Yeah… Mandalorian culture from the inside is simply astonishing. Like—who am I, really? A random outsider, not even a Mandalorian, and yet—there you go: they took me in, warmed me up, and treat me like one of their own. They gave me a place to sleep, I eat at the common table, and people are genuinely good to me.
While I was staying with the clan, every new day promised discoveries. I saw a little boy being taught to fight almost before he learned to write and read. I saw a twelve-year-old girl working hand-to-hand techniques with her father with real professionalism. What—women are weaker than men? Never heard of it. If anything, this is perfect gender equality: no indulgences, no special treatment for ladies—and it's dictated by living conditions. When everyone, from the youngest to the oldest, has to get up fast and take up arms… and history shows, not without reason.
Here you come of age at fourteen, and at fifteen you become verd—a warrior. And that's it: welcome to adult life. At that point you make your own armor—your clan helps with it—take your weapons, and you're free to go in any direction you want. Mercenary, farmer, builder—whatever. Many choose distance learning, others full-time, and by twenty they end up with a full education—engineer, pilot, mechanic, and so on.
That's when I pictured the look on pirates' faces if they ever dropped into a Mandalorian farming colony. Seems like—what kind of surprises could you get from farmers? Oh, you'd get them. Plenty of them. Especially when every farmhouse has a full set of personal armor in the basement, a couple blasters, and a rocket launcher for special occasions. And what if the farmers have a tank? You know—"for field work." Then it's just insanity. Which, by the way, is why even Mandalorian farms tend to stay quiet and orderly.
Mandalorians' ability to combine the incompatible amazed me in general. I saw with my own eyes how a couple of techies can fight—training spars here are routine. And then seeing those same people peacefully repairing civilian astromechs is something surreal.
Another moment was with Lzherra—the clan leader's wife. An astonishing woman; she reminded me of Hadiya. A stern little face, squared shoulders, a tight trained body, a piercing stare… and this creature, humming something cheerful under her breath, brought a huge pie out of the kitchen. Damn, I almost fell off my chair when I saw it, because literally two hours earlier this very lady, during warm-up, had wrecked two training clan droids. As Mother would say: "Such grace! Such strength… A true predator!"
And this "predator" was carrying an enormous pie. Huh…
"Shade, let's fight!" Jessa suddenly distracted me. Shifting my attention, I looked at the girl's serious face. That same little twelve-year-old. Green eyes, short black hair—basically a tomboy. Though among Mandalorian girls it's hard to find long hair in general; you've got to tuck it neatly under a helmet.
"But I'm so-o-o la-a-a-azy," I drawled, smiling.
"Fight, coward!" a little fist smacked into my shoulder.
"And why do I need that?"
"I want to see what you're worth!"
"That's what you want," I nodded. "But why do I need it?"
"Hm…" the little one thought hard. "So I can see what I'm worth?"
"If you want to test yourself, then just ask."
"Why? A true Mandalorian would never refuse to test his strength!"
"As if I'm a Mandalorian."
"Ah… right. Well then I'll just kick your ass. Works for you?"
"Phe-he-he-he-he…" wiping away a tear, I couldn't help but be touched. That serious little face, that combative drive… I'd have even been worried about the kid's mental state, if I didn't hear the fun inside her. It just so happened Jessa immediately found in me a listener and a spectator she could show off to and chatter at.
"Stop laughing!"
Feeling the threat, I raised my hand and caught her leg as it came flying at me. Remember: you should never laugh at a Mandalorian.
"Ooh, look at you—bold. And what if I—"
"I warned you honestly!"
Yeah, another point. If you get warned—know this: they are not joking with you.
"Yeah, yeah, you warned me. Fine, gopher. Let's go."
"Gopher?"
"An animal. Cute one."
"An animal?! Why you—"
"Pha-ha-ha-ha… a-a-ah, not the le-e-eg-ha-ha-ha—ow. But it's cute though, right?"
"Yes, I'm cute," the little one nodded seriously. The adults who'd witnessed it shared my amusement, and some even stopped to watch it through to the end.
Standing opposite each other, I looked at the kid. Mandalorians don't hit children—unless it's for training purposes. I mean sparring, drills, and the like, where bumps, scrapes, and scratches are everyday business. And there aren't any wild rites here where the trainee might not survive to the end of training. Yes, learning isn't easy—though who am I to talk—but they'll pull you through and they won't abandon you.
The moment our spar began, I took a step aside, letting her flying body with the raised leg pass by, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her in tight.
"One–zero. Jess, don't rush into a fight headfirst. Your opponent will always play dirty and use tricks, so try to be ready for surprises."
"I know!"
"Then why did you jump?"
"I wanted it fast."
"So? Did it work?"
"Yeah."
"Huh? Hm…" lowering my head, I looked at the not-real knife pressed into my ribs.
"Does that count?"
"Let's say you surprised me—but it doesn't count."
"Why-yyy?!"
"Because in a real fight you don't talk to an enemy. Remember: never talk to someone you need to kill. Kill first, get to a safe place, and only then can you talk 'about the weather.'"
"And where's the honor?"
"Those who have it will do as I said, so as not to make the opponent suffer. Those who don't will try to talk you into hesitation if they're losing—or they'll just kill you immediately, because they don't care about you."
Letting the kid go, I stepped back a couple paces.
"Jess, honor defines your moral side, sure—but not in battle, when your decision determines your life or the lives of your loved ones. There is no honor and no morality here: if you don't shoot, they'll shoot you. Attack again."
She no longer tried to rush in headfirst, and then the spar somehow turned into training, where I showed her a couple techniques for close familiarity. One breaks the enemy's arms; another breaks the neck. In both cases you use pain points on the opponent's body. I demonstrated them on the kid herself, and then she practiced them on me as the test subject.
Yes, due to physiological differences among various humanoid species, the points shift slightly, but overall they are in the same places—and if you know the opponent's anatomy, they're easy to find. Which I explained.
Though personally, that knowledge wasn't all that useful to me; I never wandered around as a hunter the way my mother did, applying it in practice against sensitives. Usually the Force was enough.
But even if it didn't help me, that doesn't mean it won't help later. And Jessa doesn't wield the Force—she'll absolutely need it, so it's worth teaching.
That's how we lived. I absorbed culture within the clan, showed a few things, talked with the kids, told old tales about the Taung. I even felt like an old man telling children bedtime stories, heh.
Warren arrived a week later—and the company he came with threw me off a bit, because no less than three dozen Mandalorians showed up. As it turned out, while I was running around Coruscant, those people managed to complete several jobs, the last of which required more manpower. So they called in relatives and friends from the clans they were with.
It got even more interesting when I realized the entire crowd wasn't planning to leave. Apparently, people wanted to see the one Warren had found—see a relic of the past. And since I was moving closer, naturally, they needed to get acquainted with me via a couple of fights, and then throw a celebration for the successful job, where I'd be an invited guest. I already knew what a Mandalorian party looks like, and I expected something like this, so I prepared in advance. Stocked up on hangover cure and low-alcohol drinks.
During the festivities I met a cute girl named Nerra. A student, a patriot, an athlete, and simply a beauty. A real Mandalorian woman—who at twenty-six had hundreds of battles behind her, and in some sense literally, scars from them. The scar from a shard on her left cheek stands out most of all; someone might say "holy nightmare," but to me it looks good on her face—respect to the medics. And she's Warren's younger sister, so we had plenty to talk about.
"So it's true, and my brother really found you in space?" Nerra looked at me seriously.
"Yes," I smiled, pouring myself a drink.
"And you're from the distant past?"
"Absolutely."
"Yeah… someone's going to be unlucky," she shook her head.
"In what sense?" I asked, taking a sip.
"In the sense that having sex with such an old man is pretty questionable."
"Pff—kha-kha-kha…"
"Grandpa, are you okay?" she patted my back.
"Kha… You know!" I protested. But looking at her face, I realized she was just messing with me.
"Just kidding," she nudged my shoulder lightly. "Honestly, you wouldn't know from looking at you."
"Next you'll say 'a man in his prime.'"
"Exactly. Which is why it's hard to believe."
"Then don't believe it. What's the problem?"
"The problem is we're used to trusting each other. Especially if you're a member of the clan."
"But I'm an outsider."
"You are. Warren isn't. And I believe him."
"Got it. So what now?"
"Nothing. We don't care who you are or where you're from. Work is work, that's all. And even if you were a clan member, what matters is what you do now, not your past."
"You give anyone who decides to join you a chance?"
"No. Not anyone. But basically, after joining a clan, a new life begins…"
"Shade!" someone called from the side.
"Warren?" I saw a Mandalorian pushing through toward us, with two more behind him.
"I wanted to introduce you. This is Kaut, and Zeronis." The guys saluted in a friendly way. "They were selling the trophies—here, they're back. They're the second half of our team."
"Half? So your team is four people?"
"Yes."
"And Nerra?"
"I'm in a different outfit," the girl answered herself. "But if we find a good job, we gather together, like now. All right, boys, I'll leave you. Nice meeting you, Aero."
Without saying a word, we watched her go… okay, not just her back.
"That's some sister you've got."
"What, caught your interest?" Warren laughed.
"Of course. How could anyone resist her?"
"No way—and she'll help you with that," Kaut said.
"Yeah, with an uppercut to the jaw," Zeronis added. A second of silence—then laughter slammed in.
"By the way, guys. I'm looking around and seeing how many of you there are, and I want to ask—what size teams do you usually work in?"
"Usually small," Warren said. "Two or three, four in a squad is a standard set. You can often meet solo operators. When it's big, we gather twenty, thirty, fifty people—but that's rare."
"Got it. So I won't ruin your unit?"
"Hm?"
"Well, you have a tight-knit group, and I'm a new element, and…"
"No, it's fine," Kaut shook his head, cutting me off. "Don't even think about it. But what can you do? Warren and Des didn't really say; they only mentioned you're a warrior from the distant past and that the Jedi were interested in you."
"Yeah, that's true. As for what I can do…"
I was about to show them, but Des appeared, interrupting—Des carrying an entire crate of booze on his back.
"Boys! I'm back with the goods."
"Alcoholics," I sighed.
"Hey-hey! It's all natural, and we don't drink that often. Only for special occasions!"
"Yeah, I noticed."
"Did I interrupt? What were you talking about?"
"Shade was going to tell us what he can do," Kaut said.
"More precisely, show you," I added, and with a flick of my hand I took the crate from Des, pulled out four bottles, set the crate on the table, popped the caps, and handed the bottles to the guys. "Like that."
"I definitely like this ability!" Des cheered.
"You… a Jedi?" Kaut asked darkly.
"Force forbid! No, of course not. But yeah—I can do magic."
"Well, now it's at least clear why the Jedi were interested," Zeronis said, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
"Oh! I just came up with a nickname for Shade."
"Hm?" we turned to Des.
"Wizard!"
"Hm…"
"Come on, it sounds good, doesn't it? And as a tribute to the past, it fits perfectly. We used to have our own wizards once. Until the Jedi, together with those… what were they called…"
"Sith?" Warren prompted.
"Yes, the Sith, right—until they wiped them out."
"Speaking of which. What do you know about that conflict? Back when the wizards still existed," I asked immediately.
"Basically—not much," Warren said. "Well, they existed, well, we fought alongside them, but we lost."
"And where can I learn more?"
"There were clan libraries on Mandalore."
"Were?"
"Until the pacifists came to power. If we're lucky, something might've survived somewhere, but after the last clash with the Republic, a lot of libraries burned down."
"Just—" I almost choked with outrage. Burning libraries!!! That's… that's… ugh!
"Yeah. That's why our culture is in such bad shape," Warren said. "Even though we're supposedly one, in reality we're pretty fractured. Hence the pacifists, the apostates, and other… elements with nontraditional views."
"Got it. And…"
"What is it?"
"No… nothing."
"Well?"
"I was thinking of asking…" all eyes focused on me. "How do you create your own clan?"
"Oh-ho…"
"I just thought…" I swirled the bottle's contents. "I've got nothing to do, nowhere in particular to go, not much money either… Free-floating? Sure, but you've got a great company right here! With you I'll learn the nuances of the work and pick up a lot of interesting things. Mandalorians help each other, so you can count on support. And besides, our views are similar. With all that in mind—why not join your movement?"
"Heh. I knew I wasn't wrong about you," Warren put a hand on my shoulder.
"Don't get cocky. You absolutely can't campaign, and that's a fact."
"Eh… and I tried so hard."
"Yeah. So—about joining?"
"Becoming a Mandalorian is easy enough," Kaut began. "First you need to join someone's clan. That clan will handle your documents, give you what you need… in general, take care of you. And for a while you'll walk under their banner. Learn the culture, they'll watch you, and so on. When your 'probation' ends, you'll go through the rite of initiation as a Mandalorian and earn the right to create your own clan. But you need money for that, because you'll have to build a home and have a safehouse in case someone wants to join your clan."
"How interesting…"
"Since Warren dug you up, he should take you in," Des looked at his friend.
"I'm all for it!" Warren replied at once, clinking his bottle against mine. "Welcome!"
"And if we're being serious?" I smiled, glancing at Warren.
"I am serious. I'll genuinely be glad if you join my clan. We need wizards—wizards matter in a fight, heh-heh-heh…"
"All right. But one thing: I don't want to give up my surname."
"While you're on probation, it stays anyway. That's an easy way to tell newbies from established Mandalorians," he shook his head. "So: Shade Aero of Clan Styk. And you won't swear any oaths yet either. The only thing is—if you try to harm the clan…"
"Yeah, yeah. A bullet to the head. You guys keep it simple."
"Exactly."
"Shade, do you have documents?" Des asked, suddenly all business; the "light buzz" was gone from him. A serious, collected Mandalorian. "Although how would you…" he finished, tapping fingers on the bottle.
"I actually do. Just recently got them on Coruscant," I pulled out the card. Local documents were a little thing about the size of a bank card, made from a durable metal-plastic casing about five millimeters thick.
"The Jedi?"
"As if. I did it myself."
"Hah. Coruscant registration—capital city. You're our 'golden boy,'" Warren laughed, inspecting the documents. "That's good."
"Why?"
"It'll be easier to fly. They don't like us much in the Core Worlds."
"Why am I not surprised…"
"They're official, right?"
"Yes. I had to. Without them I couldn't have gotten here."
"And what—no one asked questions?"
"Oh, they did. But five thousand credits is five thousand credits."
"How far corruption has gone," Des clicked his tongue.
"And don't tell me. Giving documents to just anyone… ha-ha-ha."
Measuring the jokers with an accusing look, I rolled my eyes and took my documents back.
"All right, Shade. We'll leave that for now—after all, it's a party. Tomorrow morning we'll register you as a clan member… and we'll go shopping."
"Shopping?"
"Forgive me, I don't want to insult you, but your armor is a bit outdated."
"Yeah—only by thirty thousand years," Des laughed, elbowing me.
"Des, are you free tomorrow?"
"Free as the wind in the field," Des theatrically swept a hand through the air, imitating said wind. "Or almost. I need to handle something in the morning and then I'll keep you company."
"Kaut, Zeronis?"
"We need to head home with ours; we haven't shown up in a while."
"All right."
So we rested right there in Clan Hawk's house. More people got pulled into the fun, and by midnight there were suddenly three times as many revelers as before, and the grounds got cramped. I didn't see the rest of the celebration—I preferred to get the hell out and not tempt fate in a fight with the green serpent.
And in the morning, with the first rays of the sun… damn, my internal clock suffered before, and now it's hurting. Anyway, with the first rays, I revived a couple of corpses by letting them have a hangover drink, then patched them up with the Force—and immediately became an indispensable member of the unit. Now we can get to work…
Updating documents and officially joining the clan, in practice, was absurdly simple. We just went to the clan that oversees the Journeyman Protectors and handles bureaucracy on the planet. There, we filed an official application to update my documents. Warren isn't a minor figure in his clan; he'd arranged everything long ago and had simply been trying to squeeze my consent to join. Warren himself acted as my sponsor.
That's how I became part of Clan Styk. Now all my sins will reflect on Warren, so I need to be more careful. My upbringing also falls on his shoulders—as the one who brought me into the clan.
"And where's the bureaucracy?" I glanced sideways at Warren as we left the building.
"What bureaucracy? What are you talking about? The fact that we're part of the Republic doesn't mean its laws and rules are used here. Especially since—" he pointed at a burned-out building next door. "That's the Republic embassy."
"Huh. If the Republic had an army, it would've flown in long ago to restore order."
"Unlikely. There's nothing here to interest them. The only thing is that Mandalore has beskar deposits, same as Concordia. That, sure. But Concord Dawn? Nobody cares about it. That's why the more warlike clans send us out here—we're basically on the edge of Mandalorian space."
"At least nobody sticks their nose in your business."
"That's true. All right—shops."
"Wait. I saw a workbench at your place. Is it functional?"
"Of course."
"Then we don't need a ready set—we need parts. I'll make myself a spacesuit."
"Heh. You thought we were buying you ready-made armor?" Warren squinted slyly. "A true Mandalorian makes his own armor—at least the first one."
We decided to start with the basics. Walking into an armor shop, they began fitting me for an undersuit. In general, I didn't see a single complete armor set in the shop. The store sold components, mostly disassembled, and then a Mandalorian did whatever he wanted with them. Though if you put it all into a full suit, the price bites.
Back to purchases. Undersuits vary; in the Mandalorian shop they mainly differed by material, purpose, and price. I didn't even ask about quality—it was solid across the board. They bought me a two-thousand-credit undersuit, one of the best. Not only could it take you into space, but the fiber also gave extra protection. It weighed more than its counterparts, but not too much. To compensate for the weight, special artificial muscles were built into it, which slightly boosted the real ones. The next step of that technology is used in crushgaunts.
Next up was the armor itself. As hard as it was to admit, because of material quality and other metals, Mandalorian armor was many times tougher than mine. And if I work on it myself, it'll be a fairy tale.
For the most part, Mandalorians used armor with admixtures of durasteel, siridium, terenthium, and cortosis. The first is a fairly common, durable alloy used everywhere, including starships, but it's heavy. Siridium is a valuable metal used mostly by Mandalorians in any infantry armor, including in tandem with beskar. Terenthium, unlike the previous ones, is a lightweight metal also used in shipbuilding, like durasteel. Thanks to it, armor doesn't crumble under especially heavy impacts. Cortosis is the weakest metal here. It doesn't handle kinetic force, it cracks, and you can't really make proper armor out of it, but—because it handles energy hits well, it's used for layers or as an outer coating. Often cortosis is mixed straight into the alloy, and then the armor depends on metal ratios.
There were other armor models too, but I saw these four elements most often. Only one element I still didn't see…
"Warren, can I ask?"
"Hm?"
"I don't see any beskar items here. At most—crushgaunts with plating. Why?"
"Pha-ha-ha-ha-ha…"
"What's so funny?"
"Oh… do you have any idea how much beskar costs?"
"No clue."
"Ten grams of pure beskar cost at least a hundred thousand credits. If I'm not mistaken, one hundred twelve now."
"HOW MUCH?!"
"You heard right. For comparison—in crushgaunts," Warren raised his hands in the gauntlets he was wearing, "there are four and a half grams of pure beskar used as plating. And they cost…" he glanced at the tag, "fifty—two thousand credits. Or one hundred sixty thousand tergs."
"Four grams? And that's enough?"
"Beskar is strong and light," Warren shrugged. "But because of the price, people usually buy it separately, and plating is applied either by custom or on your own."
"Wait—hold on…" I mentally switched on the calculator. "If there are four and a half grams in the gloves, and the price per gram is about ten thousand, then how much would it cost to fully coat a suit of armor in beskar?"
"Fifteen million," the seller answered with universal sorrow.
"…"
"Yeah… not cheap," Warren smirked without joy.
"But why?? That's your metal! Where are the discounts?"
"Beskar is mined only on Mandalore and Concordia. We could seize the mines, but the problem is the entire planet lives off selling that metal. We're not ready to do that," Warren shook his head.
"Even if they're pacifists, even if they disgrace our culture and sometimes I want to remind them who they are, but…" Des commented. "But they're still our brothers. We're Mandalorians—we have to stick together. If it weren't for mutual aid, we'd have been wiped out long ago."
"Huh. How bleak…"
"Despite the common belief about differences in views, Concord Dawn, no matter what, sends Mandalore substantial sums and food shipments. You could call it humanitarian aid. It was bad there before, and now especially hard times have come. That's why the official government doesn't even try to slander us much. At most—send us farther away so we don't stir the water or attract attention, and that's it."
"And how did it happen?"
"The Republic hit us with additional taxes—we're 'part of it,'" Warren put his entire negative opinion into those last words. "The shares of our companies belong to outsiders, so physically they can't give us big discounts. And the Trade Federation raised prices too, citing pirate activity and their recent raids…"
"They recently had aurodium ingots worth one and a half billion stolen," I recalled the news.
"Shame it wasn't us," Des muttered.
"That's easy to fix," the seller chimed in, suddenly cheerful.
"In any case, it's only the tip of the iceberg, Shade," Warren drew the line. "And there are also problems on Mandalore itself. If you didn't know, Mandalore's atmosphere and soil were badly damaged after the 'preventive strike,' and you can only grow anything in dome cities. Mostly everything is bought or transported from other planets in the system, though they got hit too. We spent seven hundred years restoring Concord Dawn's nature, and still we can't return the volumes that existed before the war."
Thiiis is baaad. "Guys… how do you endure this?" I rasped, stunned by the local reality.
"Well… some endure, some don't. Tor Vizsla wants to organize another campaign against the Republic, but he doesn't understand it'll only finish us off. We're trying to do something ourselves—well, we, meaning the clans. Even the pacifists aren't just sitting still; the same Hegel Kryze, the Duke of Mandalore, is trying with all his might to get us out of the Republic, but as you can see, it's not going great so far."
"I was just cursing out the Jedi Order for how bad things are and how much they've… screwed up, and you've got it even worse."
"Hey-hey!" Des protested. "We're climbing out, little by little. Tens of thousands of Mandalorians across the galaxy take contracts and bring money back here. That's a very good income, Shade—thanks to it we can provide for ourselves and our clans, and still be able to help Mandalore."
"Well done, guys—what else can I say. Seriously, well done. Anyone else would've started running from a 'sinking ship,' or given up—but you're fighting."
"Ahem. Are you going to choose armor or not?" the seller pulled us back to reality.
"Yes, yes, of course."
Despite my answer, we weren't buying armor—we were buying raw blanks for it, because I would literally manufacture my own set. The seller looked at me with respect. Along with the metal we took textiles, as well as mounting elements, which are installed on the flight suit and then the armor plates are hung over it.
Unfortunately, we couldn't take anything more. Ideally, Mandalorian kit includes a medpack with bacta, but it's outrageously expensive, so we had to pass on it and a lot of other interesting things. But it's fine—we're not proud, and we're fairly tough on our own.
The only ready-made things we took were a belt, helmet electronics, and a wrist computer—because the thing I bought on Coruscant was called "cheap mass-market crap" that wouldn't survive even one fight.
The kama was attached to the belt. It's a textile piece that protects a Mandalorian's thighs, including from a jetpack's exhaust. If you don't know, you could mistake it for a "skirt," but you can get punched for that comparison. The last element was the helmet, and that's where we ran into some problems. I wanted to make it myself too, but since it's the most complex part of the armor, helmets are usually bought at least in a semi-finished format.
Because the helmet served its owner as the control center for most of the suit's capabilities. (My tongue won't call it just "armor" anymore.) The rangefinder mounted to the armored helmet was a common upgrade and could track up to thirty targets, while the combat computer inside the helmet allowed the owner to control weapons, sensors, and the suit's jetpack via voice commands. The dark macrobinocular viewing panel offered various vision modes, including infrared. Motion sensors, encrypted internal comlink, and a wideband antenna complemented the helmet's systems, all of which could be connected to the owner's weapons or personal starship. And I'm not even mentioning the filter. And the helmet also had a feature to connect and use liquid oxygen.
Damn… it's easier to say what they didn't cram into a helmet—like Tetris. And usually all of that was already "ready-made," so a newbie wouldn't accidentally break a delicate work of art. But I'm not the type to give up easily! So we take a helmet blank, we take the electronics, we take the manual, and we'll do it ourselves.
All in all it cost thirteen thousand credits. Five for the armor, two for the undersuit, the rest—electronics and other high-tech. After the armor, our eyes fell on jetpacks.
"One thousand eight hundred credits?!" I glanced at Warren. "I thought they were cheaper."
"They are cheaper. Usually a pack costs around five hundred credits," Des scratched his chin, "but those don't fly far—at most a kilometer—and they're tuned to a specific fuel. A Mandalorian Assault Pack flies up to four kilometers, and if you fuel it with liquefied tibanna gas, grade H, even more."
"Hold on… if I'm not mistaken, that gas is used as ship fuel, isn't it?"
"As fuel, and in starship turbolasers," Des nodded.
"You're insane. If that thing blows, there'll be nothing left of a Mandalorian except the armor."
"Any pack blowing up will hurt you deadly, so what's the point of worrying?"
"…"
"But to make it blow, you'd have to try, because our packs have a special reflective coating. And even if the pack takes damage, it's easy to unclip and dump it. Sometimes, if a rocket isn't enough, we fire up the pack and send it into the target. In general, the risk is usually justified," Des shrugged. "Though you're right: grade-H tibanna is an extreme option—an expensive extreme. More often people fuel with less dangerous and cheaper propellants."
"Huh. All right, what's next?"
"Weapons."
"I'm fine with a pair of pistols like the ones Warren has," I waved it off. "And vibroknives built into the vambraces."
"You sure? The pistols might not have enough punch."
"For that, I have this," I showed the sword.
"Oh. Right. I keep forgetting you're a wizard. But maybe at least a flamethrower? Classic!"
"All right—give me a flamethrower."
The seller immediately pulled out the necessary parts onto the counter. So, loaded down with purchases—which in reality amounted to basically nothing—we headed home. Once back, I went straight to my room to dismantle the old kit and prep the parts.
But first…
"Hi, Mom," I greeted, lighting candles at the memorial with pyrokinesis. Two swords lay on the pedestal; a little higher, right above them, her mask hung, and on the sides stood candles, the kind Mandalorians set on their memorials on the day of honoring ancestors. "I'm back."
Falling silent, I looked into the visor of the mask. The candles flickered, marking that I'd been heard. Smiling, I continued:
"So many years have passed—yet for me, they flew by in a blink. I can't even imagine how you managed to stay by my side and not go into the Force. Whatever the case, I've said it and I'll say it again—thank you. Other than you, I have no one left. You brought me into this world, and you stay with me until the very end…"
The air rippled, and I felt as if someone touched my cheek.
"Anyway, I flew around a little and… you can't even imagine how much the world has changed. Flights take days, and the galaxy is wrapped in hyperroutes like a web along which people move. Many factions, states, an entire Galactic Senate… such a mess, such a life boiling, that your head swells trying to grasp the scale. I flew to the Jedi. They're… an order of Force-sensitives with what's probably the largest archive in the galaxy. And no, they're not our descendants. Better… you don't see them… Why? Well… how do I put this… Damn. If I say it straight: the Je'daii Order ceased to exist, and the current of sensitives split into two factions. One preaches the Light Side, the other the Dark."
The air rippled again—so hard the candles almost went out.
"Yeah, I knew you wouldn't like that. But that's not the worst. Sorry, but I'm not going to tell you the worst. If I almost dropped from a heart attack, you might dematerialize entirely. I'll put it like this: I haven't found true Force adepts yet. But I did become close friends with local Mandalorians. I already told you about them; they're the Taung's descendants. Things are a complete mess for them, but they're holding on. Maybe I'll make my own contribution to a better life for them. No… not maybe—I will. You know what I think? That with my help Warren's squad will be able to take truly dangerous contracts. That's the least I can repay them. We don't abandon our own, right? And they accepted me as their own. Eh…"
Stepping aside, I sat right down on the floor next to the nightstand the pedestal stood on.
"I looked for information about the past, about what I missed… but what I found didn't please me. Well, in general. In particular, the girls and my children did a lot after us. I was especially glad to learn they beat the Rakata's face in for us, can you imagine? An entire Hadian Empire was born… I read it and almost laughed out loud. It's even a little insulting we missed such a mess, heh-heh."
After a pause, I leaned the back of my head against the nightstand.
"To be honest, I miss you, Mom. I miss you, Vessira, Hadiya, Terra, Saros. I miss my friends. While I was flying here, I met a lady named Riasha. A Togruta. She reminded me of the past. And Nerra, Warren's sister, reminded me too. You know, it got to the point that I started seeing the guys themselves in them," I rubbed my eyes. "Because of all that I… I thought maybe I shouldn't have woken up? My time is there, with you. Everyone has long since gone into the Force—only you and I are anomalies, and I'm even among the living against all odds."
Suddenly, I heard a click above my head.
"Ow!" One of her swords, unfastened from its holder, dropped onto my head. "All right, I got it. If I woke up, then live and enjoy life. I carved it on my nose, I made a note. But you know, there's something else I noticed in myself," standing up, I put the sword back. "I… don't notice my fear. I agreed to fly with the Jedi without even worrying they could do something to me. Damn, I even got myself documents at an official police department, fully knowing the Order was looking for me. After you and I activated the charge, it's like I started getting pulled into dangerous adventures—and the more dangerous, the more fun it is. That's what pushes me into mercenary work. Dangerous job, risks, fights—everything, heh, the way I like it. Though knowing you, I can assume you'd have preferred to remain a loner. Well… I considered it too, but I sort of owe the Mandalorians, and the guys are decent… overall. So, that's that. I'll stay with them for now."
Running my fingers along the mask, I smiled sadly.
"All right, Mom. It's time. I have to remake my armor now, because I'm slowly becoming a Mandalorian. And then there'll be the first job. Sorry, but I'll say right away: I won't take your mask with me. As if I needed to lose it—I hope you understand me. And don't worry about me. We've already established it's not that easy to kill me. Thank you for everything, Mom…"
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan