Dha Werda Verda

Ballador Desilijic Dessh rested his massive bulk upon a hoversled, slowly blinking bulbous orange eyes as he puffed on his hookah pipe. The bloated Hutt let the peppery narcotic flow over him before adjusting the fez perched atop his head and turned to his datapad. He had much work that required his attention and his uncle Jiliac would not be happy if his personal accountant fell behind in his duties. Numbers were his stock-in-trade.
        Ballador’s life on Nal Hutta was certainly dull by most standards, one endless stream of financial transactions after another. He doled out payments to smugglers, slavers, bounty hunters, assassins, spies, mercenaries, and all other manner of scum from throughout the galaxy’s underworld, though he never dealt personally with any of them. It was all handled electronically from his datapad. He never even needed to leave his spacious office; as a member of such a prestigious race, his meals were delivered straight to him by Jiliac’s own kitchen staff. It may be dull, but Ballador liked it that way; predictability and accounting went hand-in-hand.
        Naturally it came as a great shock to Ballador when his office door ruptured inward in a bright flash of sparks and smoke, causing the Hutt to flinch away from imagined debris. His eyes grew impossibly larger as he surveyed the wreckage of the smoldering portal, where a being in sand-gold armor stepped out of the smoke, loading a wrist rocket onto his left gauntlet. The armored being was humanoid and walked with a menacing air about him. The T-shaped visor of his helmet shielded his gaze from the Hutt, giving him no clue as to his identity.
        At last Ballador found his voice. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded in Huttese. “How did you get in here? Who in blazes are you?”
        Behind the intruder, in shuffled Ballador’s secretary droid, stammering in its tinny voice, “Your Exaltedness, I tried to stop him but he wouldn’t listen to me. He insisted upon seeing you and threatened to dismantle me if I interfered! Please don’t deactivate me. Have mercy!”
        “Ballador the Hutt,” the stranger stated in a rough voice, filtered through his helmet. “I have it on good authority that you paid a sum of ten thousand credits to a man in Mandalorian armor five days ago to wipe out a band of pirates raiding your clan’s spice shipments.” He leaned his visored face closer. “Where were those pirates operating and where did you send the Mandalorian?”
        “You’re in no position to make demands of me, boy!” Ballador bellowed, rearing up on his tail so that he towered over the intruder. “You stand in the Winter Palace of Jiliac Desilijic Tiron, head of the Desilijic kajidic and will not leave with your life! Guards!”
        The interloper glanced over his shoulder at the destroyed entryway, then back at the Hutt. “It’s a little hard for them to hear… from the afterlife.”
        Ballador’s breath hitched in his throat before he declared, “I’ll crush the life out of you myself!” Rearing up, he threw his massive body at the intruder who threw himself aside just barely in time to avoid being smashed into a fine red paste by the Hutt’s flabby body. Bellowing in rage, Ballador whipped his tail around to trip up the stranger but he leapt over it effortlessly as it slammed the poor droid across the room like a toy.
        The Hutt spun around to find the tip of a wrist rocket, bare centimeters from his eyeball, freezing him in place. “What system?” the intruder repeated. “Thick hide or not, this Type-Twelve A anti-personnel rocket’ll punch right through you and paint this room a very disgusting color. Now give me the name of the system.”
        Ballador blinked several times, concentrating first on not soiling himself, before rediscovering his voice. “Let me just check my records,” he answered, slowly lifting his datapad and pressing a few keys. After a moment of searching, he said, “Here it is… the man you’re after notified us via comlink yesterday that he had ambushed the Red Eclipse and wiped them out in the Anobis system.” He turned the datapad’s screen to his guest to show him he wasn’t lying. “You see, it’s all right there.”
        The stranger began backing away from the Hutt toward the ruined door. “Thanks,” he said, as he lifted his rocket launcher skyward and blasted a hole in the ceiling before rocketing up in a burst of smoke from his jetpack, leaving Ballador’s hearts racing from all the excitement.

        Buruk blasted away from Nal Hutta as fast as his ship, the Bes’uliik, would carry him. He wasn’t really concerned about any Hutt reprisals but it was better to be safe than sorry. Just in case, he kept the laser cannons primed and ready. Setting aside his scarred helmet, he calculated the hyperspace jump for Anobis, then leaned back in the pilot’s chair and waited. He needed time to think.
        Anobis was an agriworld in the Mid Rim with a few scattered mining colonies in the mountains, which made it a prime target for pirates looking for supplies. No doubt Kex trailed the group he was after until they made port, leaving their ship vulnerable to infiltration, at which time he would pick off each crewman one at a time. That was Kex’s style, watch and wait, and then get the job done as quietly as possible. Buruk snorted. Not many in the galaxy believed there was such a thing as a subtle Mando’ad. With any luck Kex hadn’t been a complete ghost while he’d been reconnoitering and Buruk could squeeze a few leads out of the locals.
        As the stars stretched into blurred lines before collapsing altogether into the hypnotic blue vortex of hyperspace, Buruk closed his eyes and let his memories drift.

        Yog Sothoth; a barren industrial world whose thick atmosphere was choked with corrosive poisons, byproducts of the great factories and smelting pits that stretched across the plains, breathable only to the native Yig. Upon first setting eyes on the Outer Rim world, Buruk Kelborn thought, So this must be Hell. No one in their right minds would fight over such a world. No one, that is, except the Mandalorians, who were being well compensated by the Yig for deposing Sultan Azathoth. Why they wanted the old lizard removed was no concern of theirs.
        Now Buruk led a commando raid into the heart of Zathog, the planet’s capital city. Their target was the Sultan himself while the rest of Jango’s and Myles’ forces dealt with the loyalist factions. As the first of the Q-Carrier troopships fell toward the planet, the squad crept through a long, narrow alley, making their way toward the palace, beskar’gam sealed against the deadly atmosphere. “Just a few more blocks to the east,” Buruk whispered over the comm to his friend Goran Kex.
        “Coming up on a pair of sentries,” Kex whispered back. He and another soldier had taken point, scouting ahead to the mouth of the alley. “Snipers in the windows of the office tower across the square, tenth and twelfth floors. Looks like SoroSuub X-Forty-Fives.”
        “They’re using sporting blasters as sniper rifles?” Buruk wondered aloud. “The loyalists don’t have much of an army, do they?”
        “A lucky headshot and you’ll be just as dead, ner vod,” Goran reminded him with a chuckle.
        “Thankfully I have a good friend like you who won’t let that happen,” Buruk replied. “Just keep your shebs down.”
        “Don’t I always?”
        Buruk found the mouth of the alley empty when he brought the rest of the squad up. Peering through his helmet’s rangefinder, he spotted two snipers in the windows and held his breath. After several heartbeats he saw first one, then the other yanked back. Exhaling, he called, “Good job Goran.”
        “Naturally,” Kex replied. “There’s no one sneakier than me in this outfit.” A moment later both snipers reappeared in their respective windows, only this time Buruk knew they each had a gaping slash across their throats. “Also no one with better taste in décor.”
        “Yeah, you’re a regular laandur,” Buruk muttered. “Are we clear to cross?”
        “Affirmative, go.”
        Buruk flashed his troops a set of hand signals, then ran across the square, boots thudding against the pavement. As they reached the next alley, he threw up a closed fist, bringing his men to a halt as they waited for Kex and his partner to rejoin them.
        Then the minefield was triggered.

        The main port on Anobis was abuzz with activity, ships coming and going, loading and unloading cargo, sentients and droids rushing everywhere in the mad dash of frantic commerce. Buruk waded through the sea of life in full armor, turning heads as he strode past, not looking to be inconspicuous. Most of the spacers spoke of recent pirate activity but he suspected most of the old-timers were confusing current events with half-remembered tales of their youths.
        At present, Buruk sat alone in a cantina, sipping water through a straw so he didn’t have to remove his helmet. A raised platform jutting out from one wall served as a stage where a quartet of Codru-Ji played various string, wind, and percussion instruments. Buruk tapped his foot absently to the music as he eyed the wait staff and other patrons through his T-shaped visor.
        Across the bar, a trio of rowdy drunks was in the middle of a heated discussion. From their appearance, Buruk judged them to be pirates or some other manner of scum. “Did you hear what happened to the crew of the Red Eclipse?” the first pirate, a dark-skinned human with a shaved head and a jubilee of facial piercings asked.
        One of his companions, a blue-skinned Nautolan, snorted derisively. “I don’t give a damn what happened to them! Lousy bunch of thievin’ scum!”
        As the Nautolan downed a mug of ale, the third member of the circle, a green Twi’lek with tribal tattoos marking his fat-laden lekku, whispered, “Watch what you say around here, the Red Eclipse had a lot of allies.”
        “So what?” the Nautolan demanded. “I’m glad they’re all dead and I don’t care who knows it!”
        “Well you should,” the Twi’lek hissed. Then, motioning his head in Buruk’s direction, he added, “That guy over there’s listening to every word we’ve been saying.”
        “Oh really?” The Nautolan got up from his chair and sauntered over to Buruk, slamming his palms down on the duraplast table. “Hey bucket head!” he growled drunkenly. “Yeah, I’m talking to you. Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop on other people’s business?”
        “Words so loudly spoken are there for anyone to hear,” Buruk replied evenly, taking another sip of his water.
        With a snarl, the drunken Nautolan swatted Buruk’s glass from his hand. The glass crashed across the room, splashing water everywhere, as the pirate grabbed for the blaster riding his hip. Buruk shot to his feet, slamming the crown of his helmet into the Nautolan’s face. He staggered back and Buruk grabbed a handful of his tentacles, slamming his face into the tabletop with the sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. The drunk slid to the floor in a smear of blood, unconscious.
        Before his two companions could leave their seats, Buruk hooked his fingers through a handful of jewelry in the human’s nose and lip, giving a hard yank that tore them free of his flesh and pinned the Twi’lek in his chair with a foot and the barrel of a blaster pistol to his forehead. “You were saying about the Red Eclipse?” he demanded.
        “They—they got ambushed in high orbit,” the Twi’lek stammered over the cries of his writhing companion.
        “When? By who?” Buruk insisted, pressing his blaster harder against the pirate’s skull. “What happened?”
        “Two days ago, some Corellian freighter, a Doomtreader-class I think. Heavily modified. Came out of hyperspace and blasted the slag out of them. Didn’t even tell them to surrender, just started shooting.”
        Buruk tilted his head to the side; that didn’t sound anything like Kex’s MO. “What happened to the freighter?”
        “Red Eclipse didn’t go down without a fight, that’s for sure. That freighter took a pounding and got a lot of its systems trashed, then limped out of the system when it was all over.”
        “So it was damaged and just left?” Buruk asked. “It didn’t make port at all?”
        “No, I swear,” the pirate insisted.
        Releasing him, Buruk strode toward the door. Kex needed a place to put in for repairs and if it wasn’t here, there was only one other option. Tossing the bartender a few credits as he passed, he said, “Sorry about the mess,” and hurried through the exit.
        Buruk didn’t pause for anything but immediately headed straight for the docking bay where his ship waited. Kex would have made for Ord Mantell in the nearby Bright Jewel system. It was home to a massive scrapyard where old hulks from across the galaxy were brought to be broken down into base components. That’s were he’d find Kex, scavenging for parts to fix his damaged ship.

        Dust hung thick in the air as rubble settled in what remained of the alley. The noise dampeners in Buruk’s helmet hadn’t been able to fully compensate for the blast and his ears rang, a maddening high-pitched keening sound that felt like it was in his very eyeballs. Franticly, he checked his armor’s seals; no leaks. “Mar’e,” he breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn’t choke to death on the poisonous atmosphere. That was something. However, he found that when he tried to move his legs they were pinned fast beneath a slab of duracrete from the collapsed building sides. Osik.
        The rest of his squad was down, some moving, others deathly still. They were taking fire from all directions now, pinned down by the loyalist forces. Buruk tried his comlink. “Jango, Myles, this is Kelborn, do you copy? My squad is pinned down at coordinates Alor Droten Tal Six Four Niner.”
        Only static answered; his comm must have been damaged in the explosion. No help was coming. Fear started to grip at him as that thought settled in. His squad was cut off and surrounded, their position about to be overwhelmed; he’d heard the Yig were notoriously carnivorous. Buruk shuddered at the thought. He struggled to free his legs but it was no use. They weren’t being crushed but he couldn’t free them.
        Just then several more explosions went off all around, mere pops compared to the blast that had brought the building down on top of him. Concussion grenades, he thought. They were followed by blaster shots from the windows above, raking over the approaching lizards.
        Someone grabbed him roughly beneath the armpits and started dragging. Buruk struggled, swinging his fists, determined not to make it easy for the beasts to take him. A fist came down on top of his helmet and a familiar voice said, “Would you settle down you big baby? I’m about to pull your shebs out of the fire.” It was Kex; he and his partner had survived the office tower’s near collapse when the mines had gone off.
        “My legs are pinned,” Buruk informed his savior. Kex went to the pile of rubble and began clearing away chunks of duracrete.
        “Give me a hand,” he said as he dug his gloved fingers beneath the slab that held Buruk’s legs tight. Together they strained against the debris’ weight, sweating beneath their helmets until finally Buruk was able to drag himself free.
        “Vor’e ner vod,” Buruk gasped, climbing to his feet. “Come on, we have to help the others.”

        The Bes’uliik left hyperspace and kicked in its sublight engines, rocketing toward Ord Mantell. The thought of finally having Kex in his grasp sent waves of anticipation through Buruk, an exhilarating sensation that after so many months his search was at last complete.
        But first he needed a way to get onto the planet without being seen. Finding Kex would be for nothing if he saw his old comrade coming and managed to escape. A massive garbage scow provided the cover he needed. Maneuvering his ship into its shadow, Buruk followed the trash hauler closely, matching it maneuver for maneuver. Anyone watching their scanners would think he was merely a ghost reading, a glitch in the sensors. He doubted anyone would be paying attention.
        As he slipped in behind the hauler, Buruk looked out over the mountains of trash piled hundreds of meters high, resting in an acidic lake that stretched for kilometers. This was where old starships came to die. Droids cut away rusted armor plating from hulls, leaving the skeletal superstructures exposed like boney fingers grasping at the twilight sky. A labyrinthine hovertrain network snaked through the scrapyard like mechanical rivers, transporting discarded ship components from one point to another; there, heavy lifter droids unloaded their cargo to be stacked and sorted in a process that would go on as long as the galaxy relied on technology.
        Buruk spotted the rust-colored Doomtreader resting on a raised platform beside an enormous garbage smasher, which was located at a hovertrain nexus where the ground was solid. The freighter was shaped roughly like a hawkbat, with a vertical hammerhead-style cockpit and four powerful engines, two aft and one on each wingtip that appeared to be custom jobs.
        He was tempted to scan the vessel for lifesigns, hoping Kex would be aboard, but decided against it. If his target was on the ship, then aiming his sensors at it would set off every alarm it had and Kex would be able to make a fast getaway. Instead, Buruk decided to land a safe distance away and set out into the coming night on foot. Besides, he thought, hunting Kex down like a dog will be so much more satisfying.
        Fully armored and geared up, Buruk hefted his blaster rifle and crept along a hovertrain rail through the durasteel maze, watching his step to avoid the corrosive liquid the scrapyard laid in. The acid vapor stung his nostrils, making them feel as though they had been scraped raw inside. His HUD assured him the byproduct gasses weren’t concentrated enough to be deadly. Unlike Yog Sothoth.
        The train rail began to incline upward toward the garbage smasher. His heart hammered against his breastbone with each stride, threatening to burst through his ribcage. This was it; Kex would face judgment for his crime at Galidraan. So many Mando’ade would be able to rest in peace after today. Every step closer made the blood pumping in his ears that much louder.
        Something rustled on the opposite side of a large durasteel hull plate. Buruk froze, listened. Nothing. He pressed his back to the metal and crept along the wall, watching the edge through his T-visor. His pulse raced, anticipating the confrontation. The rustling sound came again and he slowly peered around the corner. He ducked back as a flock of mynocks burst forth in a flurry of leathery wings, leaping into the rapidly dimming sky. Ensuring no other surprises waited on the other side of the durasteel slab, he continued up the ramp.
        Buruk raised the blaster rifle to a ready position as he approached the Doomtreader’s lowered ramp; warm amber light spilled from the hold into the twilight, almost invitingly. As he crept forward, he peered in all directions, searching for possible ambush sites; there were several in this maze and he checked each one before approaching the ship. The engines popped and pinged as they cooled. Kex must have landed recently. Standing at the base of the ramp, he could detect no movement within.
        “See anything you like, ner vod?” a gruff, unfamiliar voice asked as a blaster barrel jabbed the back of his helmet.
        Sha’buir, Buruk thought as he mentally berated himself. Let him get the drop on me… Aloud, he said, “Not really; I prefer MandalMotors for my ships.” Raising his hands and letting his blaster hang loosely from its sling, he added, “You should think about getting yourself one.” He had a special trick for this sort of situation; just had to keep him talking while he slowly rotated his jetpack’s thruster nozzles toward him.
        “Maybe I’ll just take yours,” his ambusher replied, oblivious. “You won’t be needing it anymore.”
        Before he could pull the trigger, Buruk activated his jetpack, launching himself forward and throwing his attacker backward off his feet. Buruk brought his knees into his chest, transforming his jerking lurch into a controlled tumble, rolling to his feet on the opposite side of the ship.
        Spinning around and raising his blaster, Buruk caught sight of his assailant leaping to his feet. He wore brown and grey beskar’gam with a grey short-sleeved jumpsuit on a powerful frame. A flowing burgundy cape hung from his broad shoulders and a brown leather belt with a skull-shaped buckle and several long straps dangling from it wrapped around his waist. Even though his helmet hid his identity, Buruk knew it wasn’t Kex.
        There was no time for disappointment to set in. Without a moment’s hesitation the other Mandalorian was in the air with a burst from his own jetpack, alighting on top of his ship and unleashing a volley of blaster fire. Buruk ran for cover, blaster bolts kicking up at his feet, and dove off the platform and into the scrapyard.
        He landed on his stomach in a shallow pool of acid and pushed himself to his feet. Thin wisps of smoke curled up from his armor where the corrosive liquid ate away paint but thankfully the iron held; it was one of the toughest materials in the galaxy. His attacker wasted no time in pursuit, landing in a crouch at the edge of the platform. Buruk pulled a concussion grenade from his right thigh plate, pulled the arming pin, and hurled it upwards onto the ledge, pressing himself against the wall for protection.
        His opponent leapt, the blast carrying him through the air. Buruk aimed and fired a short burst from his blaster rifle, peppering the Mandalorian with several shots that glanced off his armor. As he fell, he bounced off of the hood of a landspeeder and landed unceremoniously on a conveyer belt moving away from Buruk.
        Got to close the gap before he recovers! Buruk thought, firing his jetpack. As he rocketed forward, the Mandalorian pulled himself to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and caught sight of him. With hasty aim, he raised his left gauntlet and fired a wrist rocket. Buruk’s eyes widened in surprise behind his visor and he dove below the projectile to land several meters up the conveyor from his opponent.
        Shoving aside compressed cubes of scrap metal, the warrior charged after Buruk, firing his blaster recklessly. His shots ricocheted around Buruk as he ducked and wove to avoid being hit, showers of sparks lighting up the night. Finally the Mandalorian reached him and Buruk pounced, trapping the warrior’s gun arm in his left armpit and swinging for his attacker’s throat with his right. The armored stranger lowered his chin in time, protecting his neck and Buruk cried out in pain as his fist smashed into the cheek of his sturdy beskar helmet.
        The Mandalorian grabbed Buruk’s wrist with his free hand, shifted his weight, and used his leg to sweep Buruk off his feet, slamming him bodily onto the conveyor belt. Buruk gasped as the breath left his lungs and his assailant stood, gaining the upper hand.
        Taking a moment to relish his victory, the warrior glanced around and found the conveyor was headed for the open mouth of an industrial incinerator unit. Buruk saw too and tried levering himself to his feet but the other man placed a boot on his chest and shoved him back down hard.
        “Save a place for me in Hell,” the Mandalorian snarled then stomped down on the fallen man’s chest.
        But for his Mandalorian armor, Buruk’s ribs would have snapped. Instead, through a fit of agonized coughing, he croaked, “Meet me there mate,” and triggered his gauntlet’s flamethrower, igniting his foe’s cape. As he tore the flaming garment free of his armor, Buruk rolled to the side and fell onto a pile of trash that shifted dangerously beneath his weight. Without hesitating, he fired his wrist rocket at the conveyor belt.
        His opponent rocketed through the blossoming fireball, his armor blackened and trailing smoke, and plowed right into Buruk. They tumbled down the shifting debris mound, bouncing and scraping, followed by a small avalanche of detritus.
        Once again on their feet at the base of the hill, the Mandalorian fired his whipcord, the weighted grapple wrapping around Buruk’s neck, and took off. Immediately Buruk’s hands went to his throat, trying to loosen the synthrope as he was yanked off his feet. I’m lucky my neck didn’t snap, he thought as he sailed through the air, his life slowly being choked out of him. Flexing his wrist, the vibroblade housed in his gauntlet slid from its sheath and hummed to life. He slashed the rope and fell to the ground, rolling as he hit, taking deep, sore breaths.
        His adversary was flying back for his ship so Buruk grabbed a durasteel pole and took to the air in pursuit. Catching up to him, Buruk swung the improvised weapon in a deadly arc, smashing it into the Mandalorian’s jetpack. The damaged pack sputtered and coughed, belching smoke from its thrusters as he dropped like a stone, his trajectory carrying him forward until his hit the duracrete platform. He scrambled to his feet and limped for the Doomtreader’s boarding ramp, but Buruk landed a short distance behind him and kicked a concussion grenade to the base of the ramp.
        The warrior dove away from the explosion, rolling to the edge of the garbage smasher, sparks crawling across the body of his jetpack. His hand blurred into action, pulling his blaster from its holster and he fired several shots, tracking Buruk across the platform until he dove for cover behind one of the freighter’s landing struts. Buruk drew his own pair of custom blaster pistols, leaned around the strut, and snapped off three shots from each in rapid succession.
        One shot caught his target in the breastplate, throwing him backward over the edge, into the garbage smasher. Buruk leapt in after him, landing beside the fallen man. All he could see was red. Vaguely he registered that the compaction walls had begun to close, ever so slowly. Grabbing the Mandalorian by the collar plate, he tore off the man’s helmet.
        The big mercenary had thin, closely cropped white hair and dark brown eyes. His nose looked as if it had been broken years before and had healed crookedly and his mouth seemed to curl in a permanent sneer. He glared hatefully up into Buruk’s T-shaped visor. “Montross?” Buruk blurted, taken by surprise that he knew the man.

        Korda VI had been a disaster from the start. First, ion cannon fire had crippled the Q-Carrier Buruk had been piloting. Then they’d taken heavy fire from the natives as soon as the ramp was lowered, forcing them to take cover in the trenches dug out by their own crash landing. Hell of a first mission with the True Mandalorians for a boy of only ten.
        Jaster had ordered the mission abort but Montross took his squad headlong at the enemy, charging right up the middle and getting even more men killed. Jaster had to go pull his shebs out of the fire personally while Jango used the assault as a diversion so he could go after the target. Buruk had been told to stay behind and help guard the troopships with Jaster’s squad; the boy had been steely-eyed the whole time, fighting like a professional, just as he’d been trained. He was only three years from adulthood by Mando’a standards.
        Then Montross had returned. Alone. He said the mission was a setup, that the Death Watch had planned the whole thing. Buruk wouldn’t have put it past his estranged father to do something like that. So, Vizsla finally managed to do what he’d been dreaming of for years, kill Jaster Mereel.
        But where was Jango?
        Montross was busy ordering everyone around like he was already Mandalore. “Hurry up!” he shouted, waving soldiers onto the few Q-Carriers that still functioned. “Jaster’s last order still stands! We’re aborting!”
        “What about Jango?” Buruk demanded. His friend hadn’t returned from the target zone in the forest.
        Montross whirled on Buruk, grabbing him by the collar plate. “He died trying to save Jaster,” he growled. “Let’s move!”
        As Montross turned toward a waiting troopship, Buruk took one last look at the tree line. There, wading through the mud came a pair of Mandalorians, one cradling a third in his arms. Grabbing Montross’ arm and pointing up the hill, Buruk cried out, “Wait! Look!”
        “Jango!” Montross blurted.
        As Jango limped down to the waiting ships, he said in a threatening voice, “Help me get Jaster off this rock. Then we’re going to find Vizsla,” he added. He then turned to carry Mereel’s body up the boarding ramp, only to be stopped by Montross’ hand on his shoulder.
        “This is your chance to do right by Jaster, kid,” he whispered. “I should be in command here…”
        Jango whirled on the bigger man, furious. “That’s not your call to make, Montross. I say you’re not fit to lead us.” Pointing an accusing finger, he said, “You left Jaster on the battlefield to die alone.”
        Behind him, another young soldier, Silas, drew his blaster on Montross. “I’ll follow Jango,” he declared. “And no one else.”
        “Is that what you want?” Montross demanded. “A child leading you?” Jango was fourteen, legally an adult. Buruk and several others drew their own weapons on Montross.
        “You should go,” Jango stated flatly.
        “You’ll kill them all, Fett,” Montross insisted.
        “Go!”

        Montross’ eyes hardened, as if he finally recognized Buruk. “Well, if it ain’t the Death Watch brat. What happened? Get sick of playing by Jango’s rules now?”
        Buruk shook him roughly, keeping his blaster trained on him. “I’m looking for Goran Kex. What do you know?” he demanded. The walls were about six meters apart and moving steadily together, pushing the garbage along with them.
        “What’s got into Jango’s head sending a whelp like you after me?” Montross replied.
        Anger flared up in Buruk’s brain. It had finally begun to sink in that he’d been chasing his tail coming to Ord Mantell. “Tell me!” he screamed. “Tell me or I’ll burn you down!”
        Now the walls were five meters apart.
        “I only answer to the Mandalore,” Montross insisted with mock dignity. “Bring him here and I’ll talk.”
        “They’re all dead!” Buruk shouted at him. “The Jedi slaughtered them all like nerfs! Jango’s a slave, Silas is in hiding, and Kex betrayed us!”
        Only three meters separated the compaction walls now.
        Montross began laughing hysterically. “I knew it!” he declared. “I told you Jango’d get you all killed!”
        In a rage, Buruk smashed the butt of his blaster across Montross’ face. “You dar’manda aruetii!” he snarled.
        Blood dribbled from Montross’ nose. He knew nothing of use and Buruk was back to square one. All he’d get from this exile would be taunts and abuse.
        A meter and a half.
        “You just going to leave me in here Kelborn?” Montross asked. “That’s not very inline with Jaster’s Codex.”
        Buruk bristled at that. He’d dedicated himself to Jaster Mereel’s moral code when he had joined the Mandalorians all those years ago. Even if most of their people were slain, he couldn’t abandon that now. Tightening his grip on Montross’ collar plate, he fired his jetpack and shot out from between the garbage smasher’s walls, just as they clanged together.
        Dropping Montross unceremoniously to the platform, Buruk hovered in midair, glaring down at him. “My fight’s with Kex,” he growled, wrestling with his own emotions. He sorely wanted to satisfy his frustration by putting a blaster bolt through that smug face below him, but somehow restrained himself. “Someday you’ll have to answer for your own treachery.” Before he could do something he’d regret, Buruk vectored toward the Bes’uliik and didn’t look back, his heart weighted down with impotent rage and torturous disappointment.