Shares of Blood

“Fifty thousand,” the Mandalorian said flatly. His hologram shimmered, briefly fragmenting as another muffled explosion sent a tremor through the compound.

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This time, the Duke made no effort to contain his rage.

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“How dare you demand more credits!” he roared, slamming a fist on the table, flecks of spit flying from his mouth. “I should have you fed to my Vornskrs after what you did to the west wing!”

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“That CR90 was about to turn your enclave into a crater,” the Mandalorian replied, voice level, unmoved. “We had to bring it down. As for where it landed, that wasn’t our call.”​

He leaned slightly forward, visor catching the flickering light.​

“Fifty thousand. Or my company walks. We’ve fulfilled our contract.”​

The Duke stabbed a button, muting the feed. He turned sharply toward his security chief, whose face had gone pale beneath the glow of the emergency lights.

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“Your Grace…” The man cleared his throat. “We won’t survive this without the Mandalorians. We need them.”

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A guttural curse tore from the Duke’s throat as he drove both fists into the priceless chant’dra wood table, its lacquered surface cracking beneath the weight of his jeweled rings. He stared at the fractured grain for a moment, then unmuted the transmission.

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“I’ll give you thirty thousand,” he growled, “and three shares in the mining project.”​

“Ten shares,” the Mandalorian said, without hesitation. ​

The Duke’s face twisted. "Five."​

​

"Ten," the Mandalorian repeated calmly.

“Fine!” the Duke shouted. “Just get the rest of this vermin off my moon!”​

The armored figure gave a slight nod.​

“As you wish.” The hologram blinked out, leaving only silence, and the distant echo of another explosion rolling through the mountains.