Star Wars: Tales of the Bounty Hunters

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Fett was amazed to hear himself laugh. “That Jedi superstition? Gentlelady Organa, if the Force exists I have seen no proof of it, and I doubt it does.”

  Now she did look at him. “You remind me of Han Solo, a little. He didn’t believe—”

  Fett heard his voice rise dangerously. “I am nothing like Solo and don’t you compare me to him.”

  Leia took a slow, deep breath. “Okay. Why does that offend you so?”

  Fett leaned forward again. “Do you know what that man has done in his life? Never mind the loyal citizens of the Empire that he, and you, have killed during your Rebellion; war is war and perhaps you, at least, think you are fighting for Justice. But Solo? He’s a brave man, yes; he’s also a mercenary who’s never done a decent thing in his life, who’s never done a difficult thing that somebody wasn’t paying him for. He’s smuggled banned substances—”

  “He ran spice!”

  Fett found himself on his feet and yelling. “Spice is illegal! It’s a euphoric, it alters moods, and the use of it leads to the use of worse substances, and a man who will run spice,” he snarled, “will run anything!” He stood tense and motionless, holding his rifle in a quivering grip, staring down at Leia. “And if I had been using spice tonight, Leia Organa, perhaps you would not be safe with me in this room.”

  “Han has smuggled spice,” Leia said steadily, “which is illegal and does not please me; and he’s smuggled alcohol too, which is legal but the tariffs are high enough to make it worth smuggling in various worlds. No, he’s not perfect and he’s broken laws you’ve never even heard of. But I know Han Solo, and I’ve seen him take risks for things he believes in, risks that I doubt you would have the courage to take—and what are you doing working for Jabba the Hutt anyway?”

  Fett exhaled, loosened his grip on the rifle. He forced himself down to the ground once more, ignoring the spikes of pain that flared in his knees. “He’s paying me. A lot. Once Skywalker comes, I will take him to Vader, and then I will spend no more time here.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Jabba the Hutt has sold mountains of spice, and of far worse than that—”

  “Necessity makes allies. Once the Rebellion is over, I expect the Empire will deal with Jabba. But he is less a threat than the Rebels.” Fett reversed the assault rifle, touched the butt against the pad that controlled the lights. His macrobinoculars compensated almost immediately as darkness fell on them; she sprang into his vision by the light of her body heat. “I’m going to sleep. My throat is sore.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Luke Skywalker,” Leia said out of the darkness, “is going to come and kill you.”

  “Everyone dies,” Fett agreed. “But since nobody’s paid me to kill you … sleep well.”

  He slept with his eyes open, inside the helmet.

  The Jedi, if he was one, came a day later. Luke Skywalker was his name, and he killed Jabba’s Rancor; and Jabba put him down in the dungeon, in a cell near Solo and Chewbacca.

  The following morning dawned bright and clear and hot, and Boba Fett was in a vile mood.

  It was Tatooine, of course. All the mornings were bright and clear and hot.

  But the Hutt was going to kill Skywalker. And Solo, and Chewbacca, though that was hardly the point.

  Skywalker. That was the source of Fett’s vile mood. He’d tried to talk Jabba out of killing Skywalker—not that he cared whether Skywalker lived or died; Fett expected the galaxy would be a better place with that fool subtracted from it. He’d seen a lot of remarkably stupid things in his day, but the spectacle of a beardless young man trying to face down Jabba the Hutt in his own throne room was near the top of the list.

  But, though Fett had argued with him more than was perhaps wise, Jabba was not behaving like the Jabba whom Fett had known all these years. The point was that Darth Vader would pay for the fool—the Emperor would pay for him. The largest posted bounty Fett knew of in the galaxy was five million credits; but Fett was certain that Luke Skywalker would bring more.

  Jabba didn’t want to hear about it. He wasn’t willing to share the bounty; he wasn’t willing to take the bounty himself, and pay Fett as go-between with Vader. His pet Rancor had died; and Skywalker was going to die for it.

  Some days Fett was convinced he was the only sane businessperson left in the entire galaxy.

  It galled him. He planned out scenario after scenario; none of them tempted him. He thought about kidnapping Skywalker out of Jabba’s hands, but time was short and Jabba’s security was good; even for millions of credits the risk was too high.

  And so he walked around on the sail barge’s upper deck, with uncharacteristic nervous energy, the morning after Skywalker’s arrival, the morning that Skywalker and Solo and Chewbacca were to be executed, trying to decide what he was going to do next, as the sail barge headed out to the Great Pit of Carkoon, taking the condemned to their deaths.

  It came to him as something of a surprise that he hoped Solo died well. Years previously Fett had seen Jabba drop half a dozen of his own guards into the Great Pit of Carkoon, allegedly for conspiring against him; he’d offered them all a chance to grovel for their lives. Two of them had, and Jabba, of course, had fed them to the Sarlacc anyway.

  He knew Chewbacca wouldn’t beg; he hoped Solo wouldn’t.

  Maybe Skywalker would beg for his life. That wouldn’t be so bad.

  Fett stood in the bow and watched the sand disappear beneath them. This far out into the desert, there was nothing but desert, all around them. Sand, drifts and dunes as far as the eye could see.

  Fett wondered, in passing, who had killed more people, himself or the Hutt. Probably the Hutt, if you counted his spice trade; probably himself, Fett thought, if you only counted deaths by your own hand.

  Eventually the Great Pit of Carkoon came into view. Boba Fett, his mood improved not in the slightest, abandoned the upper deck and went down to the viewing area, to watch with the others as Justice was rendered—

  —and who knew how many millions of credits were wasted.

  The day had started badly; it got worse. Before it was over the sail barge was a flaming wreck, Jabba the Hutt was dead, and Boba Fett was down in the Great Pit of Carkoon, being digested by the Sarlacc.

  Oh, he got out; as far as Fett knew he was the only person who ever had escaped the Sarlacc.

  But by the time he got out and was healed again, or as healed of that experience as he ever did get, great events had transpired; and the galaxy had become something Fett would never have believed possible.

  Fifteen years passed.

  Or, to put it another way:

  Darth Vader died; so did the Emperor. The Empire fell and was succeeded by the New Republic. On the human scale fifteen years is long enough for babies to be born and grow into teenagers; human children across the galaxy became adults and bore children of their own. For some long-lived species the period passed without significant change; for others, shorter-lived than humans, entire generations were born, grew old, and died.

  In a sector of the galaxy Boba Fett had never heard of, a star went nova; it murdered a world and an entire sentient species. It aroused less comment than had the destruction of Alderaan, only a decade prior; the galaxy at large barely noticed the tragedy, and Fett never heard about it. In a galaxy with over four hundred billion stars, over twenty million intelligent species, such things are bound to happen.

  The remnant of the Empire rose up against the New Republic, and was defeated; Luke Skywalker fell to the dark side of the Force—and returned, as few Jedi ever had in all the thousands of generations preceding him.

  Leia Organa married Han Solo; and together they had three children.

  On Tatooine, a drunk Devaronian named Labria killed four mercenaries, and vanished.

  Boba Fett grew older.

  On the planet of Coruscant, the world that had been the capitol of the Old Republic, the capitol of the Empire, and was now the capitol of the New Republic, in the Imperial Pal
ace, in the quarters he shared with his wife, Han Solo sat on the edge of their bed with his mouth set in an obstinate line.

  “No. I won’t go. Treaty signings bore me, and besides that worthless son of a slorth Gareth tried to cheat me at Laro last time we were there.”

  Leia stood with her arms folded, her exasperation showing plainly. “You cheated him back!”

  “I cheated him better. Anyway that fool should feel lucky all he had to deal with was me,” Han pointed out. “When I was a kid, getting caught dealing seconds was a felony and they hung you for it.”

  “That’s not true,” Leia said—but a touch doubtfully, Han thought; he had known her long enough to know that cheating at cards, and the consequences of it, wasn’t among the things they taught princesses.

  “It is too true,” said Han righteously. “Anyway King Gareth was lucky nothing worse happened to him than losing to me, that’s the point here. So I don’t know what you expect me to do, go up to the fellow and say, ‘I’m sorry, your scummy Royal Highlessness, that I cheat better than you do’?”

  Leia sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t use the word ‘royal’ as though it were an insult. I’m—”

  “You’re adopted,” Han said quickly.

  It brought a reluctant smile to her. “You’re not going to come, are you?”

  “You’d wish two weeks of diplomatic boredom on me?”

  “You’re sure you’d be bored?”

  “I was bored last time, except that one night.”

  “I don’t think Gareth will play cards with you again.”

  “So I’ll be bored every night.”

  Leia sighed. “You’re not coming.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “I was thinking of taking the children with me. They’re old enough and it would give them some useful experience in dealing with—”

  “It’s certainly safe enough,” Han conceded. “If they don’t die of boredom.”

  “I could leave Threepio with you to keep—”

  “You’d leave me here with Threepio? What did I do to deserve that?”

  Leia Organa worked hard at keeping the smile off her face. “All right, I’ll take him with me, too.”

  Han Solo looked up at her and grinned. “Deal.”

  She leaned in on him and whispered, “You better not be in jail when I come back.”

  “Hey, hey,” he objected. “This is me.”

  He called Luke.

  When Luke’s image appeared in the hologram, Han said, “Hey, buddy. You busy tonight?”

  A smile lit Luke’s features. “Han! How are you?”

  “Fine. Look, Chewie’s gone home and won’t be back for another few weeks, my wife and kids are off—”

  “—the Shalamite trip,” Luke nodded. “Right. Why didn’t you go?”

  “—and I was thinking,” said Han doggedly, refusing to get sidetracked, “we might go and see if we could dig up some trouble tonight.”

  Luke shook his head. “I can’t, Han. I’ve invited a group of the Senators to dinner … you are welcome to join us, though.”

  “Trouble sounds more attractive,” Han growled.

  Luke grinned. “C’mon, Han. You know I can’t cancel my own dinner. Besides, this is Coruscant. We’re two of the best known people on the whole planet. Where are we going to find trouble?”

  “I’ve managed it before.”

  “And you sat in jail for two days before you convinced them you were really you. Leia was worried sick.”

  “Yeah,” Han pointed out, “but Leia’s off-planet right now. By the time she gets back, this stay in jail will be nothing but a pleasant memory.”

  Luke laughed. “Han, come to dinner with me. You’ll enjoy yourself.”

  “With half a dozen Senators? I’d rather have a tooth pulled.”

  “You know,” said Luke quietly, “you might think about joining the Senate.”

  “Without anesthetic I’d rather—”

  “They’d elect you in a heartbeat.”

  “And impeach me in a month.”

  “Why?”

  Han thought about it. “Bribe taking,” he said finally.

  “You wouldn’t take bribes,” said Luke calmly.

  “Well, I admit it would depend on the bribe.”

  “Han, what’s bothering you?”

  The question startled Han. “Nothing.”

  The steadiness of Luke’s gaze was unsettling. “You’re not telling me the truth, Han. Or you’re not telling yourself the truth, I’m not sure which—”

  That look was making Han uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just Chewie being gone—”

  “That’s not it.”

  Han stared at Luke. “No … not really. You know … I don’t know where I’m going anymore, kid. I have a wife and children who love me, and who I love. But that’s the problem. I’m Daddy. I’m Leia’s consort. I tell amusing stories at state dinners—”

  “You’re very good at it,” Luke said gently. “There’s a place for those sorts of—”

  “—and somebody asked me at one of those blasted dinners a while back what it was like, smuggling I mean, back in the old days. I started to answer and suddenly I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d run an Imperial barricade, or what the cargo was, or how it felt.”

  Luke grinned at him. “It was me and Ben and the droids.”

  Han looked startled. “You’re right—it was, wasn’t it?” He smiled almost unwillingly. “Yeah. All right, let’s say I couldn’t remember the last time I made any money at it—”

  Luke turned his head, looked off-pickup, and turned back. “Han, my guests are arriving. Are you sure you won’t join us?”

  Despite himself Han felt tempted. “… nah. Not tonight.”

  Luke nodded. “I’ll come by tomorrow. All right?”

  “All right. I’ll talk to you later, kid.”

  Luke’s lips quirked in a small smile. “Han—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Han, I’m older than you were when we met.” The smile did not fade, but it changed quality subtly, in a way Han Solo did not quite understand. “The world changes, Han. You can’t stop it and you can’t fight it, and you can’t ever, ever turn it back.” Han had the oddest impression Luke was studying him; and then Luke nodded and said, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Hang in there.”

  His image vanished.

  Han Solo thought, The kid’s turning into Obi-Wan right in front of my eyes.

  • • •

  He got a recording when he tried to reach Calrissian.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t be reached right now. Business has taken me on an extended trip; I’ll respond to any messages if I return.

  “If this is Han, buddy, you owe me four hundred credits if I get back.”

  Well, blast it, Han thought. Lando had found some trouble.

  Late that evening he found himself down at the launching bay where he kept the Falcon.

  It was dark, except for the bay lights high above him, and quiet except for the distant sounds of cargo being unloaded, in the commercial bays a good ways down.

  Nobody questioned Han when he arrived; nobody asked him what he was doing there; he walked through the darkened bay as though he owned the place.

  He very nearly did.

  Han Solo stood at the edge of the bay, and laid one hand against the control for the overheads; and four banks of floods came to life.

  Beneath the wash of light, the Millennium Falcon glowed white. She had never been so clean, in all the years Han had owned her; she had never been so carefully painted and beautifully detailed. Her engines had been rebuilt—the new hyperdrive engines never so much as blinked. The weapons emplacements were almost all new equipment.

  There were even spare parts for everything.

  Han had ceased to wonder about how much it had all cost; the New Republic had paid for it all. He’d never even seen a bill.

  Sitting in the pilot’s seat, in the
cockpit, he initiated a launch sequence. He didn’t really intend to take the ship up; he just wanted to look at the sky.

  The dome above the Falcon split in two, slid slowly apart as the platform the Falcon rested on raised itself up, and the sky came out.

  Han Solo stared out at the world.

  It was amazing how much better it made him feel, just to be sitting here, in the closest thing to a home that he’d ever had. The seat next to him was empty, and that wasn’t right—but it wasn’t entirely wrong, either. He hadn’t met Chewbacca until well into his adult years; and there’d been a time, before that—before Chewie, after the death of his parents—when there had been nobody.

  No one except himself.

  Han wondered sometimes—rarely, to be sure—what his family would have thought about him, if they could have seen what he had grown into. He’d never had to wonder about it, when he was younger; his family had loved him, but he knew he had been a disappointment to them, and they had not lived to see him grow into anything better.

  You can pinpoint moments when change occurs. Not always; some changes are like the tide, slow and barely perceptible until they have come, or gone.

  Sometimes, though—

  Han did think about this, and with, oddly, increasing frequency, as the event itself grew more distant in time: the Death Star was coming; and it was going to destroy the Rebel base, the Rebels themselves, and their plainly doomed Rebellion. Han had taken Chewie and the Falcon, and had gotten out with time to spare—

  Chewie was furious; Han could tell. Chewie wanted to fight. They’d sat here, together, in the Falcon’s control room, with Chewie not talking to him. Han had made not one, but two errors, calculating the jump to hyperspace. Finally he had his trajectory—and he hadn’t been able to run it.

  “All right, all right, let’s go fight,” he’d yelled at Chewie finally, almost twenty years ago, convinced they were both heading to their deaths—

  He sat in the cockpit of the Falcon, almost twenty years later, and wondered what might have been: Leia would have been dead; and so would Luke. His children would never have been born. The Empire would still rule the galaxy, and he and Chewie would be traveling from world to world, one step ahead of the Imperials, one step ahead of the bounty hunters.