Hard Merchandise

by K. W. Jeter

  He'd expected as much. This result had been a part of his plan, from the moment he'd conceived the notion of plowing his ship into Kud'ar Mub'at's space-drifting web. His long familiarity with the arachnoid assembler, their years of doing business together, had enabled him to scope out the web's nature and capabilities. Kud'ar Mub'at had designed and spun the web out of self-extruded fila­ ments, both structural and neural, so that it could incor­porate bits and pieces of ships and other artifacts made by sentient creatures; both the web's inside and outside were studded with those segments of durasteel, like func­ tioning wreckage mired in the irregular, scum-thick surf of a frozen sea. That physical incorporation of such items had been due to Kud'ar Mub'at's greed—its desire to magnify and glorify itself with trophies from those un­fortunates who'd found themselves enmeshed too deeply in its schemes to get out—and to a need to preserve the web itself. The web had no other defenses; its ability to quickly incorporate and seal itself around anything that penetrated it was the only way it could maintain a life-supporting environment inside its curved, matted, and tangled fibrous walls.

  With one gloved hand grasping the side of the hatch­way, Boba Fett scanned the scene around him. The inte­ rior of Kud'ar Mub'at's web was lit a shimmering blue-white by the phosphorescence of masses of illumi­ nator subnodes. The simple creatures clung to the upper

  walls by their tiny, scuttlings legs and radiated the soft glow from the bioluminescent compounds in their translu­ cent, distended abdomens, hardly more than the size of Boba Fett's doubled fists. All of the shrieking noise in the web came not from the living light sources, tethered by neural filaments to their own creator, but from their subnode cousins, the faster-moving emitters of the sticky, viscous fluid by which the web repaired itself and incorporated fragments of ships into the crudely shaped structure.

  The emitters scuttled around the web's torn edges, where Slave I had broken through and mired itself. Be­fore crashing into the web, Boba Fett had reoriented the ship from it usual vertically oriented, tail-downward po­sition; that would have brought the rounded curve of the cockpit like a blunt hammer-blow against the web's exte­ rior. At the last second, a quick burst of one of the navi­ gational jets had brought the sharper, knifelike projection of the hull above the cockpit toward the rapidly ap­proaching web. Once Slave I had thrust its way into the web, thick fibers entangling around it, a final burst from the opposite jet had brought it upright again, so that the wider surface of the cockpit against the web's interior brought it to a halt. The smell of the fibers that had been scorched black by the jets' firing hung as an acrid mi­asma in the web's pallidly lit cavern.

  More than the web's structure had been hurt in the ship's impact. The web, a living thing itself, reacted to the trauma in its own pain-filled way. The din of shriek­ing that sounded in Boba Fett's ears came from the other subnodes that had already been in this section of the web, rather than having scurried there to contain the damage. Most of them had been torn loose from the neural-fiber strands that had tethered them to their controlling par­ ent Kud'ar Mub'at; some were mute, never having been given vocal abilities, but the others now gave idiot cries as they dropped from the rough domed ceiling of the space. The matted floor was thick with the scuttling forms, writhing in spasms of pain or scrabbling in tight

  little circles, their limited onboard cerebral functions com­ pletely overloaded by the sudden disconnection from the assembler on his nest in another part of the web. Spidery, crablike subnodes, trailing their snapped connectors be­ hind them, clambered over Boba Fett's boots as he stepped down from Slave I's hatchway. He kicked a few aside as though they were chitin-shelled rats; a few of the smaller ones were unavoidably crushed beneath his boot soles, their husks crackling like thin eggshells.

  Fett looked up toward the prow of his ship and saw that the emitter subnodes had almost finished sealing the web around the hull; only a section around the main thruster nozzles still extended out into the vacuum of space. The various high-pitched whistling noises that the web's atmosphere had made, escaping through the torn structural fibers, slowly died out as the emitters went about their work, filling in the last of the gaps between the living biomass and the ship's curved durasteel hull. Around Boba Fett, the blue-lit space grew steadily qui­ eter, as more and more of the disconnected subnodes lapsed into a quivering catatonic state, overturned on their backs like sea creatures stranded by some planet's receding tide. The silence that slowly overcame the previ­ ous hectic din was that of a partial death: as the web was strung with living fibers spun out from Kud'ar Mub'at's own cortex and cerebrospinal system, to stand in an ex­ cised section such as this was like standing in some crea­ ture's grossly magnified brain after an equally gigantic surgeon's scalpel had cut away a wedge of grey matter.

  "Let's go." Boba Fett reached back inside Slave I's hatchway and grabbed the front of Trhin Voss'on't's uni­form jacket, now hardly more than rags held together by its blood-tarnished metal fastenings. With a sharp pull, he got the former stormtrooper to his feet; another tug brought the other man stumbling out of the ship. "Time to get paid."

  Voss'on't's eyes were two burning nicks in his bruised, oil-stained face. The hands tied behind his back thrust his shoulders forward. "If you're in such a hurry—" His

  voice was raw from both smoke inhalation and barely controlled rage. He nodded toward his boots and the segment of arrow-dart line that hobbled his ankles to­ gether. "Then you'd better untie these. Never get there, otherwise."

  "I've got a better idea," said Fett. With a swift hori­ zontal arc of his forearm, he clouted Voss'on't across the face, sending him slamming back against the edge of Slave I, then sprawling among the twitching, dying sub­ nodes that littered the space's floor. Blood streamed from Voss'on't's nose as Fett looked down at him. "Let's leave you tied up just the way you are, and you can forget about any more escape attempts." Reaching down, he grabbed the rags of Voss'on't's jacket and hauled him up­ right again. "They're not going to do you any good now. And I've started to find them annoying."

  "Yeah, I bet." Voss'on't sneered at him. His bound hands squeezed into white-knuckled fists, as though he were imagining them around Boba Fett's neck.

  The stormtrooper had been on the losing end of every exchange with Fett, going right back to the distant colo­nial mining world where Fett and his temporary partner Bossk had tracked him down. Yet he still displayed a deeply ingrained will to fight. It won't do him much good, thought Boba Fett. There would be little difference in the outcome whether Voss'on't continued to struggle and scheme, or whether he finally gave up and accepted his fate. That being the case, Boba Fett didn't care which the stormtrooper wound up doing. It was just a matter of convenience.

  A darker, more venomous expression settled across Voss'on't's face. "You might be able to get paid, bounty hunter. You managed to get your merchandise this far, so anything's possible. But what are you going to do when Prince Xizor shows up here?" Voss'on't had seen the im­ age of Xizor's ship on Slave I's cockpit viewport, and had been able to identify it just as readily as Fett had. "And that's going to be any minute now."

  "You don't need to worry about that. I'll deal with

  him then." A length of loose cord dangled from the knot around Voss'on't's wrists; Boba Fett used that to pull him along, twisted partway around and barely able to walk. As they progressed toward the interior tunnel that would lead them to Kud'ar Mub'at itself, Fett glanced over his shoulder at his captive. "You didn't appear surprised by Xizor being in this sector of space, waiting for us. It seems a reasonable assumption that you knew he'd be here."

  "Assume whatever you want." Voss'on't leaned back from the tug of the line around his wrists. "You'll find out what the deal is soon enough. And you want to know something? It's going to be a real surprise."

  Boba Fett maintained his own silence. And kept a hand on the butt of the blaster pistol strapped at his side.

  "Ah ... my inimitable associate . .. the esteemed ... Boba Fet
t ..." A halting voice, squeaking like rusted metal, greeted them as they emerged from the web's cen­ tral tunnel. "How charmed ... I am ... to see you once more..."

  Standing in the center of the web's main chamber, with the stormtrooper tethered a few steps behind him, Boba Fett gazed upon the arachnoid assembler. Or upon the crippled shell of what Kud'ar Mub'at had been; Slave I's crashing into the web had obviously had an effect for the worse upon its master as well.

  "You're not looking too good, Kud'ar Mub'at." It was a statement of plain fact; Boba Fett felt no great sympathy for the assembler. I'd better get my credits, thought Fett, before it dies.

  "How ... kind of you ... to show such concern ..." The pneumatic subnode that had formed Kud'ar Mub'at's cushioned throne was apparently dead, its deflated and flaccid membrane extending around the assembler like a grey, waxen puddle. Kud'ar Mub'at itself was hunched down in the thicket of its spidery black legs, the inverted triangular face lowered and tilted to one side. Most of the compound eyes studding its visage appeared lifeless, the sentient spark gone out behind them, as though a

  gust of wind had blown out the guttering flame inside a lantern. Only the two largest eyes at the front seemed able to focus upon the web's untimely visitors. "To be hon­ est with you... there've been times... I've felt better..."

  "Face it, " Boba Fett said bluntly. "You're dying."

  "Oh, no ... not at all ..." The triangular head raised itself a bit, displaying a shakily lopsided imitation of a humanoid smile. "I'll survive this ... as I've survived other things ..." A twiglike forelimb lifted, its end claw twitching and pointing to Kud'ar Mub'at's head. "This is no more . . . than the results of ... a neural feedback surge . . . from the crash . . . that's all ..." The claw tapped against the black shell of the assembler's skull with a dry little clicking noise. "Your sudden entry . . . into my humble abode ... most unfortunate ..." Kud'ar Mub'at tried to raise itself a little higher in its deflated nest, but failed, collapsing once more into the broken tangle of its arms. "But you shall see ... all things can be mended ..." A crazed light shone in the largest of the as­ sembler's eyes. "I've had so much practice . . . creating additions to myself . . . outside my body . . . that I can create a new cortex inside here ..." The raised claw tip dug harder at the skull behind the triangular face, as though already getting down to the repair job. "To re­ place the one .. . that the circumstances ... of your ar­ rival ... damaged."

  "Perhaps you can." Boba Fett shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me, though."

  "And what... precisely ... does matter to you?"

  "Getting paid."

  "Ah..." The assembler's head twisted about, as though trying to force its visitor into focus. "You, at least . . . have not changed ..." The raised claw tip shook as it pointed toward Boba Fett. "But you know the rules... to be paid... one must first deliver... the merchandise..."

  Boba Fett stepped to one side, at the same time yanking the end of the cord tied around the renegade stormtrooper's wrists. Trhin Voss'on't fell forward, his head almost striking the soft edge of the assembler's

  thronelike nest. Before he could rise up onto his knees, Boba Fett put his boot between the man's shoulder blades and shoved him back down.

  "There you go," said Fett. "Good enough?"

  "How could ... I ever... have doubted you?" Kud'ar Mub'at's gaze rested upon the bounty hunter for a mo­ ment, then lowered again to the merchandise sprawled in front of him. The one leg's clawed tip reached down and caught the point of Voss'on't's chin, raising the storm- trooper's bruised and scowling face toward it. "Seems ... very much . . . like the desired object ..." The claw tip pushed at one side of Voss'on't's face, displaying its profile. "Though of course... verification... will be needed..."

  "Don't play games with me." With one hand, Boba Fett reached out and grabbed the end of Kud'ar Mub'at's raised forelimb. He pulled the assembler partway out of its nest, bringing the triangular face closer to the dark vi­ sor of his helmet. "If I say this is Trhin Voss'on't—then that's all the verification you need." His gloved hand tossed the assembler back onto the deflated subnode. "I didn't go to all the trouble that I did just to bring back the wrong piece of merchandise."

  "Of... course ... not..." Kud'ar Mub'at slowly dis­ entangled itself from its own unresponsive limbs. The effort caused a tremor to run through the assembler's body, its globular abdomen pulsating visibly. "Would I doubt you ... my esteemed Boba Fett?" The assembler's head slowly shook back and forth. "My faculties are not so damaged... as for that... to be possible." The lopsided imitation smile showed once again. "But I am not... the one... who is paying... for this merchandise ..."

  "You're supposed to be holding the credits."

  "And so ... I am ... but there's another involved ... and he decides when you get paid ..." Kud'ar Mub'at's smile turned even uglier. "And if... you do..."

  Those words were not to Boba Fett's liking. His pref­ erence was always for straightforward business deals, delivery of merchandise followed by prompt payment of

  the bounty. This deal had become far more intricate than that—though he already had a notion about who was behind these complications. That's why Prince Xizor showed up, decided Boba Fett. Somehow, it must have been the Falleen's credits, rather than Emperor Palpa­tine's , that got put up for the return of Trhin Voss'on't. And Xizor would rather kill me than pay me.

  "It looks like... you're starting ... to figure out a few things ..." The halting words were tinged with Kud'ar Mub'at's sly laughter. The assembler had a knack for knowing what another sentient creature was thinking, even if it had to read those thoughts through the dark vi­sor of a Mandalorian battle-armor helmet. "About. . . what kind of job ... you took on..."

  Another possibility occurred to Boba Fett. Maybe, he thought, the Emperor did put up the bounty. Voss'on't had been, after all, a servant of the Empire; the betrayal of his stormtrooper's oath would have been more of an af­ front to Palpatine than anyone else. But the bounty that Palpatine had put up for him might very well have tempted even a creature with the vast resources of the Black Sun criminal organization at his command—such as Xizor. Or else Xizor wasn't interested in the credits for bringing back Voss'on't, but was more concerned about currying favor with one of the few beings in the galaxy more pow­ erful than he. If Xizor was able to claim that he had tracked down and captured the renegade stormtrooper, his prestige at the Imperial court on the planet of Corus­cant , and his influence with Palpatine, would overshadow that of Lord Vader. Boba Fett was more than aware of the stories of bad blood between Xizor and Vader; there was little possibility of two such rivals for the Emperor's favor being anything other than enemies.

  Whether Prince Xizor was after the bounty that had been posted for Voss'on't, or something more intangible and more valuable, made little difference to Boba Fett. If he plans on taking something from me, then he's made a mistake. One he'll regret...

  "All I know," said Boba Fett aloud, "is that I've done the job that was put up. I don't care whether it was Em­ peror Palpatine or Prince Xizor who was really behind it. I only work for myself. And I just want the bounty that was promised me."

  "You poor fool." Kud'ar Mub'at's scorn appeared to reinvigorate the damaged creature. "You have no idea ... for whom you've been working... all along..." The one claw tip extended toward Boba Fett. "You've been part of Xizor's schemes... and mine... for a long time now..."

  From underneath Boba Fett's boot, the stormtrooper Voss'on't turned a sneer upward at his captor. "How does it feel, bounty hunter? You're not the winner in this game—you're the pawn."

  A thrust of the boot flattened and silenced Voss'on't again. "What are you talking about, Kud'ar Mub'at?"

  "Very .. . simple ..." The arachnoid assembler fum­ bled its sticklike legs tighter around itself. "Our little scheme... yours and mine... to break up the old Bounty Hunters Guild ..." Kud'ar Mub'at shook its narrow head. "That was Prince Xizor's idea ... I only went along with it... because he made it worth my while... but he'
s the one who wanted to break up the Guild . . . and you did that for him..."

  "Then you lied to me." Boba Fett's voice was as emo­ tionless as always, but inside him there was a spark of anger.

  "A mere matter ... of business . . . my dear Boba Fett." In its crippled fashion, Kud'ar Mub'at imitated a nonchalant humanoid shrug. "That's all..."

  "What else did you lie to me about?"

  "You'll find out... soon enough..." Kud'ar Mub'at's smile didn't diminish as it gazed at Boba Fett, then turned toward one of the smaller fibrous corridors that branched off the web's central space. Another of the assembler's subnodes, a fully functioning one, scuttled out of the cor­ ridor and onto the tip of its parent's feebly extended fore- limb. "Tell me ... my dear little Balancesheet ..." Another forelimb tenderly stroked the subnode's head, a

  miniature version of Kud'ar Mub'at's own. "Has our other guest... arrived ..."

  Boba Fett recognized the subnode creature as the one that had always taken care of the financial details from Kud'ar Mub'at's business dealings. More than once, the tiny scuttling Balancesheet had paid out the bounty that had been held in escrow by its creator. The sharp intelli­ gence that had always been discernible in the subnode was still visible there, completely undiminished, as though it had been unaffected by the neural overload resulting from the crash of Slave I into the web. That was a mys­ tery, but one that Boba Fett didn't have time to wonder about now.