by K. W. Jeter
"I see that I was correct when I said that you were a clever creature." Just not clever enough, thought Fett.
"Flatter me some other time, why don't you? After we've taken over the Bounty Hunters Guild." The fanged smile returned to Bossk's face. "When I slice up my father's carcass, I'll save you one of the best pieces."
"Don't bother," said Fett. "I'll be pleased enough knowing that I've accomplished what I came here for." Whether Bossk would be as happy about it remained to be seen.
"I'm glad-really glad-that we're in agreement about this." Bossk stood up from the damp stone. He stepped close to Boba Fett, bringing his face to where it almost touched the visor of the helmet. "Because otherwise I would have had to kill you."
"Perhaps." Fett didn't draw away. "Though I think you're actually the lucky one. Look down here." Bossk's slit-pupiled eyes widened when they glanced down and saw the muzzle of a blaster pressed against his abdomen. Fett rested his thumb on the weapon's firing stud.
"Let's get one thing straight." Boba Fett kept his voice level, stripped of emotion. "We can be partners. But we're not going to be friends. I need those even less."
Bossk regarded the weapon for a moment longer, then lifted his head and barked a raw-edged laugh. "That's good! I like that." All the points of his fangs showed as he glared fiercely into the dark visor.
"You watch out for yourself, and I'll watch out for me. That's just the way I like it."
"Good." Fett slipped the blaster back into its holster. "We can do business."
As he stepped out into the corridor Bossk stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "And of course," he said slyly, "this is all a private arrangement, isn't it? Between you and me."
"Of course." Boba Fett hadn't moved from the center of the space. "It'll work better that wa y." For me, thought Fett, after the Trandoshan had stridden away, past the flickering torches. For you, it's another matter.
The Twi'lek majordomo had other household duties as well. Chief among which was spying.
"Your son has just concluded a long conversation with Boba Fett." All the comings and goings in the Bounty Hunters Guild headquarters were observed by Ob Fortuna.
"From what I could tell, your son seemed rather pleased with the results."
"I'm not surprised." Cradossk's blunt claws fumbled with the catches of his ceremonial robes. The heavy fabric, with embroidery that depicted his species' ancient battles and triumphs, was stained with the wine that had been spilled at the banquet. "Bossk gets his eloquence from me." He shrugged off the robes.
"Persuasiveness is a specialty of his."
"But aren't you concerned?" The Twi'lek's tapering head tails swung forward as he gathered up the robes.
"About what the two of them found to talk about?" He spread the robes out on a lacquered rack at the side of Cradossk's sitting room. "Your son has…shall we say"-the Twi'lek's smile was a combination of nerves and obsequiousness-"a bit of a conspiratorial streak."
"Of course he does! He wouldn't be my son, oth erwise." Cradossk sat down on the edge of a canopied pallet and stuck his legs out. His claws ached from all the standing he'd had to do, giving toasts and welcoming the famous Boba Fett into the brotherhood of bounty hunters. "I don't expect him to take over the leadership of the Guild someday merely because he has a talent for killing sentient creatures."
The Twi'lek knelt down to unfasten the metal-studded straps laced between Cradossk's claws. "I think," he said softly, "that your son is rather eager to assume that leadership. Perhaps even…impatient ..."
"Good for him. Keeps him hungry." Cradossk leaned back against a mound of pillows. "I know just what my son wants. The same thing I did when I was his age. Blood leaking through my fangs, and a pile of credits in my hand."
"Oh!" Ob Fortuna's eyes glittered at any mention of credits. "But perhaps ... it would be better for you to be careful."
"Better for me to be smart, you mean. I don't intend to wind up on my son's dinner plate. That's why I'm on his side in all this."
The head tails rolled across the Twi'lek's shoulders as he looked up. "I don't understand."
"You wouldn't. You're not a sneaky enough barve. It takes a Trandoshan to understand the subtleties of these kinds of maneuvers. We're born with it, like scales. Do you really think I'm such an idiot that I'd let Boba Fett walk in here and become a member of the Bounty Hunters Guild, and just take everything he has to say on trust?" Cradossk had no anxiety about revealing his thoughts and schemes to his majordomo; Twi'leks were too cowardly to act upon anything they heard. "The man's a scoundrel. Of course, that's nothing I hold against him; he's just not our scoundrel. He's still looking out for himself-and why shouldn't he? But in the meantime I'm not fooled by all his talk of some grand alliance between himself and the Bounty Hunters Guild. And if he was taken in by all my rhapsodizing about brotherhood between us, then I really am disappointed in the great Boba Fett." He reached down and scratched between the exposed claws of his feet.
"That's why I sent my son Bossk in there to talk with him. Bossk may be a bit of a hothead-that's another way he resembles me when I was that age-but he's smart enough to follow through on a good, underhanded plan."
"You sent him to talk with Boba Fett?" "Why not?" Cradossk felt content with the universe, and how things were proceeding in his corner of it. "I told Bossk what to say as well. Probably no more than what Boba Fett was expecting from the impatient young heir to the leadership of the Guild. A partnership between the two of them-and against me."
The Twi'lek gaped at him. "Against you?" "Of course. If I hadn't sent Bossk in there to talk with Fett, and have him propose exactly that, then my son would very likely have done it on his own initiative. Not because Bossk really wants to conspire against me. He's too loyal-and too smart for that. Plus he knows I'd have his internal organs for breakfast if he tried anything like that." Cradossk gave a self-satisfied nod of his head.
"It's much better this way. Now we have an in with our mysterious visitor and would-be brother, one to whom Boba Fett will confide the true reasons why he's come here to the Guild. My son gains points with not only his loving father, but also with some of the council members who have voiced some fear about his ambitions. And I remain in control of the situation. That's the most important thing."
A puzzled look remained on the Twi'lek's face as he rolled up the leather foot straps and placed them in his employer's ornamentations box. "Could it not be"-the Twi'lek's head tails glistened with the effort of his musing-"that your son has a different idea? Different than the one you put into his head?"
Cradossk folded his claws over the age-yellowed scales of his stomach. "Such as?"
"Perhaps Bossk doesn't want to just pretend that he has entered into a conspiracy with Boba Fett. A conspiracy against you and the rest of the Guild council." The Twi'lek rubbed his chin, gazing at some point beyond the sitting room's caparisoned walls, where his infrequently encountered thoughts could be found.
"Maybe he would have gone and talked to Boba Fett anyway-whether you had sent him or not. And he would have made just that proposition. For real."
"Now, there's an interesting notion." Cradossk sat up, bringing his heavy-lidded-and unamused-gaze straight into that of his household majordomo. "And one for which I should pull your flopping little head off. Do you realize what you're suggesting?"
The Twi'lek's smile was even more nervous than before. "Now that I think of it…"
"You should've done your thinking before you opened your mouth." Anger simmered inside Cradossk. The only reason he didn't pull off the Twi'lek's head was that a good majordomo, one that was used to his various ways and preferences, was hard to find. "You're questioning not only my son's intelligence, but his loyalty to me. I realize that members of your species have only an abstract understanding of that concept. But for Trandoshans"-Cradossk thumped his bared chest with his fist-"it is something in our blood. Honor and loyalty, and the faith that exists between family members, even unto the last genera
tions-those are not negotiable substances."
"I beseech your pardon …." Hands clasped together, the Twi'lek bobbed up and down in front of Cradossk, the speed of his genuflections increased by his anxiety. "I meant no disrespect …."
"Very well." Cradossk shooed him away with a quick, contemptuous gesture. "Because you're an idiot, I'll overlook your insulting comments." He wouldn't forget them, though; long, grudge-filled memories were another characteristic of Trandoshans. "Now get out of my sight, before I have reason to be hungry again." The Twi'lek scurried away, still hunched over and bowing as he retreated toward the sitting room's door. Maybe I should eat him, brooded Cradossk as he drew on a lounging robe stitched together from the skins of former employees. Standards were becoming deplorably lax among the Guild's hirelings. Staffing had always been a problem over the decades; in that, the Bounty Hunters Guild had the same difficulties that their clients the Hutts did. Not many of the galaxy's sentient creatures were so desperate as to seek employment in establishments where the constant threat of death was one of the working conditions. He wondered if Emperor Palpatine's dismantling of the Republic would improve things in that regard, or just make them worse. The establishment of the Empire promised a net increase in the galaxy's misery quotient-that was good, at least as far as Cradossk was concerned-but also a tighter control over the various worlds' inhabitants. That was probably bad …. Something to think about. Feeling the weight of his age, Cradossk shambled into the memory-bone chamber connected to the sitting room. He lit one of the candles set in a niche filled with years of congealed wax; the guttering flame sent interlaced shadows wavering across the walls and their white treasures.
It had been a long time since he'd had occasion to add another memento to his collection. My killing days are over, thought Cradossk, not without regret. He wandered farther into the chamber's ivory-lined recesses, letting memories of vanquished opponents and foolishly recalcitrant captives wash over him.
Until he came to the oldest and tiniest bones. They looked like something that might have been found in a bird's nest, on some planet where all the life-forms had been extinct for centuries. Cradossk let a couple of them rest in his palm as he poked at them with a single claw. Tooth marks showed on the bones' surfaces, from little teeth that had been as sharp and hard as a newborn's. Teeth that hadn't yet been dulled by the coarse flesh of enemies. Those teeth had been his, when he'd just barely been out of his mother's egg sac. The bones were those of his spawn-brothers, hatched just a few seconds later. And too late for them.
Cradossk sighed, mulling over the wisdom he'd been created with, and that which had taken him so long to achieve. He carefully set his brothers' bones back in the hollow of polished rock where he kept them.
This was why lesser entities like that moronic Twi'lek would never understand. About family loyalty and honor ...
He pitied creatures like that. They simply had no sense of tradition.
The Twi'lek pushed the door to the sitting room open a crack. Just enough to see what the old Trandoshan was up to.
Cradossk had gone into his chamber of grisly souvenirs. A candle flame showed his silhouette among the stacked and interwoven bones. Good, thought the Twi'lek. His boss would usually stay in there for hours, fondling the bones and reminiscing, and sometimes falling asleep, wheezing and dreaming with a splintered femur in his claws.
Plenty of time, then. The Twi'lek slid the door shut without making a sound and strode quickly toward another section of the Bounty Hunters Guild compound. To Bossk's quarters.
"Excellent," said the younger Trandoshan, after listening to the Twi'lek's report. "You're sure of all this?"
"But of course." The Twi'lek made no attempt to conceal the wickedness of his smile. "I have been in your father's service for some time. Longer than any of his previous majordomos. I haven't lasted this long by being blind to his thought processes. I can decipher the old fool like a data readout. And I can tell you this for a fact He trusts you absolutely. As he told me, that was why he sent you to talk to Boba Fett."
Sitting in a gold-hinged campaign chair, Bossk nodded in approval. "I suppose my father had all sorts of things to say. About loyalty and honor. And all the rest of that nerf dung."
"The usual."
"That must be the hardest part of your job," said Bossk. "Listening to fools talk."
You have no idea, thought the Twi'lek. "I've gotten used to it."
Bossk gave another, slower nod. "The time is coming when you won't have to listen to that particular fool any longer. When I'm running the Bounty Hunters Guild, things will be different."
"I certainly expect so." More of the same, the Twi'lek told himself. He was careful to keep his thoughts from showing on his face. "In the meantime ..."
"In the meantime there will be a nice little transfer of credits to your private account. For all your services." Bossk dismissed him with a simple gesture of his upraised claws. "You can go now." That fool is right about one thing. The Twi'lek felt a warm glow of satisfaction as he headed back to his own quarters. He was doing a good jobFor himself. Boba Fett heard the door creak open. He had to work against his own ingrained habits, which had kept him alive in a hard universe, to keep his back turned toward a door. More bounty hunters had lost their lives from a blaster burning into their spines than had ever taken an opponent's shot face-to-face. Fett should know he had taken out more than his share, just that way.
"Excuse me. ..." A cautious voice sounded from the doorway.
That was why he'd kept his back toward it. So as to give anyone who came around to this dank chamber, to talk with him, a perceived psychological advantage. Some of the members of the Bounty Hunters Guild were a little short in the courage department. He found it hard to imagine why they might have thought they would have any aptitude for this business. If they had found themselves looking straight into the dark, narrow visor of his helmet, they might have fled before even opening their mouths.
"Yes?" Boba Fett turned around-slowly, as nonthreateningly as possible for someone with his reputation. "What is it?"
"I was wondering"-the short bounty hunter, with the large insectoid eyes and breathing hoses, stood in the doorway-"if I might have a word with you …." What was this one's name? They all looked alike to Boba Fett. Zuckuss, he remembered. The partner of Bossk, at least as recently as that business where he had snatched the accountant Nil Posondum out from under their noses.
"Of course, if you're busy-" Zuckuss clasped his gloved hands together in an obvious show of nervousness.
"I can come back some other time-"
"Not at all." Boba Fett had also seen this one at the Guild's banquet hall, close to the reptilian Bossk. So there was undoubtedly still some connection between the two of them. "No time like the present," said Fett. "For talking about important things."
This one didn't take long. Zuckuss was hardly in Fett's quarters for more than a few minutes before he had scuttled back out into the corridor, disappearing before anyone from the Guild could spot him there. Small fry, thought Boba Fett. Not one of the major players in the Bounty Hunters Guild that Kud'ar Mub'at had briefed him on. But important enough, with a line straight to the ear of Bossk. Who, as the impatient heir apparent to the Guild leadership, would have a great deal to do with it being torn apart.
The conversation went exactly as Boba Fett had expected, and just as Kud'ar Mub'at would have predicted. Zuckuss was like so many others in the Bounty Hunters Guild, down in the lower ranks a perfect combination of greed and naivete. Just smart enough to kill, mused Fett after Zuckuss had left. The short bounty hunter had glanced nervously out the doorway, to make sure no one was there to see him as he scurried down the torchlit corridor. Not smart enough to keep himself from getting killed. It might not happen this time-Zuckuss might, with the erratic luck of the feckless, survive the breakup of the Guild-but it would eventually.
He supposed that was the big difference between himself and poor Zuckuss, between himself and Boss
k and Bossk's vicious, aging father and all the rest of the Guild members. Boba Fett sat down on the stone bench for a moment; the armaments he carried with him, that were as much a part of him as his spine, prevented him from leaning back. He never wasted time thinking about himself, any more than an explosively lethal missile from the rocket launcher strapped to his back would have as it sped toward its doomed and pinpointed target. But he knew that the reason he was alive and that others were dead, or soon would be, was that he possessed the true and essential secret of being a bounty hunterAs good as he was at catching and, if need be, killing other sentient creatures, he was even better at surviving their attempts to kill him. Everything else was just a matter of superior firepower.
Boba Fett stood up from the stone bench. If he stayed here any longer, there would be others coming to talk to him. Others who thought they could protect themselves the way he did, but who were already fatally enmeshed in the trap spun by Kud'ar Mub'at, so far away that he couldn't be seen or the tugs on the strands of his web even felt. Besides Bossk and Zuckuss, there had also been one of Cradossk's top advisers on the Guild council, and the Twi'lek major-domo, back for a longer talk than when he'd brought Fett to this dank chamber. All of them had been in pure deal-cutting mode, eager to help pull the Bounty Hunters Guild apart so they would get a bigger piece of whatever was left in the wreckage.
Right now he didn't feel like talking to anyone else. Action meant more than words; that was one other thing Boba Fett was sure of. A man was killed by words, and saved by action. Spending so much time talking to other sentient creatures had been like wrapping himself in death. What he wanted to do right now was head back to the Slave I, his refuge docked at the edge of the Guild's main compound, lock himself behind its overlapping security layers, all systems primed to fry anyone who tried to breach them, and rest. If not the sleep of the virtuous-Fett had no illusions about that, or regrets-then at least the sleep of someone who had put in a good day's work. In his business, that meant helping others arrange their own destruction.
