Sins of the Father/Part 10

"My master hopes this room will be adequate to your needs, gentlebeings," the protocol droid said.

Damis Myragon glanced around to ensure there were no corpses or obvious traps, then nodded. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

"If you require anything else, please do not hesitate to summon a server droid. We will be happy to provide for any of your needs."

"What if we need Tarisian ale?" Arkyr Rentol tested.

"I would be happy to have the porter bring you a decanter."

"What about spice?"

"My master has arranged for complimentary samples of a number of popular varieties, and very reasonable rates for purchase thereafter."

Damis gave Arkyr a look which the younger man ignored. "How about a Zeltron?"

"My master has hired or leased a number for the occasion, male and female, of several ages and body—"

"That won't be necessary," Damis said. "You can go."

"Speak for yourself," Arkyr grumbled as the door sealed behind the droid. "You ever been with a Zeltron?"

"No," Damis said as he pulled a scrambler off his equipment belt.

"Well, I had this one on Centares, and she did this thing with her—"

"I'm sure it's a thrilling tale, vod," Damis said. He set the scrambler down on the end table, flipped the switch, and waited for its dull whine to peak before speaking again. "But we have bigger problems than finding you a Zeltron now."

Arykr pulled off his helmet, dropping it on one of the beds, and asked in Mando'a, "The Twi'leks or the Jedi?"

"Both," Damis replied in the same language, "though I'm more concerned about the Jedi."

Arkyr snorted. "Jedi. They're tough in a fight, but they won't sink to the kind of depravity you'd need to outfox a Hutt.  The Sith, now…"

"What about Kal-Di?"

"Yeah, yeah, he's a big Jedi hero, but so what? You ever seen a Jedi mind trick a Hutt?  And he can't lightsaber his way through all her people either."

"But he speaks for the Republic, and they have the bank accounts to outbid us."

"Assuming Runganna's only interested in credits," Arykr pointed out. "Besides, with the way the Empire's pressing them, I'm not sure the Republic can spare the credits right now. Speaking of which, I'm surprised the Empire hasn't put in an appearance."

"I'm not," Damis said. "You know Lord Osydro's been making things hard for Runganna's people running his lanes. Maybe it's a message."

"'Don't interfere with us or we'll sell your competitors weapons of mass destruction'?" Arykr suggested. "That's one hell of a message. You really think she'd poke the krayt that way?"

"Credits come and go, but a Hutt needs a rep to survive in this business, and Runganna's still young for the game. If she can send a message to a Sith Overlord and have it go unchallenged…"

"But will it? I'm surprised the Empire's not here even if they weren't invited.  You can't tell me nobody in that nest of gundarks heard about this."

Damis shrugged as he drew off his own helmet. "Let them retaliate, then, so long as it's after the auction and we have the weapon."

Arykr grimaced and paced away, pounding one armored fist into the other gloved palm, and Damis frowned. "What?"

"What does Mand'alor think this is going to change?" Arykr asked. "We get one whatever-it-is; that's not enough to do any real damage to either side."

"Maybe it's a deterrent," Damis offered. "Another layer of defense for the homeworld; it'll be easier to rearm when the major powers think it's a suicide mission to attack us."

"Sure, but if we blow all our credits on this thing, how are we supposed to pay to rearm? Just trying to defend Mandalorian Space—"

"I know," Damis said. He had raised the same concerns to Mand'alor, but in the end it was their leader's decision; to defy her would make them no more than mercenaries. "Maybe this weapon will give us the leverage to reassert control over other worlds in the sector."

Arykr gave him a look. "Do you believe that?"

No, Damis thought. Aloud, he said, "My clan follows Mand'alor, and so do I. So I obey."

Arykr rolled his eyes as he sat on his bed. "If you haven't noticed, I'm here too. But they're questions we need to ask.  If we become any weaker, one side or the other will make a move."

"You mean the Sith will make a move," Damis said. "Darth Scyrahd will consume us on his way toward the Core. By which of course we mean Darth Nicodeme."

"Or Aresh," Arykr said. "Speaking of which, I'm surprised he's not here."

"I'm not. You think he'd accept an invitation from a non-Human?  Or that Runganna would extend it in the first place?"

"Point taken. So we just have to outbid the largest single government in the galaxy and a planet full of ryll and ready-made slaves."

"Plus whoever else shows up. And the Hutts."

"Of course."

That cheerful thought put an end to conversation, and after a while the Mandalorians called down to Runganna's droids for food. Arykr answered the door while Damis stayed out of sight; it was easier for the Human to put his helmet back on than for Damis to negotiate his over his Elomin horns. They ate without talking and finished in moments—a habit born of a lifetime of training for war, even though the only campaigns the Mandalorians en masse had fought in centuries were border skirmishes. Damis got to thinking about Mand'alor's plan and the weapon Runganna was set to auction. Would it really change their people's fortunes? Was the time ripe for a Mandalorian resurgence in the midst of galactic chaos? Or was this only desperation? The clans had been growing fractious…

The buzz of the door's signal drew Damis out of his reverie and roused Arykr from a nap. Trading glances, the men put their helmets on, and this time Damis answered the door while Arkyr pressed his back to the wall beside it, his heavy blaster pistol drawn. Taking a combat vibroblade from his belt and holding it behind his back, Damis opened the door to find the protocol droid back. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, gentlebeings, but my mistress's vizier, the esteemed Darqyren Valt, bade me inform you that another Mandalorian has arrived."

"What?" Damis demanded as Arykr started against the wall.

"Yes indeed. I did not acquire the being's name, but the great Darqyren believed you would wish to be informed at once."

"We did," Damis said. "And tell the Sakiyan this other Mandalorian is not here with us. Mand'alor received Runganna's instructions and complied with them."

The spindly-limbed droid bowed. "I am sure he will be pleased to hear it."

"Where is this Mandalorian now?"

"When last I saw him, he was in Lady Runganna's main feast area. I could make inquiries, if you wish?"

"I don't," Damis said. "We'll find him ourselves."

"As you say, sir."

When it was gone, Damis turned to Arkyr and knew, even through both their T-visors, that they were wearing the same expression. "Who?"

"Gotta be a mercenary," Arkyr answered. "No one from Mandalore would come here, not with Mand'alor's blessing. If it's a mercenary, it's no problem for us."

"Yet," Damis countered. "Let's go find out how big a problem it could be."

Damis reactivated the HUD in his helmet, tasking it to scan for the trademark T-visor as they proceeded back to the revelry. The helmet had considerably more success than it had hours before, when Damis had scanned for "threats" and nearly overloaded the system's processors. He and Arykr roamed through the masses of party-goers, circled around what was either a buffet becoming an orgy or an orgy becoming a buffet, and lingered within visual range of a group of Hutts as Damis crossed off a theory that one of them had hired a Mandalorian bodyguard; in these times, stooping even that low wasn't unheard of.

"There," Arykr said. "Oh, kriff me right in the—"

Damis stopped listening as soon as he followed Arkyr's gaze. He saw the T-visor and the garishly-colored armor at once—bright orange plates emblazoned with the Mandalorian mythosaur in yellow. The faceplate of the man's helmet was relatively small, perhaps the size of Damis's hand with fingers splayed, though the two men were of a height. The other Mandalorian noticed them staring and gave a two-fingered salute from the tip of his visor.

"Should we—?"

"Yes," Damis decided. This was a potential problem—one they needed to squash before anything untoward happened. They started to press through the crowd; nodding once, the other Mandalorian turned away and meandered off down a corridor. Keeping a hand on the blaster carbine slung across his chest, alert for a trap, Damis led Arkyr the same way.

The precaution was wasted; the third Mandalorian leaned against a wall a few turns down from the feast, cracking the knuckles of his three-fingered hands. He looked from Damis to Arykr and chuckled. "Oh, ease up, boys. If I was here to kill you, you'd be dead already."

"You're San Pavac," Damis said; it came out like an accusation.

"Yep." Pavac cocked the head on the end of his long, curved neck. "And you're Guy I Don't Know One and Two, unless you'd care to enlighten me."

"Arykr Rentol."

"And I'm Damis Myragon." Damis had not taken his hand off his carbine. "What are you doing here?"

"Same thing I'm ever doing anywhere: what I got hired to do." Pavac shrugged. "An employer of mine paid me to be here, so here I am."

"What employer?" Arykr demanded.

"Ah, now, that would be telling."

"What were you hired to do?" Damis tried.

"Not kill you, if that's what you're worried about," Pavac said. "I don't know who hired you, but my employer didn't say anything about other Mandos."

"No one hired us!" Arykr's hands squeezed into fists. "We're here by order of Mand'alor herself."

Pavac chuckled. "Really? Well, so much the better, we won't get in each other's way.  Vode An, and all…"

Damis took a deep breath to restrain himself, but Arykr did not try. "You're no brother of mine!"

"Oh, now, that's hurtful…what was it? Arykr?  I'm just as much a Mandalorian as you."

"You're nothing but a common mercenary," Arykr spat.

"You know," Pavac said, and now he drummed the first finger of one hand on the grip of a pistol he wore in a quickdraw holster, "I've heard all the garbage the zealots on Mandalore spew about 'common mercenaries' and 'shameless guns-for-hire'…any of you remember that's how our people have fought the last, oh, I don't know…two thousand years, give or take?"

"You may wear that armor—" Arkyr started.

"I wear my armor," Pavac interrupted. "Anyone who's ever attacked me could tell you how I defend myself…if dead men could talk. Ni jorhaa'joha.  No younglings, but if I had 'em, I'd—"

"And Mand'alor?" Arykr fired back. "We answer to Mand'alor."

"Maybe you need to brush up on your Resol'nare, vod. We answer Mand'alor's call.  But she hasn't called us, has she?" Pavac snickered. "Not surprised; she's smart enough to know nobody would answer."

"We would!"

"Yes, and what an army you two would be." Pavac tapped his pistol again. "You've got what, a million people on Mandalore? Maybe half that fit for battle?  That's enough to conquer a decent-sized planet—maybe a couple dinky ones.  So off you go in battered transports and outdated frigates, knock over a couple nothing worlds, and get slaughtered whenever the Sith or the Republic bother paying attention.  Yeah, you boys are the pride of Mandalore and the heirs of our fathers, all right.  Revan himself would cower at the thought of facing you."

"Whereas you've sold yourself to the highest bidder," Damis said.

"Now that's a Mandalorian tradition for you," Pavac replied. "Men like me? We're the future; we're the reason the galaxy still thinks Mandalore is anything to fear."

"You are the reason the galaxy thinks Mandalorians are bloodthirsty savages," Damis snapped. "You're a war criminal and a slave catcher, Pavac."

The Pyke shrugged. "And you're going to die out on a forgotten world, hoping against hope that Mand'alor the Malingerer will lead—"

Pushed beyond endurance, Arkyr grabbed one holstered pistol, but in the blink of an eye Pavac had drawn one of his own, spun it on his trigger finger, and leveled the barrel at the junction of Arkyr's visor T. "—you to glory.  Careful now, vod; I'd hate to have to smear your brains inside your helmet."

Damis saw the tension in his companion's shoulders. Slowly, exaggerating the movement, he laid a hand on one of Arkyr's pauldrons, and the Human released his gun. Pavac bobbed his long neck, spun his pistol, and reholstered it in a flash. "That's better. Mandos should never fight Mandos; not unless the client pays double."

"Our honor is not for sale," Damis said. "No price in the galaxy is worth Saleucami."

Pavac took his time replying, and when he did the casual boredom had vanished from his hard voice. "The Sith paid me to help them win. I did my job."

Arkyr twitched under Damis's hand. "You butchered—"

"I did what I had to do!" Pavac snapped.

"And tell me, vod," Damis said, "can the clinks of all those credit chips silence so many screams?"

Pavac drummed two fingers on his pistol grip. "If you can't defend your loved ones and your home, you deserve to lose them. The Sith are right about one thing, vode: only the strong survive in this galaxy.  Mandalore's been strong enough to limp on through history until now, but how long is that going to last?  And when you're in the garbage compactor of history, it'll be men like me who carry the name Mandalorian forward.  Remember that when you're starved out; you can't eat honor."

"Better dead with honor than dar'manda, demagolka," Arkyr said.

For a moment Pavac's fingers closed around the grip of his pistol, and Damis tensed. His hand was still on Arkyr's shoulder, and even if he could reach his carbine in time, he had seen Pavac's speed and knew the man's reputation. And in the face of an insult like that—dar'manda, devoid of Mandalorian heritage and without a soul—any Mandalorian might be forgiven the instinct to kill…

Then Pavac drew back his hand.

"Arykr Rentol. I'll remember that now." Damis heard the threat and dug his fingers into Arkyr's shoulder beneath the pauldron, willing him to stay silent. "For my employer's sake, I'll forgive that, shabuir; there's no money in killing. A Mando'ad draar digu; cross me again, and I might just do one for free."

He looked from Arkyr to Damis, nodded, and said, "Ret'urcye mhi."

Sensing Pavac had meant that more literally and ominously than its normal use—the phrase meant goodbye, but the words themselves meant maybe we'll meet again—Damis held Arkyr in place as the Pyke bounty hunter slipped past them, back toward the riotous sounds of Runganna's celebration. Only when his helmet scanner had lost the sound of Pavac's receding foosteps did Damis let Arykr go.

"Do we kill him?" Arkyr asked in Mando'a.

Damis frowned. "No. Mand'alor trusted us to—"

"Mand'alor would want him dead as much—"

"Mand'alor isn't here! We are.  She trusted us to do the task we were given.  You heard the Hutt; no killing she hasn't sanctioned.  Pavac lives."

Arkyr turned away, slapping a hand against a wall. Opting not to indulge him, Damis turned back the way Pavac had gone, and sure enough, Arykr caught up after a few meters. They walked in silence through the corridors and the bacchanalia beyond, but when they were nearly back to their room, Arykr stopped.

When Damis turned to find Arykr staring, the Human said, "You didn't tell him Rican's here."

"Neither did you."

"Slipped your mind?"

"No," Damis said. "It didn't. I won't jeopardize our mission, and I won't bear arms against another Mandalorian if I have a choice, even one like him.  But I wouldn't mourn him either."