Hard Merchandise (star wars)

by K. W. Jeter

  Get rid of the old one —the notion had a definite ap-peal to Prince Xizor—and put a new one in its place. And by the time that Balancesheet, as inheritor of all its cre-ator's position and power, would get just as troublesome as Kud'ar Mub'at had become, perhaps a new genera-tion of crafty arachnoids would be ready for patricidal rebellion. Or even more pleasing to contemplate: Xizor's ambitions for Black Sun would have reached such a zenith of power, outstripping even that of Emperor Palpatine, so there would be no need for such a scuttling, secretive little creature. Now there was a particular "old one"— the image of Palpatine's wizened visage appeared in Xi-zor's thoughts, like a senile ghost—who had also enjoyed his day, his moment in power. And during that time, Xi-zor had had to bow his proud head and pretend to be the Emperor's loyal servant more than once. The fact that the old man had been taken in by that little charade was proof enough that Palpatine's time was soon to be over, and that the remnants of the Empire would then be ready to fall into the control of Black Sun. Prince Xizor and his followers had waited long enough in the shadows, bid-ing their time, waiting for the lightless dawn that would be their moment of triumph ...

  Soon enough, Xizor promised himself. He and all the rest of Black Sun had only to wait, and craftily move into their final positions the pawns that were already arrayed on the great gameboard of the universe. The arachnoid arranger Kud'ar Mub'at's web of plans and schemes was nothing compared to the one that Xizor had woven, a net cast across worlds and entire systems of worlds. Nei-ther Emperor Palpatine nor his dark henchman Lord Vader had any comprehension of Black Sun's reach, the things that were in its grasp already or the ones that its fist was about to close upon. For all of Palpatine's vaunted claims of knowledge of the Force and its dark side, he was still blind to the machinations and maneu-verings taking place virtually under his nose. That was due, Xizor figured, to the old fool's own greed and ambi-tion, and to his perpetual undervaluing of any other creature's intelligence. The Imperial court of Palpatine, on the distant world of Coruscant, was stuffed with flunkeys and witless servants; their master had made the mistake of assuming that everyone else was either a dolt like them or a mysticism-addled thug like Vader.

  The memory of the Dark Lord's invisible grip upon Xizor's throat, squeezing out the breath from his lungs, was still sharp and humiliating; he didn't believe in that mysterious Force, not the same way that Vader and the Emperor did, but he had still been compelled to ac-knowledge something of its cruel power. Mind tricks, brooded Xizor, that was all it had amounted to. But that had been enough—more than enough—to reignite his hatred for Darth Vader. That hatred had been born in the deaths of Xizor's family members, deaths for which he held Vader personally responsible. Behind all his other ambitions, the goals of conquest and domination toward which he'd mercilessly driven Black Sun, there lay a smaller, more personal one: to make sure that Lord Vader paid the ultimate price for his deeds against the blood of a Falleen prince.

  That vengeance could not come soon enough to sat-isfy Prince Xizor.

  And a small piece of the machinery that would bring that vengeance about was on its way here—or it should be, if he had correctly gauged his understanding of the bounty hunter Boba Fett. For one such as that, Xizor had decided, profit is everything. He had baited the trap with enough credits to ensure Boba Fett's keen interest, first to bring about the destruction of the old Bounty Hunters Guild, and now to bring the renegade Imperial storm-trooper Trhin Voss'on't back to Kud'ar Mub'at's web, where the price that had been put on Voss'on't's head was supposedly waiting. The fool, thought Xizor con-temptuously. Boba Fett had no idea of how he had been manipulated, a mere pawn in Xizor's gambits. Perhaps he would never learn, or learn too late to save himself, now that his usefulness to Xizor had come to an end.

  The Falleen prince's eyelids drew partway down upon the violet color of his gaze as the deep intertwinings of his meditations continued. Beyond the curved trans-paristeel of the Vendetta's great viewport, the waiting stars, ripe for the plucking, lay scattered in silence. So also with the pieces, both visible and invisible, his own and the other players', upon the squares of that game-board to which the galaxy had been reduced. If one pawn was about to be swept from the board, what did it matter?

  There were plenty left with which the game could be played to its conclusion.

  Prince Xizor folded his arms across his chest, the mo-tion bringing the edge of his cape around his boots. He felt sure now that Slave I would soon emerge from hy-perspace ... and into the trap that had been so carefully prepared.

  After all—a thin smile lifted one corner of Xizor's mouth as he contemplated the stars—where else was it to go?

  "You don't know what you're getting yourself into." On the other side of the holding cage's durasteel bars, the Imperial stormtrooper—former Imperial stormtrooper— slowly shook his head. And smiled. "I wouldn't want to be in your boots right now."

  "Don't worry about that," replied Boba Fett. He had come down from the cockpit and into Slave I's cargo hold to see how this particular piece of hard merchandise was enduring the rigors of the journey. The bounty placed on Trhin Voss'on't's head by Emperor Palpatine had stipulated live delivery—a corpse was therefore use-less and, worse, unprofitable to Boba Fett.

  If Voss'on't's death had been all that was required to collect that veritable mountain of credits, the job would have been much easier. I wouldn't have needed that fool Bossk along, thought Fett. Partners—even temporary ones—were always an irksome expedient, to be disposed of as quickly as possible.

  "Your position here," continued Boba Fett aloud, "is quite secure. As is mine. I'm the winner, and you're the loser. I'll get paid, and you'll get whatever Palpatine has in store for you." Which wasn't likely to be pleasant, Fett knew. Though that hardly concerned him—once a bounty hunter collected his fee, interest in the merchandise's fate ceased.

  "Think so?" The smile on Voss'on't's scarred, hatchet-like face turned into an ugly smirk. "This galaxy is full of surprises, pal. There might just be one in store for you."

  Boba Fett ignored the stormtrooper's warning. Mind tricks, he figured. Voss'on't was part of the usual run of thugs and laser-cannon fodder that got recruited into the Empire's fighting ranks. If not of the same intellectual caliber of the Imperial Navy's admirals, he was still smart enough to have risen to those ranks trained in ba-sic psychological warfare techniques. And sowing doubt in the mind of an opponent was the first, and most effec-tive, of such subtle weapons—one didn't have to be a Jedi Knight to use it.

  Still—he had to recognize that Voss'on't had a point. Treachery was an infinite substance in the galaxy, as widely distributed as hydrogen atoms in space. And in getting involved in the Voss'on't job, he had become un-avoidably entangled with some of the most treacherous sentient creatures on or off any of the galaxy's worlds. Not just Palpatine, but the arachnoid assembler Kud'ar Mub'at as well.

  It's a lot of credits, thought Boba Fett as he gazed at the captive in the holding cage. He no longer saw Voss'on't as a living thing, but simply as merchandise to be delivered for a profit. It was the largest bounty that Fett could remember hearing of in his entire career. The lengths to which Emperor Palpatine would go to sat-isfy his lust for vengeance made a lesser entity like the crimelord Jabba the Hurt look like a piker. But it was one thing for Palpatine to offer that kind of bounty for the renegade stormtrooper; it was another thing for him to actually pay it out. Not that Palpatine couldn't af-ford to—he had the wealth of uncounted systems at his command—but because his greed was even greater than that wealth.

  And as far as Kud'ar Mub'at was concerned—Boba Fett held zero illusions about that immense, scuttling spi-der, with its wobbling, pallid abdomen and obsequious, conniving words. Kud'ar Mub'at was presumably hold-ing the bounty for Voss'on't, awaiting whichever of the galaxy's bounty hunters returned to its web with the merchandise. Boba Fett knew that the assembler would love to have both the merchandise and the bounty wind up in its sole possession—and
the best way to do that would be to arrange for the sudden demise of whoever had actually done the work of capturing the stormtrooper.

  "I can see you thinking." Trhin Voss'on't's sly voice insinuated itself into Boba Fett's consciousness.

  "Even through that helmet of yours—I can hear the little gears meshing."

  "You hear nothing except your own delusions." Boba Fett defocused his hard, cold gaze upon his captive.

  "Think so?" The ugly, lopsided smile still curled one corner of Voss'on't's mouth. "Consider your situation from a ... military point of view." He gave another pity-ing shake of his head. "You're outgunned, Fett. Deal with it."

  There was still time remaining before Slave I was scheduled to emerge from hyperspace and within sight of Kud'ar Mub'at's space-drifting web. Time enough to play a little more of this mental game with the hard mer-chandise. Boba Fett didn't need the amusement—nothing amused him except more credits stacking up in his ac-counts. But there was at least one good reason for letting Voss'on't rattle on: it was common knowledge that high-level stormtroopers, such as he had been before his de-fection, were trained in self-annihilatory techniques, in case of capture by enemy forces. A self-willed shutdown of his entire autonomic cardiovascular system would render Voss'on't as unprofitable as any hot bolt from the blaster slung at Boba Fett's hip would.

  Standard bounty hunter procedure in a case like this, where the suicide of the merchandise was a possibility, would have been to render him safely unconscious with a steady-release transdermal anesthetic patch applied just above one of the main neck arteries. Boba Fett had done just that, many times before, with other pieces of hard merchandise—it was rare when any one of them looked forward to being handed over at the end of their journeys with anything but total dread. And if Trihn Voss'on't was as intelligent and rational as he appeared, he had no reason to be optimistic about the welcome that he would receive from his former master, the Emperor Palpatine. Death would be at the end of that process as well, though it would be a long—and uncomfortable—time in com-ing. Palpatine had ways of making sure of that.

  But Boba Fett's own bounty hunter's skills, his ability to see into the workings of his merchandise's thoughts, had told him that Voss'on't was not going to take his own life. Once the former Imperial stormtrooper had gotten over both the physical trauma of being captured— it hadn't been easy on anyone; both Boba Fett and Bossk had nearly been killed in the process—plus the indignity of waking up caged, a measure of his fighting spirit had reappeared, even cockier than before. Boba Fett had caught a glint in Voss'on't's narrow gaze of the same will to survive—and even dominate—that burned like a cold fire under the jacket of his own Mandalorian battle armor.

  He actually thinks he can win. The stormtrooper ceased being mere merchandise for a few seconds as Boba Fett regarded him in the holding cage. He hadn't expected a combat-hardened veteran such as Trhin Voss'on't to beg and grovel for his life, as so many previ-ous tenants of the holding cage had done. What he had expected was a show of snarling, raging defiance, the kind of ugly temper to which the sadistically violent were given when the tables were turned on them.

  "Outgunned—and outsmarted, Fett." The voice of Trhin Voss'on't was a centimeter away from sneering laughter. "It's been real nice knowing you. I'm glad we had this little time together."

  A quick chiming note sounded from the comlink in-side Boba Fett's helmet. That was the signal from the monitoring computer in Slave I's cockpit indicating that the final lockdown sequence had to be initiated before the ship could emerge from hyperspace. There wasn't much more to be done before he collected the bounty, the mountain of credits that had been posted for Voss'on't's capture.

  His favorite part of the job was getting paid—but Boba Fett decided to postpone it a moment longer. As much as he was aware that Voss'on't was trying to warp his thinking, deflect it from its most logical course like the gravitational tug of a black hole, another part of him was intrigued by the stormtrooper's mocking display of confidence.

  He wants me to think he knows something, thought Boba Fett, that I don't. Hardly likely—Boba Fett hadn't survived this long as a top-rank bounty hunter except by having better information sources than his prey did.

  Another thought itched at a dark corner of Boba Fett's cortex. There's always a first time. The problem was that in this business, the first time—outgunned, outsmarted, out-intelligenced—would also be the last time.

  "All right," said Boba Fett quietly. "So tell me." He leaned closer to the holding cage's bars, unconcerned about bringing himself within reach of his captive. It would be a real mistake for Voss'on't to try reaching through the bars and grabbing him—his superior re-flexes would have Voss'on't down on the cage's floor in less than a second. "You feel like talking so much—what do you mean, 'outgunned'?"

  "What, you blind?" Voss'on't scoffed at him. "This ship's falling apart. Even if you hadn't told me about that bomb your former partner hit the hull with, I would've been able to make the damage assessment for myself, just from looking around here. The last time I heard so many structural integrity alarms going off, I was on an Impe-rial battle cruiser being attacked by an entire wing of Rebel Alliance starfighters."

  "Tell me something," growled Boba Fett, "that I don't already know." That Slave I was in bad shape was a fact of which he was uncomfortably aware. Even before he had made the jump into hyperspace, away from the colo-nial mining planet where Voss'on't had been hiding out, he had to make a hard assessment as to whether the ship was even capable of standing up to the journey. If he'd had any option, he would have laid over at the closest suitable planet for repairs. But with such a valuable cargo as the former stormtrooper aboard, and with every other bounty hunter in the galaxy eager to relieve him of this hard merchandise, the choice to make the jump had been forced on him. It was either that or wind up a sitting target in the crosshairs of too many laser cannons to even have a chance of surviving. "This ship will come out all right," Boba Fett told his captive. "It might be just barely holding together when we get there, but we'll make it."

  "Sure it will, pal—but then what?" Voss'on't tilted his head to one side, peering at Fett, an eyebrow raised.

  "Then I get paid. And there'll be plenty of time for re-pairs." He was even looking forward to that. There were some modifications to Slave I—some advanced weaponry systems, proximity and evasion scan units—that he had been contemplating for some time.

  "Oh, you'll get paid, all right." Voss'on't's smile widened, showing more of his yellowed ivory and steel-capped teeth. "But maybe not in the way you're expecting."

  "I'll take my chances."

  "Of course—there's nothing else you can do. But if you're wrong about what's waiting for you ..." Voss'on't slowly nodded. "Then your options are even more limited than they are now."

  Boba Fett calmly regarded the other man. "How do you mean?"

  "Come on. Don't be naive. You have a reputation for smarts, Fett. Try earning it. You've got no maneuvering ability in this ship, not in the condition it's in now. All your weaponry won't do you any good if you can't bring it to bear on a target. And if that target is firing at you instead— if there's a lot of targets with you in their gunsights—then there isn't going to be anything you can do, except take it, for as long as you think you can hold out."

  "Hardly my only option," said Fett. "I can always jump back into hyperspace."

  "Sure—if that's your preferred method of dying. This broken-down tub barely made it through one jump with-out disintegrating." Voss'on't's smile indicated how much he enjoyed the dismal prospects he was describing. "You might be able to slam this thing into hyperspace—but you won't be able to get it back out." An evil glint ap-peared in one of the stormtrooper's eyes. "I've heard that's a real unpleasant way to go. Nobody even ever finds the pieces."

  Boba Fett had heard the same. A squadron of the an-cient Mandalorian warriors, a suit of whose battle armor he wore as his own, was reputed to have been destroyed in just that ma
nner by the now-vanished Jedi Knights. "You sound as if you've been analyzing this for a while."

  Voss'on't shrugged. "It didn't take long. Just like it didn't take long to figure out your only other option. The one that leaves you alive afterward."

  "Which is?"

  "Surrender," said the smiling stormtrooper.

  Boba Fett shook his head in disgust. "That's some-thing I don't have a reputation for doing."

  "Too bad," replied Voss'on't. "Too bad for you and your chances of getting out of this mess alive. You can either be smart and survive, Fett, or carry on with what you're doing, and wind up as a toasted corpse. Your choice."

  Another chime signal sounded from Slave I's cockpit. He had already wasted too much time with this creature. Boba Fett made a mental note that in the future he should remember that all merchandise was the same, given to trying to talk its way out of a jam.

  He allowed himself one more question before he re-turned to the cockpit and began the final preparations for emerging from hyperspace. "Just who do you think it is that I should surrender to?"

  "Why mess around any further?" Trhin Voss'on't gripped two of the durasteel bars and brought his hardangled face closer to Fett's. "I'm the only one who can get you out of this. I know what's waiting for you on the other side. And believe me, Fett, they're not your friends." The stormtrooper's fingers tightened on the cage's bars as his voice dropped lower. "Let me out of here, Fett, and I'll cut you a deal."

  "I don't deal, Voss'on't."

  "You better start—because it's your life that's on the bargaining table, whether you like it or not. Let me out, and turn the ship over to me, and I might just be able to keep you from being blasted into atoms."