by neetha Napew
When Bossk had finally departed the web, the Hound's Tooth released from the docking subnodes a safe interval of time after the other ship's disembarking, Kud'ar Mub'at complimented its creation on the quick and sure handling of the bounty hunter's suspicions.
" Well done," said Kud'ar Mub'at. Secure in the embrace of its pneumatic nest, the assembler let the accountant subnode perch on the claw tip of one raised foreleg. In the distant and smaller chamber, the shed exoskeleton was once again a hollow likeness of the assembler's physical form." You handled the Trandoshan in a way to inspire pride amid the internal organs of your creator."
" Merely a matter of business." Balancesheet displayed no embarrassment at receiving such praise." If I show a facility in that regard, it is because all interactions between sentient creatures can be reduced to a matter of credits, expenditures, and debits." One of the accountant subnode's limbs traced the outline of a zero in the air." Sum and divide."
" And divide and conquer." Though, of course," conquest" was rhetoric a little grander than absolutely necessary. Kud'ar Mub'at was perfectly satisfied with a higher than average rate of profit." That's always the best advice."
Kud'ar Mub'at let the accountant subnode scuttle back into its usual resting place, deep in the internal corridors of the web. If the assembler wasn't careful, its rudimentary heart might soften once again toward the smaller replica of itself. Much had been accomplished with the subnode's assistance: the Trandoshan bounty hunter Bossk had gone away, convinced of the same thing that his opponent Gleed Otondon was, that Kud'ar Mub'at and all its devious scheming was allied to the interests of his fragment of the old Bounty Hunters Guild. Let them go on believing that, thought Kud'ar Mub'at. When they found out otherwise, it would be too late for them to do anything about it. Whether the True Guild or the Guild Reform Committee won their battle with each other, that mattered little. As long as Kud'ar Mub'at won. . .
The assembler folded its legs around itself, and meditated over what the next steps in its scheming should be.
6
" Here is the report, Your Excellency."
Slouched in the form-chair in his private quarters, Prince Xizor extended his hand and took the single sheet of flimsiplast that the bowing lackey offered to him. The lackey tucked the silver tray under his arm and withdrew, still bowing. The creature's existence was already banished from the Falleen prince's mind, even before the tall, ornately worked doors closed once more.
Xizor preferred solitude in moments such as this. Not so much to maintain secrecy-the throne room was surrounded by minions who were, out of fear or loyalty, as dedicated to the Black Sun organization as he was-but to have the course of his thoughts undisturbed by the clatter of other creatures' words. Those from different planets and genetics-they were for amusement or profit. Xizor had had ample reason to congratulate himself in the past, for having found ways of combining those goals. Falleen pheromones had a powerful effect on the female members of most of the galaxy's sentient species-and enough of those were sufficiently satisfying to Xizor's tastes that he could pleasure himself with these easy conquests. If at the same time, he could advance his own and Black Sun's agenda by overpowering a high-ranking female diplomat or envoy, either from the old Republic or this new upstart Rebel Alliance, then so much the better. But when everything he wished had been accomplished, the same cold smile would cross the sharp-edged angles of his face, the deep violet of his reptilian eyes vanishing behind mocking slits, as with a simple gesture of farewell he would make it clear that the female's desperate obsessions were no longer any concern of his. For a Falleen, sexual conquest was best savored in memory, like a trophy installed in the labyrinthian corridors fortressed inside his green-hued skull.
As cold-blooded as the reptilian Falleen physiology was, there actually was a hot-blooded element to their psyche. In this, the species was similar to the Trandoshans, however grossly ugly those creatures' scaly and large-fanged appearance. By contrast to a Trandoshan, a Falleen such as Xizor exhibited a haughty, fine-boned elegance that was as much a factor in their legendary sexual prowess as the powerful pheromones exuded from their silk-grained skin. What the two species shared, though, was the speed with which their satiated appetites returned, as hungry as ever. For Trandoshans, hunger was centered in their gut; their brains, what there were of them, were servants to a basically primitive carnivore nature. To best an enemy was to eat him. We Falleens, thought Xizor, are a little more subtle than that. . .
The anticipation of his next pleasures would have to wait, there was more immediate business at hand. Words were already forming on the surface of the flimsiplast, darkening into legibility.
While a species characteristic, the exuded pheromones differed enough from one individual Falleen to the next that they could function as a coded trigger for security devices. The chemical reaction taking place in the fibers of the flimsi could only have been initiated by physical contact with Prince Xizor's fingertips. He raised the sheet in his hand, holding it at a comfortable distance from his gaze.
It was a report from one of his chief lieutenants in the Black Sun organization, the Kian'thar named Kreet'ah. Vigo Kreet'ah, to use the title of honor he had earned through his faithful service; always loyal, occasionally cunning, and often violent. Kreet'ah had some excellent sources of information planted throughout the galaxy; Kian'tharan family and liege relationships were so intricate-their reproductive processes required fertilized ova to be handed down through three generations of nonconsanguine affiliate clans before birth-that outsiders had little chance of sorting through all the levels of cousin and sibling status on the Kian'tharan home planet. At the same time, the entire species had deceptively honest faces, which made it easy for them to work their way into other sentient creatures' trust. As had more than one of Kreet'ah's sub-a kin, inside the various widespread financial institutions that serviced the galaxy's less-than-savory business enterprises. Those businesses included the arachnoid assembler Kud'ar Mub'at's activities as a go-between for bounty hunters and their clients. Kreet'ah's agents reported to him on a regular basis, about every significant piece of information that came past their multilensed eyes.
This particular datum was one for which Prince Xizor had been waiting. He had specifically ordered the information to be determined by Kreet'ah's sources. It pleased him to know what other sentient creatures were up to, especially when the data was stolen right from beneath their noses, if they had them.
BOTH REMAINING FACTIONS OF BOUNTY HUNTERS
GUILD IN COMMUNICATION WITH KUD'AR MUB'AT-
Xizor appreciated brevity and conciseness in such reports.
OTONDON OF TRUE GUILD AND BOSSK OF GUILD REFORM COMMITTEE SIGHTED ABOARD WEB.
How intriguing, thought Prince Xizor. Not that the news surprised him. More than anything, it confirmed both the excellence of his own plans and his ability to predict just what the other players in this game would do. All that was left was for him to decide his own next move.
Only a few seconds had passed from Xizor's examination of Vigo Kreet'ah's report to his complete understanding of all that it meant. The subtle pheromones exuded by his body had another effect on the keyed chemicals imbedded in the flimsiplast. All the words were suddenly hidden by a burst of flame, as the flimsi's fibers self-ignited. In a moment, the report was a rose flower of black ash, curling in Xizor's palm. The momentary heat was a trifle, barely a test of his rigorously maintained self-control; his martial training had inured him to pain much greater than this. Even before the flames had died, he crushed the remnants of the burning flimsi into a smear of dust inside his fist. The message it had contained was now safely extinguished from the universe.
Or almost gone. The words still resided in Prince Xizor's memory-and that of his trusted lieutenant, Vigo Kreet'ah. There was power in knowledge, especially the knowledge of secret things. Other creatures' secrets; and when the information was something that was of interest and importance to Emperor Palpatine, then the secret
was very powerful indeed. A shame, mused Xizor, that it should be diminished by anyone else being a party to it. Secrets had finite energy; each sentient creature added to the knowledge diluted that strength. Even a Black Sun Vigo such as Kreet'ah, who supposedly had the organization's interests at heart just as much as his overlord did-Xizor would have to make a strategic decision about that. A personnel decision; granted, Kreet'ah's loyalty was proverbial inside the Black Sun ranks. . . but there were younger, up-and-coming foot soldiers who would welcome the chance at a promotion. If a vacancy at the top should some day appear. . .
Xizor brushed the vanished report's ashes from his hand; the black flakes drifted, almost weightless, against the folds of his cape. For another few seconds, he weighed Vigo Kreet'ah's existence in the delicately balanced scales of his thoughts-and made his decision. Kreet'ah would live, at least for a while longer. An underling's unswerving loyalty deserved some consideration, after all-at least enough to purchase someone like Kreet'ah a little more life and breathing space.
Besides, there were other matters to think about, even just in connection with what Kreet'ah's report had told him. The lids of Xizor's violet eyes drew down to mere slits as he turned the datum over in his mind, as though he were examining every facet of a rare but toxic gem. In his own private vaults, separate from Black Sun's treasure-laden coffers, were inert-metal cylinders that safely held inside the rarest of green diamonds. There were other gemstones in the galaxy that were even rarer, more valuable, and more beautiful-a diamond, after all, was nothing more than carbon. But to hold one of these on the palm of one's hand for even thirty seconds was to receive a lethal dose of radioactive emissions. That was what made them so precious in Xizor's estimation.
On a few occasions, he had bestowed one as a gift upon one of his mistresses, when the affair had been over in his mind but not in hers. At a safe distance, of course-the tiny box would be sent by an expendable messenger, who would also perform the service of hanging the gem on its platinite chain around the female's elegantly formed neck. And then, at the appropriate time, a more valuable Black Sun member, a stealth-burglar with expertise in hazardous materials, would fetch the green diamond back, when it had done its task of creating such a beautiful corpse.
It had occurred to Prince Xizor that some types of valuable knowledge were exactly like those toxic gems in his collection. Much to be desired, and with their undeniable uses-but sometimes deadly to those who held them. A truism throughout the galaxy: corpses were the best sharers of secrets.
Xizor nodded slowly to himself, his hands nervelessly still upon the arms of the form-chair. There was a risk to himself that came with such valuable knowledge. Emperor Palpatine still seemed to be unaware that one of his own most trusted lieutenants was also overlord of the galaxy's supreme criminal organization-even though Lord Vader had voiced his own suspicions in that regard to the Emperor, and more than once. But Palpatine must know, brooded Xizor. It was impossible to believe that the Emperor, with his near omniscience about everything that happened in the galaxy, would not know something like that. So, thought Xizor, he must have his own reasons for wanting it to appear otherwise. Emperor Palpatine was a master of subtle strategy; perhaps it suited his purposes to allow Black Sun a free hand for the time being. If Palpatine were to make a move against the criminal organization at a time like this, he would find himself in that worst of all possible military and political situations, a two-front war; even the Empire, with all its resources, could find itself grievously stretched by combating the Rebel Alliance and Black Sun simultaneously. And Palpatine could not eliminate Prince Xizor from his court and at least the appearance of his confidences without triggering hostilities with Black Sun.
Obviously, for Emperor Palpatine it would be better to leave Xizor untouched-for now. But Xizor was not such a fool as to think himself thereby immune from all danger. Any indiscretions on his part-if the galaxy at large were to learn of his being the head of Black Sun-and the Emperor's hand would be forced, no matter what the cost. Palpatine's control over his dominions was not yet so strong that he could risk the Empire appearing to have traitors at its very heart.
He knows, thought Xizor, but others don't. That was the important thing. It was not for the sake of deceiving Palpatine, but for maintaining the galaxy's ignorance, that it was crucial no connection could be made between Vigo Kreet'ah's network of spies and the ultimate recipient of their information, Prince Xizor himself.
If the trail of data could be determined, from Kreet'ah's sources, then to the Black Sun organization- then it would be very difficult to avoid having the connection made, even without any hard evidence, between Black Sun and Xizor himself. The Emperor might ignore it, as he had ignored other evidence before. But others-such as the Rebel Alliance-might not. And that might be the point when Emperor Palpatine would finally act, with swift and fatal results.
There were more difficulties involved in keeping these matters secret, Xizor knew, than just keeping his own silence. A link in the chain leading to him had to be destroyed, vaporized as if struck with a blaster bolt. He had already decided that Kreet'ah was still worth more to him alive than dead. So some other link would have to be eliminated. Kreet'ah himself could
take care of that; a Black Sun Vigo could easily arrange for the sudden disappearance of a few of his own information sources. Then it would just be a matter of Kreet'ah rebuilding his network of spies inside the Rebel Alliance, with a few more barriers between them and Black Sun-troublesome, but not impossible.
Xizor had already made a mental note as to what instructions he would give to Kreet'ah. He expected no objection from the Kian'tharan; it was more a matter of standard operating procedure than anything else. Standard. . . and familiar. A smile played at the corner of his mouth. Even, thought Xizor to himself, somewhat enjoyable.
That was his one regret about sparing Kreet'ah's life. Now he wouldn't have the pleasure of taking it.
7
A moment comes, when a target is sighted and locked upon, and all one has to do is press the trigger stud underneath one's thumb. Boba Fett had had many such moments in his career, enough so that there was no longer any physiological response, no speeding of the pulse, no tightening of the breath beneath his dark-visored helmet, no trickle of adrenaline into the veins of the body that bore the Mandalorian battle armor. . .
But there was still a deep sense of satisfaction, an almost spiritual glow at the core of his being. It was what he lived for, even more than the credits that all his hard work brought in.
In the cockpit of Slave I, Boba Fett's gloved hands moved swiftly across the navigation controls. The ship's velocity was already max'ed out, the thrust from the custom-designed-and expensive-Mandal Motors engines ramped to overload. A shimmering vibration traveled through Slave I's structural frame, blurring the gauges and readouts beneath Boba Fett's fingers. In the cockpit's viewport, against a backdrop of unwavering stars, could be seen the trailing jets of the ship that Fett pursued. He's good, Boba Fett thought grudgingly. But not good enough.
The other ship, an Incom Corporation Z-95 Headhunter, was perfectly suited for just such highspeed chase and evasion maneuvers. This particular one had been modified with an additional passenger area, reaching from an expanded cockpit and along the main fuselage. The ungainly structural addition would create a negative aerodynamic drag inside a planet's atmosphere, but in the vacuum of space there was little effect on the craft's speed. Boba Fett knew who the pilot was, a free-lance hunt saboteur named N'dru Suhlak; a kid who had washed out of the Rebel Alliance's Tierfon Fighter Base not for lack of flying skills, but an excess of insubordination. The expertise and training that Suhlak had picked up while he was hanging out with ace pilots like Jek Porkins and Wes Janson, plus his own natural abilities-there were just some things in this galaxy that you had to be born with-had quickly gotten him to the top of his chosen speciality. It was one for which he commanded top credits: a hunt saboteur's trade was essentially the secure tr
ansport and delivery of hard merchandise, one creature at a time. Suhlak made the claim that he could get any sentient creature with a bounty posted on its head-that was what" hard merchandise" meant, in bounty hunter jargon-from Point A to Point B without getting intercepted, no matter who was gunning for the cargo.
Big talk, thought Boba Fett as he punched in another course micro-correction to stay on the Z-95's tail. But the kid had proved he had the pilot chops, getting past even the few other bounty hunters for which Fett had any respect at all. IG-88, the droid bounty hunter, had been blitzed so fast that the optical processors inside its durasteel head hadn't even spotted Suhlak getting past its interceptor stakeout point. Most of the other bounty hunters, even before the Bounty Hunters Guild had split up into its two main factions, had made it a general rule not to pursue Suhlak's ship, the pursuit being a waste of time and fuel- and one's life. Not all of Suhlak's escape maneuvers were based on speed alone.
Boba Fett punched in an override command, diverting Slave I's excess atmospheric-maintenance functions to the cooling system for the main thrust engine. If there had been anyone in the holding cages below the cockpit area, they would have been asphyxiated in a few Standard Time Units. But Slave I wasn't carrying any passengers, willing or unwilling, right now. Fett's ship had been lurking in the debris shadow cast by a ring of wrecked and stripped star freighters above the toxic atmosphere of the planet Uhltenden; he had been waiting, with all propulsion systems in abeyance-trigger mode, for Suhlak's Z-95 to show up. When it had, the chase was on.
N'dru Suhlak had been either lucky or smart so far not to have crossed Boba Fett's path. The merchandise that Suhlak had ferried had all been below Fett's threshold of interest. Letting the kid get away with it, for as long as there was no impact on Fett's business interests, had been a good way of letting Suhlak grow overconfident. Any misestimation of one's skills-or one's luck-was a fatal error when Boba Fett was involved. You've made your mistake now, Fett silently told the ship speeding through the vacuum ahead.
