Madlands

32. Ten Words

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Mando's time was up. He wouldn't miss the cold greetings and the way that his presence seemed to be barely tolerated, but he would regret leaving the Deep Fountain and his Tribe. Without something to support and help rebuild, he knew that his existence would feel untethered. But, it was done. In fact, it had been done months ago when he'd twice removed his helmet for Grogu—once in a desperate bid to find him and once to be fully known by him.

Did he regret what he'd done? Mando had sat with the question endless times. It had no answer.

He regretted dishonouring his Creed and he almost regretted how unyielding and unforgiving the Creed could be. That very nature was, of course, essential to it as a source of strength; a Mandalorian who followed the Way would develop the courage required to stay on the path only because the Creed demanded so much. The challenge itself became one's ability to meet it. He still believed in the Way and he knew that he always would.

But how could he fully regret a decision that he knew he would make all over again if he had to relive it? No answer.

He also regretted, or more so feared, the swell of hostility that seemed to be growing against the Icarian isolationist worlds—Lorien, Jura, Rin, and even Cereda. The Empire's propaganda, incontestable after Cereda's initial statement and the jamming of all communications shortly thereafter, was managing to churn up widespread dissent and resentment. The complete exposure and surrender of the Rangers was being relentlessly broadcast as the only result that would see communications restored to the people. The Tribe had been gathering a sense of the mounting trouble as they carefully expanded their network throughout the system. That the scared and misled public would soon do the Empire's bidding—turning their ships and their weapons against their own brethren—felt inevitable.

Mando was one man, with one ship, no comms, and no connections here. He was in no position to mount a resistance on behalf of a group that he didn't know how to find, even if Grey might be among them.

Grey, of course, was his greatest regret, even if how they'd ended up had been her choice and hers alone. He would still feel the loss. He'd almost started to believe that he'd found her here—in this mad and distant corner of the galaxy—and now—only after the child had reawakened his life to connections—due to some cosmic grace. He should have known better than to forget that the universe is arbitrary and good fortune unevenly bestowed.

He was almost finished loading his supplies and equipment onto the Razor Crest as it sat in the cliff-side cavern bay next to Paz's Plug-6. The covert's two other ships were hidden in a second location, as it was risky to make your full fleet into a single target. Paz had re-named his ship the Voidrunner since the Tribe's arrival in the Madlands, and the story of how it had earned its new moniker was likely a tale worth retelling. Mando would not get to hear it. Perhaps one day.

There was no more delaying and he would not be seen off by anyone from the covert.

He drew up the rear and port gates simultaneously, and climbed the ladder to the cockpit, feeling as if he was climbing from one part of his life into an unknown next phase, once again on his own.

As he reached for the ignition panel, Mirin's voice emerged from his helm and spoke only ten words before falling silent.

Mando. Former Ministry fuelling station. Orbiting Lorimar. Imperial prison. Seneca.

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