by Timothy Zahn
Bossk had reached down and grabbed a blaster pistol from the holster slung at the fallen mercenary's hip, and now tossed it underhand to Zuckuss. "We could use a little help!"
Zuckuss caught the blaster in both hands and continued holding it that way as he pressed the trigger stud, sending a wild spray of fire across the reception hall as he rolled onto his shoulder, dodging the bolt that dug a molten gash through the floor where he had been kneeling.
The added fire gave Boba Fett enough cover that he could turn with the durasteel tube in his arms and sprint toward D'harhan, still howling in impotent rage at the glaring blaster streaks that laced through the reddened clouds of steam. Before he had taken more than a couple of steps away from the dais wreckage, a pair of thin mechanical arms wrapped themselves around Boba Fett's neck, their crablike claws scrabbling at the visor of his helmet.
Eyes starting from their fat-swaddled sockets, the Shell Hutt Gheeta squealed in maddened rage; blood webbed his broad face as the force of his encasing cylinder's repulsors knocked Boba Fett off balance. Fett managed to remain standing; for a split second he was lifted almost clear of the red-spattered floor as Gheeta dragged him upward by the neck. Then he twisted around in the Shell Hutt's sharp-edged grasp and swung the length of the tube- shaped container around into the side of Gheeta's skull.
The impact left a trenchlike dent in the gray, wobbling flesh; Gheeta's eyes went unfocused as the crablike me chanical hands flopped apart, dropping Boba Fett.
There wasn't time, as much as Fett might have wanted, to finish off Gheeta. From the other side of the great reception hall, beyond the erect, howling figure of D'harhan, a volley of blaster fire singed past Fett. With the container tucked under one arm, he grabbed the bolted seams of Gheeta's floating cylinder, gloved fingertips digging a hold on to the metal. Gheeta's dazed eyes rolled as Boba Fett shoved the cylinder ahead of himself as a shield. A frightened scream escaped from the Shell Hutt's mouth as the mercenaries' laser bolts stung and sparked against the cylinder's curved flank. When he reached D'harhan, he shoved Gheeta aside; with enough force to send him bobbing and twisting into the cross fire that filled the center of the reception hall. The immense form of D'harhan reared above Boba Fett, the inert laser cannon shrouded by hissing steam, the heavy arms crucified against the glare of the mercenaries' rifle fire. Above the cannon's barrel, the optics of D'harhan's tracking systems focused upon the helmeted figure stepping within range of the tearing hands.
Boba Fett halted; with one quick motion, he unscrewed the end cap of the tube-shaped container. The seal hissed, higher-pitched than the steam escaping from the laser cannon's black metal housing, as air rushed into the vacuum. Tilting the container, Fett slid out a fully charged reactor core. He lifted one end of the core in his hands as though he were aiming a rifle, then stepped forward and thrust it into the gaping hole of the receptor site in D'harhan's chest.
When they had been aboard the Slave I, D'harhan had howled with the pain of an essence-deep violation as Boba Fett had drawn out a core just like this one. Now a sharp intake of breath sounded inside the throat hidden beneath the laser cannon's barrel; D'harhan's back arched, his segmented tail thrashing convulsively across the broken rubble around him. Every neuron and sinew of D'harhan's frame tensed and surged in sync with his accelerating pulse as the bounty hunter's fist turned inside the exposed chest, locking the reactor core into place.
The pulse of D'harhan's blood seemed to shatter the barrier between flesh and machine as the indicator lights along the laser cannon's housing flashed in a microsecond from yellow to a fiery red. As Boba Fett slammed the locking armature into its socket, then spun and dived for the floor, the cannon barrel swung down from nearly vertical to aiming level. The heat from D'harhan's first shot scorched Fett's spine and shoulder blades as he used the corpse of another dead mercenary to pull himself to a safe distance.
He found the mercenary's blaster rifle and held it to his chest as he rolled onto his back. Pushing himself up with one hand, Fett saw another cannon bolt, a hundred times wider and more destructive than the other shots cutting across the great reception hall's space, enough to rip a hole through the light armor of an Imperial cruiser. And more than enough to reduce one entire wing of the building to charred splinters. Through the rising dust of fractured stone, Boba Fett could hear the screams and shouts of the Shell Hutts and their hired thugs as one pillar and then another toppled into the center of the hall, bringing down a section of roof and exposing the dark sky of Circumtore.
D'harhan turned where he stood, segmented metal tail bracing himself against the recoil of the laser cannon borne by his shoulders and torso. The cannon's barrel rocked back in its housing as another white-hot bolt coursed across the hall, scattering a knot of mercenaries. The screams of the Shell Hutts actually diminished, their panic having increased to the point where all notion of escape had been abandoned.
Tortoiselike, each one drew his head back into the safety of his floating cylinder; when the last throat wattle was past the circular metal collar at the front of the cylinder, a ring of crescent blades irised toward the opening's center, sealing off the Shell Hutt inside. The blind cylinders bobbed and collided with each other, pushed and spun by the blaster fire striking their riveted plates.
A few meters away from Boba Fett, a blaster shot went straight toward the reception hall's ceiling; a quick glance to the side showed him that a shot from one of the mercenaries had struck Bossk at one side of his chest, knocking the Trandoshan off his feet and sending him splayed out on the dais's smoldering rubble. Fett swiveled the rifle in his hands and blew away the mercenary, a broken corpse even before he hit the floor.
Another one of the mercenaries had taken command of the remaining dark-uniformed figures; Boba Fett could see the man at the hall's perimeter, signaling to the others and directing their fire. The aim of their blaster rifles turned away from Fett, as well as IG-88 and Zuckuss. A
concentrated volley singed the air past the three bounty hunters. Crouching down, Boba Fett turned and saw D'harhan standing in the middle of the fusillade, like a watchtower braced against the onslaught of a storm; the blaster fire sowed hot sparks across the black metal, as though each hit was a lightning strike seen through illuminated clouds.
D'harhan managed to get off one more shot of his own before he was cut down. The laser cannon roared, its massive bolt ripping open another section of the flame- scorched walls and scattering one wing of the mercenaries. Metal could have stood up to their fire even longer, but D'harhan's flesh was weaker than that; the torso beneath the laser cannon's housing was now wrapped in bloodied rags. His knees slowly gave way, and he toppled forward. The cannon's barrel struck the floor as though it had been one of the roof pillars giving way, gouging out a meter-long trench.
He was still alive; Boba Fett could see the laboring of D'harhan's heart and lungs, the rise of the blood- smeared chest forcing itself against the curved mount of the laser-cannon housing. The black-gloved hands rose and tore feebly at the wounds, as though death were something that could be plucked from the torn flesh and exposed fragments of breastbone and rib.
The cannon was alive as well; the indicators along the barrel showed an unblinking red, bright through the hissing steam. All it needed was a hand on the triggering mechanism, and the will to fire. ...
Boba Fett threw away the blaster rifle he had taken from one of the dead mercenaries. Ducking beneath the fiery bolts crisscrossing the reception hall, he stepped behind the massive bulk of the fallen D'harhan; with his own adrenaline-charged strength, he gripped the semiconscious figure beneath the arms and half dragged, half lifted him up against the base of a broken pillar. A
sudden gasp sounded from within the other's body as Fett grabbed and yanked loose the thick neural-feed cables that had been connected to D'harhan's spine, the hard- spliced socket just between his shoulder blades. The laser cannon's aiming systems automatically went into manual override status; Boba Fett crouched behind the b
lack metal housing as the barrel swung upward.
And into firing position. A small screen tucked underneath the rear of the housing lit up, with a crosshair grid zeroing in on the mercenaries positioned at the far side of the great reception hall. The barrel turned slightly as Boba Fett's hand jabbed at the controls, seeking a specific target; the grid's lines narrowed in and locked on the one dark-uniformed figure who had taken command of the others. Long-range thermal sensors in the laser cannon's tracking systems gave a clear outline of the mercenary behind a shield of bent and torn plastoid construction material. Enough to hide behind ... but not enough to protect him. Fett hit the cannon's firing stud. The weapon's recoil trembled the black metal housing, its shock traveling all the way up his arms and into his own chest.
The single bolt from the laser cannon took out most of the remaining mercenaries. When Boba Fett raised his head from behind the housing, he sighted through the clouds of steam, hissing louder now to dissipate the heat from the metal. The far side of the hall was gone now; the violet-tinged light of Circum-tore's skies was framed by twisted structural beams, their ends glowing molten.
Across the open plaza beyond the reception hall, the bodies of the mercenary commander and the ones who had died with him were scattered like broken toys. Inside the hall, the few that were left alive had ceased firing, pointing the muzzles of their weapons up toward the ceiling; the brutal effectiveness of the laser cannon had set them to reconsidering their ill-paid devotion to the cause for which Gheeta had hired them. A couple of the mercenaries-the smartest of them, Boba Fett figured-made a show of tossing their blaster rifles onto the debris- covered floor in front of them, then raising their hands above their heads.
"Cowards! Traitors!" A hysterical cry came from behind Boba Fett. With his hands still on the controls of the laser cannon, he turned his head and saw the repulsorborne cylinder of the Shell Hutt Gheeta come darting forward into the center of the reception hall's ruins. "I paid you for results," shouted Gheeta, "not for you to run away and hide!" The crablike mechanical arms shook in impotent fury. "Get him! Now!" The floating cylinder turned as Gheeta jabbed a claw in Boba Fett's direction.
"I order you cause for which Gheeta had hired them. A couple of the mercenaries-the smartest of them, Boba Fett figured-made a show of tossing their blaster rifles onto the debris- covered floor in front of them, then raising their hands above their heads.
"I order you thunder of a storm broken by daylight. Lightning had flashed, contained with the cylinder caught at the end of the cannon's barrel; it had burst through the seams of the bolted durasteel plates, sending a rain of white-hot rivets arcing across the space and landing like sizzling hail on the rubble left by the battle. When the light of the laser-cannon bolt was gone, as quickly as it had flashed into being, the plates of the Shell Hutt's cylinder were singed around their edges; they rattled dully against each other as the cylinder contracted again, the surge of energy that had forced it larger now only an afterimage burned into the observers' eyes.
Boba Fett lowered the laser cannon's barrel, and the cylinder slid off the end of its muzzle. The cylinder fell to the great reception hall's floor with a lifeless clang. Slowly, a red pool formed around it as Gheeta's liquefied corpse seeped through the joins between the plates and out the empty rivet holes.
"Just as well," wheezed another Shell Hutt's voice.
The elder Nullada floated toward the dead cylinder; it looked like a mechanical egg, cracked but not yet peeled of its metal shell. The claws of one of Nullada's crablike arms held back the roll of blubbery tissue over his eyes; with the other he prodded the side of what had been Gheeta's metal casing. Silently, the cylinder rolled back and forth in the red mire. "He had already made more of a nuisance of himself than he had any right to."
That statement, Boba Fett figured, would probably be the extent of Gheeta's obituary. Hutts of any variety were not given to sentimentality. If the late Gheeta had left any estate after having paid off the Narrant-system liege-holder clan and hiring this band of mercenaries-though he had probably gotten them fairly cheap-the remaining assets would be quickly picked apart and swallowed up by the other Shell Hutts. Nullada himself would no doubt take the largest bite.
At the elder Shell Hutt's direction, a couple of the dark-uniformed mercenaries had come over and dragged Oph Nar Dinnid's body out from under the wreckage of the central dais. "Most distressing," said Nullada, with genuine if predacious regret. "This is what happens when someone lets their emotions get in the way of business.
We could have gotten a lot more from those parties with an interest in this matter."
Boba Fett wasn't listening to the old Shell Hutt.
With Zuckuss and IG-88 watching him, the weapons in their hands lowered, he laid D'harhan's body down upon the floor. The laser-cannon barrel turned and slowly came to rest, its muzzle scraping through the charred debris.
D'harhan's black-gloved hands fumbled for the voice box clipped to his waist. The rise and fall of his chest, pinned by the cannon's curved mount, was quick and labored as a single fingertip punched out a message.
Kneeling beside him, Boba Fett looked at the words glowing on the box's screen.
I SHOULD NOT HAVE TRUSTED YOU.
"That's right," said Fett, with a single nod. "That was your mistake." you're wrong. The fingertip moved with agonizing slowness. it was ... my decision... .
Fett said nothing. He waited for the rest of D'harhan's silent words.
i can stop now ... but you . .. The black-gloved fingertip moved from letter to letter on the voice box's keypad. you still must go on. ...
The hand fell away from the box. D'harhan's forearm struck the ground beside his body. There was no more breath or pulse lifting his chest; after a moment Boba Fett reached over and switched off the last of the laser cannon's red-lit controls.
He stood up and turned toward the other bounty hunters. "We're done here," said Fett. "Now we can go." pinned by the cannon's curved mount, was quick and labored as a single fingertip punched out a message.
The tubes of his face mask's breathing apparatus swung back and forth as he shook his head. "No one. Those were your orders. When ... you know ... when you gave me the job."
He was still sorry he'd agreed to it. Even though he'd come back from Circumtore with his own skin relatively intact, if somewhat bruised and battered from the action in the Shell Hutts' great reception hall.
Going along with someone who'd been making arrangements to get his own son killed-which was what the whole futile journey to acquire an already dead piece of merchandise had been about-still turned him somewhat queasy. Maybe Boba Fett's right, he mused bleakly. Maybe I'm not really cut out for the bounty-hunter trade.
"I'm glad to see that you can follow orders."
Cradossk held the rib bone up close to his aging eyes.
The name of the vanquished foe to which it had once belonged was incised along its length, the marks scratched there by one of his own foreclaws. "I'm impressed with your ... loyalty. And your intelligence.
Both of those attributes will stand you in good stead in the difficult times before us." He sighed, lowering the memento of past glories, his gaze focusing on some far- off horizon. "How I wish that my son had possessed similar qualities. Or to put it another way-" He turned his head just enough to cast a sidelong glance at the younger bounty hunter. "If only someone such as yourself had been my offspring."
Sure, thought Zuckuss. He kept himself from showing any other reaction. And wind up dead, the first time you started feeling paranoid? No thanks.
"Mark my words." Cradossk's gnarled claws gripped the bone as though it were a club suitable for thrashing miscreants. His voice rumbled lower, matching the heavy scowl on his scaly face. "If the other bounty hunters of your generation were as smart as you-and respectful of their elders' wisdom-then a great deal of trouble could be avoided. But they have ... ideas of their own." He spoke the word with loathing. "Just as my son did. That's why it was so
important that he be eliminated, and in a way that would not appear to have been from my conniving at that result. This way ... to have it happen on a world far from here, and among clever, greedy creatures such as the Shell Hutts ... it makes his death seem the inevitable consequence of his own stupidity and incompetence. So much for his new ideas." Cradossk sneered. "The old ways are the best ways. Especially when it comes to killing other creatures." "You'd know," muttered Zuckuss under his breath.
"Did you say something?" Cradossk glanced over at him.
Zuckuss shook his head. "It was a bubble." He pointed to the dangling air tubes. "In my gear."
"Ah." Cradossk resumed his contemplation of his long- dead enemy's rib, letting it evoke deep, musing thoughts.
"It's good to remember these things. To be wise. More than wise; cunning. Because"-he nodded slowly-"there's going to be a lot more killing before everything's straightened out around here."
"What do you mean?" He already knew what the old Trandoshan meant, but asked anyway. The creaky old carnivore wants to talk, Zuckuss told himself, / should let him talk. It was only polite, and it didn't cost him anything. Besides-other things were going to happen that Cradossk probably didn't know about. And those things took time to get ready.
He heard a slight noise from the doorway. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Cradossk's majordomo, the Twi'lek that was always sneaking around the place, on his own and others' shadowy errands. Ob Fortuna held one of his elongated forefingers to his lips, signaling Zuckuss to remain silent himself. From the corner of one large eye, Zuckuss looked over at the leader of the Bounty Hunters Guild; the old reptilian was still sunk deep in his brooding meditations. Zuckuss and the Twi'lek ex changed a quick nod, and the Twi'lek scurried away, down the Guild's dark corridors.
"Now's not the time to start playing stupid." The ancient rib cracked in two, with a splintered fragment in each of Cradossk's tightly squeezed fists. He looked in angry surprise at what he'd just done, then tossed the relic's pieces away. He shot a hard-eyed gaze over his shoulder at Zuckuss. "Don't try telling me you're not smart enough to know what's going on around here."
