ade. But her tracking skills were supposedly rivaled only by Cin's and, as a self-proclaimed assassin, she knew how to keep a secret. She might be useful, given the proper motivation.
Tamai shook herself out of her reverie as she emerged from the supercommando training yard and into the bustling city proper. The sights and sounds of downtown Keldabe hit her like a wave and immersed her in a chaotic world of mercenaries and mystery. It was oppressive, civilization crashing down on her head with the force of a falling moon. The muggy city air swirled over her like a poisonous fog, and the shouting of street urchins assaulted her senses with overwhelming insistence.
What I wouldn't give, she thought as she set off down the street, for a trip up to the mountains. If only Cin weren't offworld, I could visit him for the afternoon…
But such pleasant fantasies had to be set aside for now. Even if he was still around, she couldn't afford to waste time. She had a mission to set herself to, and one that carried terrible consequences if she failed.
The Echani was her first stop, though finding her was a challenge in its own right. The woman was a kriffing specter when she wanted to be, and even Aramis at the Oyu'baat struggled to keep tabs on her; she clearly didn't want unfriendly eyes on her. But Tamai couldn't abandon such a crucial mission and she needed the Handmaiden's help. She'd have to track the Handmaiden down, one way or another, before the true hunt could begin.
She tugged her thick poncho tighter around her shoulders and set off deeper into the city.
Tamai had been right; finding the Echani wasn't easy. First she dropped by the Oyu'baat, which seemed to be frequented by everyone in Keldabe at some point or another, but had found no trace of Lesianne. Even the ever-grouchy Aramis had no useful information for her.
"She ain't a drinker," the man growled as he wiped down the bartop with a ragged and oil-stained cloth. "Made that very clear the last time she passed through. Only shows up if she's trailing after one of her hunting buddies. Moqena usually, though sometimes she takes off with Vhetin for training."
"What about others?" Tamai pressed. "She's lived here for almost half a year. Surely she has more contacts than Cin and Jay."
Aramis rubbed his short salt-and-pepper beard and muttered, "Aye, there are some other folk. Foreigners more than anything else. Doesn't take to Mando'ade, as I'm sure you know."
"I need names, Aramis."
"Don't have 'em for you. If they're not Mando'ad and they're not regulars, they're not worth my time."
It was hard to argue with that kind of logic and Tamai didn't bother trying. Aramis was quick to shoo her away in favor of paying customers, as the bar was bustling with the lunchtime crowd. Even after such a brief exchange, a queue had already formed behind her. She stalked out of the bar with a frown, unsure where to turn to next.
It was stupid; everyone who knew Lesianne well beyond her reach, leaving her with precious few avenues to track her down. She considered going to her uncle; after all, the Echani had worked with Shysa during the Caranthyr bombings. But going straight to the top over such a small matter, and so soon after she'd started her investigation, would paint a very poor image of her competence. The same was true if she reached out to that information broker, Null.
She scowled and made her way through the plaza outside the Oyu'baat, letting the ever-present roar of the nearby Kelita waterfall bring a taste of nature into the urban sprawl and soothe her annoyance. Keldabe was a big place, but foreigners — especially Echani — weren't so common as to be invisible within these crooked streets. There had to be something—
"Vasser!"
A voice called her name and she turned. A young man waved her down, following in her footsteps away from the tapcaf. His polished gray-red armor sported several off-color plates and he stood out even among his multi-chromed compatriots in the plaza. She came to a halt and rested her hands on her hips close enough to her holstered blasters to be cautious. Her targets were Mandalorian rogues, after all, and there was no telling who else they had persuaded to turn traitor.
"It's Vasser, right?" the man said as he came closer. She nodded, to which he breathed a sigh relief and grinned at her. The clone blood in him was unmistakable, the dark hair and flat nose a dead giveaway, but she wasn't familiar with the man.
He extended a hand. "Venku Skirata. I heard you talking with Aramis back at the bar."
She didn't shake the offered hand, which upset the young man's flawless facade of charm a bit. He hesitated, then added, "I'm a friend of Cin Vhetin's. And Jay Moqena too."
"Good for you," she said, turning away. "They're both offworld, in case you hadn't heard."
"I-I know." Venku fell into step next to her. "As I said, I heard you talking with Aramis. Are you on the lookout for the Handmaiden?"
Tamai quirked up an eyebrow, but her helmet hid her interest from the man at her shoulder. "You know her?"
"In passing. Kind of a bitch, if you ask me."
A snort from Tamai. "You're not wrong. What's your interest?"
"Helping out a fellow Mando in need. If you're looking for her, something must be up?"
"Who knows? Maybe I'm just asking her out for a drink."
"She doesn't drink."
"So I've heard." Tamai sighed, her frustration clear. "If you know something, spit it out so I can get on with my day."
"Touchy, aren't we?" Venku shot her a half-grin. "I can see why you get on with Vhetin so well."
She made a dramatic motion of placing her hand on the butt of her nearest pistol and Venku backed down with his hands raised in surrender. "All right, all right. I just sniffed some kind of trouble brewing, so I figured I'd help you out. If you're looking for the Handmaiden, she's renting an apartment downtown. Not far from the spaceport."
"Anything more specific? Downtown is a bit vague."
A blip sprang onto her helmet's blue-lit HUD as Venku tapped his gauntlet display. It coordinated to an apartment building on the other side of town, east of MandalMotors Tower near the second barrier wall. She saved the position to her on-screen map and a tiny arrow appeared on the display, pointing her in the right direction.
She glanced to Venku with a dubious frown. Most wouldn't part with info like this without at least asking for a finder's fee — or that's what Vhetin was always telling her. She jerked her chin in the young man's direction and said, "Why are you helping me?"
"Any friend of Vhetin's is a friend of mine." He spread his hands. "I'm nice like that."
"All right, Venku Skirata." She narrowed her eyes, but ever-so-slowly nodded in gratitude. "Thanks for your help. I appreciate it."
"We ade have to stick together. Only way we're gonna make it." He punched her shoulder, then seemed to regret the choice and stepped back with his hands raised again. "Next time you see Vhetin, tell him a seat's open at the Oyu'baat. I've maybe got a contract for him."
"I'll pass it along," she said. "Ret'urcye mhi."
He nodded and headed back the way he came. "Ret'urcye mhi, vod. Happy hunting.'