Sacrifice

"Time we shared some reminiscences about my wayward kin," said Fett, tapping his forefinger impatiently against the trigger guard of his blaster. "I'm not as careful as him. My name's Fett."

The barkeeper's face drained of what blood there was left in it.

Mirta actually watched his color change to a pasty gray. She'd never seen physical fear like that before. The man's eyes scanned Fett's visor, and the revelation was almost comic.

"It was awhile ago . . ."

"Mandalorian in gray armor with gray gloves. Called Skirata." If the bartender was expecting some credits to be slapped on the counter to jog his memory, Fett wasn't playing. "What do you know?"

"Okay, he killed a guy here. Lot of damage. Lot of attention from security, too." The barkeeper stared at Mirta now, and he was evidently piecing things together. "Yeah, you were with him, weren't you?"

"Not for long," said Mirta. She'd moved out of the clone's way fast—into a different cantina, in fact. "Who did he kill?"

"Gang boss called Cherit. It made the local holonews, even."

Obviously most shoot-outs here didn't warrant a headline. Mirta made a mental note to check the archives. "What do you know about Cherit that didn't make the news?"

"Nothing."

"I realize a blow to the face can affect your memory." Fett still hadn't lowered his blaster. "Try again."

"Okay, Cherit's outfit supplied rak, lxetallic, and Twi'lek girls to some minor Kuati nobs. He was doing his deals here for a while. Maybe he was muscling in on your relative's turf."