IN HIS YEARS as a bounty hunter, the Mandalorian had gone after all manner of quarry—some violent, others timid, some charismatic and seemingly friendly—but never had he encountered anything quite like this…child.

If it even is a child, he thought. Fifty years old, yes, but still, the IG’s words echoed through his mind: Species age differently. Mando found himself looking back at the thing, trying to figure it out. Everything about the way it gazed up at him with a mixture of curiosity, wonder, and trust indicated that it was still very young, perhaps even an infant. But there was cleverness behind those eyes.

As he walked, the hover pram floated along not far behind him. They made their way across the plaza toward the escarpment, to the place where the mountains bulked jaggedly against the reddening horizon. Looking ahead, the Mandalorian already found himself thinking about the Client, back on Nevarro, and what possible use the man might have for this most highly prized asset. Of course the galaxy was crawling with valuable and deadly things that made themselves appear unremarkable and helpless to take advantage of those who misjudged them.

He looked again at the Child in its pram, floating an arm’s length behind him. The Child’s eyes gleamed back in his direction, attentive, drinking in the details of the landscape. Perhaps the Client’s fascination was more that of a collector of exotic species and he’d wanted this one as an addition to some private menagerie.

But why all the protection? Why was the path to the Child so heavily guarded?

The Mandalorian paused to survey the low, rock-enclosed caverns that stood between him and the way back to his ship. Tiny creatures—the quick, lizard-like gorvin snu—scampered across the rocks. The Child peered at them. Soon it would be dark, and Mando had to figure out how to get back. His blurrg was gone—it must have wandered off at some point to seek its own path—so it appeared they would be making the journey to his ship by foot, which meant—

He paused midstep, listening to the silence. A lonely whistle of wind through the open canyon was followed by the faint but unmistakable rustle of fabric. They weren’t alone. A shadow flickered across the rock wall to his immediate left.

He reached down and released the catch on his holster, resting his hand on his blaster.

A second later, the Trandoshan leapt down at him with a snarl, brandishing a vibro-axe. The Mandalorian twisted clear of the blade and reached out to shove the Child’s pram as hard as he could, out of harm’s way, hearing—could it be?—a faint giggle of delight from inside.

A second Trandoshan sprang out to join the first, both of them swinging axes, roaring and snarling, charging him from either side. Mando flung up his rifle to block the first Trandoshan’s attack, but the second came in low with his weapon and connected with Mando’s chest. The bite of the blade was deadly sharp, cleaving through his armor and slashing into skin, and the bounty hunter felt a bright lance of pain.

Catching the scent of blood, the assailants doubled their efforts. The Mandalorian managed to knock the legs out from beneath one of them, pivoted, and brought the rifle up swiftly from below. He hit the Trandoshan in front of him with a jolt of electricity and clubbed him across the back of the skull. When the other backed away, spun around, and ran, Mando raised the rifle and fired the disruptor, reducing the runaway to a pile of loose clothing that fluttered to the ground.

But not just clothing.

Looking down at the fabric, Mando saw the tracking fob that the Trandoshans had brought with them. More bounty hunters had come to claim their prize. How many of their kind had the Client engaged? A dozen? A hundred?

He drew in another breath. At this point, there was no reason not to expect more hunters. But with the desert wind rising and night on its way, they needed a place to stop and rest, preferably on higher ground, so he could repair his armor and treat his injuries.

They went on.

Darkness fell with a suddenness that was both surprising and inevitable. By then, the Mandalorian had found a suitable place to stop, activated his lantern, and sat down with a low-voltage cauterizing tool to treat the wounds on his chest and arm. The bite of the vibro-axe had been painful but not particularly deep, and the cauterizer sealed the flesh into a puckered, blackened soon-to-be scar—another in a collection of many.

Glancing up, he saw that the Child had climbed out of his vessel and toddled over with one arm extended, as if he sensed what Mando was doing—the pain he was in, the harshness of the healing process—and wanted to help.

The Mandalorian looked at him and shook his head. “Get back in there.”

He picked up the Child and settled him back in the pram. It was almost fully dark, and above them, the first few stars had crept into view, more and more materializing in clusters of light. He abruptly felt very tired.

I’ll just close my eyes for a minute.

When he opened them again, it was daylight.