by Timothy Zahn
She and Fett would still be stuck out here, waiting not for Dengar, but for whatever the next attempt to elimi nate them would be.
In the meantime the medical droid persisted in its arguments. "How could I be wrong? I have been extensively programmed in the nature of humanoid physiology-"
"Then you're a slow learner." Neelah closed her eyes and tilted her head back against a pillow of rock. "When you're dealing with someone like Boba Fett, it's not the human parts that make the difference. It's the other parts."
The droid fell mercifully silent. It either knew when it was defeated or when further discussion was pointless.
arguments. "How could I be wrong? I have been extensively programmed in the nature of humanoid physiology-"
"Then you're a slow learner." Neelah closed her eyes and tilted her head back against a pillow of rock. "When you're dealing with someone like Boba Fett, it's not the human parts that make the difference. It's the other parts."
The droid fell mercifully silent. It either knew when it was defeated or when further discussion was pointless.
being pecked at by the Dune Sea's scavengers.
Tatooine's twin suns were smearing the sky dusky orange as Dengar approached the spaceport's ragged perimeter. Digging the swoop out from the bombing raid's aftermath, the tumbled rocks and displaced sand dunes, had taken a little while longer than he'd expected it to; the swoop had been buried nearly two meters deep, and he found it only because he'd had the foresight to tag it with a short-distance location beacon. Just my luck, he had thought sourly, when he'd finally managed to drag the swoop to the surface and start it up. The forward stabilizer blades had been bent almost double by the largest boulder that had crashed onto the minimal vehicle; any movement speedier than a relative crawl sent a spine-jarring shudder through the frame, quickly es calating to a rolling spin that would have crashed him to the ground if he hadn't backed off the throttle. The swoop's damaged condition had necessitated a more circuitous route across the Dune Sea wastes than he would have taken otherwise; he might have been able to outrun a Tusken Raider's bantha mount, but not a shot from one of their ancient but effective rifles.
"Looking for anything ... special?" A hood-shrouded figure, with a distinctive crescent-shaped proboscis, sidled up to Dengar as soon as he'd made his way between the first of the low, featureless buildings. "There are creatures in this district ... who can accommodate . .
. all interests."
"Yeah, I bet." Dengar brushed past the meddlesome creature. "Look, just take a hike, why don't you? I know my way around."
"My apologies." The hem of the creature's rough- cloth robe swept across the alley dust as it made a small bow. "I mistakenly thought ... that you were a ...
newcomer here."
Dengar kept walking, quickening his strides. That had been an unfortunate encounter; he had been hoping to make it to the cantina at the center of Mos Eisley without being noticed. The spaceport abounded with snitches and informers, creatures who made a living selling out others either to the Empire's security forces or to whichever criminals and assorted marginal dealers might have a financial interest in someone else's comings and goings.
That was what had always made Mos Eisley, an otherwise dilapidated port on a backwater planet, one of the galaxy's prime hangouts for those practicing the bounty- hunter trade. If you stuck around long enough, you eventually heard something that could be turned to profit. The downside, as Dengar was well aware, was that it was hard to keep one's business a secret around here.
A couple of whispers in the right ear holes, and you wound up becoming someone else's merchandise.
Right now he wasn't aware of anyone looking for him; he wasn't that important. Though that might change all too rapidly, when word got out of his being hooked up with Boba Fett. An alliance with the galaxy's top bounty hunter brought a lot of less-than-desirable baggage with it other creatures' schemes and grudges, all of which they might figure could be advanced by either going through or eliminating anyone as close to Fett as Dengar had become. The bombing raid had proved that Boba Fett had some determined enemies. If those parties found out that a minor-rank bounty hunter had made himself useful to the object of their furious wrath, they might eliminate the individual in question just on general principle.
Those and other disquieting speculations scurried around inside Dengar's skull as he made his way through Mos Eisley's less pleasant-and less frequented-byways. A
pack of sleek, glittering-eyed garbage rats scurried at his approach, diving into their warrens among the alley's noisome strata of decaying rubbish, then chattering shrill abuse and brandishing their primitive, sharp-edged digging tools at his back. The rats, at least, wouldn't report his presence in the spaceport to anyone; they kept to themselves for the most part, with a supercilious atti tude toward larger creatures' affairs.
Dengar halted his steps, in order to peer around a corner. From this point, he had a clear view of Mos Eisley's central open space. He saw nothing more ominous than a couple of Imperial stormtroopers on low-level security patrol, prodding the muzzles of their blaster rifles through an incensed Jawa's merchandise bales. Bits of salvaged droids-disconnected limbs and head units with optical sensors still blinking and vocal units moaning from the shock of disconnected circuits-bounced out of the cart and clattered on the ground as the Jawa shook its fist, hidden in the bulky sleeve of its robe, and yammered its grievances against the white-helmeted figures.
No one crossing or idling in the plaza regarded the confrontation with more than mild curiosity, except for a pair of empty-saddled dewbacks tethered nearby; they grizzled and snarled, drawing away from the noisy Jawa with instinctive aversion. The stormtroopers caused no concern for Dengar, either. He was more worried about those who might be on the other side of the law, the various scoundrels and sharpies who would be more likely to have heard the latest scuttlebutt and be looking to profit from it.
Dengar drew his head back from the building's corner.
There was a fine line between being too paranoid and being just paranoid enough. Too paranoid slowed you down, but not enough got you killed. He'd already decided to err, if necessary, on the side of caution.
Keeping close to the building's crumbling white walls, Dengar found the rear entrance to the cantina.
With a quick glance over his shoulder, he slid into the familiar darkness and threaded his way among the establishment's patrons. A few eyes and other sensory organs turned in his direction, then swung back to discreetly murmured business conversations.
He rested both elbows on the bar. "I'm looking for Codeq Santhananan. He been in lately?"
The same ugly bartender, familiar from all of Dengar's previous visits, shook his head. "That barve got drilled a coupla months ago. Right outside the door. I had a pair of rehab droids scrubbing the burn mark for two whole standard time periods, and it still didn't come out." The bartender remembered Dengar's usual, a tall water-and-isothane, heavy on the water, and set it down in front of him. The scars on the bartender's face shifted formation as one eye narrowed, peering at Dengar.
"He owe you credits?"
Dengar let himself take a sip; he had gotten seri ously dehydrated, riding the damaged swoop across the Dune Sea. "He might."
"Well, he owed me," growled the bartender. "I don't appreciate it when my customers get themselves killed and I'm the one that gets stiffed." He furiously swabbed out a glass with a stained towel. "Creatures in these parts oughta think of somebody besides themselves for a change."
Listening to the bartender's complaints wasn't accomplishing anything. Dengar drained half the glass and pushed it away. "Put it on my tab."
He worked his way into the shadow-filled center of the cantina's space, gazing around as best he could without making direct eye contact with anyone. Some of the more hot-tempered cantina habitues were known to take violent offense over such indiscretions; even if he didn't wind up being the one laid out on the damp floor, Dengar didn't want to
draw that kind of attention to himself.
"Excuse the lamentable discourtesy"-a hand with bifurcate talons tugged at Dengar's sleeve- "but I couldn't help overhearing... ."
Glancing to his side, Dengar found himself looking into the black bead eyes, no more than a couple of centimeters in diameter, of a Q'nithian aer-opteryx. One of the beads swelled larger as the creature's other set of claws held a magnifying lens on a jeweled handle in front of it. Dengar had been expecting something like this; one's business didn't stay secret for very long in the cantina, if spoken in anything louder than a whisper.
"Let's go over to one of the booths," said Dengar.
Those were far enough away from the cantina's crowded main area for a measure of privacy. "Come on."
The Q'nithian flopped after him on the flattened tips of its shabby gray wings, useless for any kind of flight.
It struggled into the seat on the booth's opposite side, then settled down as though wrapped in a feathered cloak.
"I heard you mention poor Santhananan's name." The taloned hand protruded from under the wings so that the Q'nithian could scratch itself with the magnifying-lens handle. "He met a sad demise, I'm afraid."
"Yeah, I'm sure it was tragic." Dengar set his arms on the table and leaned forward. He wanted to wrap up his errand here before the bartender had a chance to pressure him into settling his account. "What I want to know is, did anybody pick up on his business?"
The lens shifted to the other beady eye. "The late Santhananan had various enterprises." The Q'nithian's voice was a grating squawk. "A creature of many interests, some of them even legal. To which of them do you refer?"
"Keep it down. You know what I'm talking about."
Dengar glanced across t he cantina, then turned back to the Q'nithian. "The message service he used to run.
That's what I'm interested in."
"Ah." The Q'nithian made a few thoughtful clacking noises with its rudimentary beak. "What great good fortune for you. It just so happens that that is an enterprise ... over which I now exercise control."
Great good fortune-that was one way of putting it.
Dengar wondered for a moment just how the late Santhananan had met his end, and how much this Q'nithian had had to do with it. But that was none of his business.
"Whatever communication you require," continued the Q'nithian, words and voice all mild bland-ness, "I think I can assist you with it."
"I bet you can." Dengar looked hard into the magnifiying lens and the mercenary intelligence behind it. "Here's the deal. I need to send a hyperspace messenger pod-"
"Really?" The feathers above one beady eye rose in apparent surprise. "That's an expensive proposition. I'm not saying it can't be done. Just that-since I haven't done business with you before-it would have to be done on a strictly credits-up-front basis."
Dengar reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small pouch. He loosened its drawstring and poured the contents out on the table. "Will that do?"
Even without the magnifying lens, the Q'nithian's eyes grew larger. "I think"-the bifurcate talons reached out for the little hoard of hard credits-"we may be in business here. ..."
"Not so fast," Dengar grabbed the other creature's thin, light-boned wrist and pinned it to the tabletop.
"You get half now, half when I hear that the message reached its destination."
"Very well." The Q'nithian watched as Dengar divided the credits into two piles, one of which went back into the pouch, and then inside Dengar's jacket again. "That's a regrettably standard arrangement. But I can live with it." The talons picked up the rest of the credits and drew it someplace under the cloak-like wings. "So-what's the message you want to send?"
Dengar hesitated. He'd known how far he could trust Codeq Santhananan-he'd dealt with him before-but this Q'nithian was an unknown quantity. Still ... right now there was no alternative. And if the Q'nithian wanted the other half of the payment for his services, there was a limit to any double-dealing he might be contemplating.
"All right." Dengar leaned even farther across the table, until he could see himself reflected in the Q'nithian's darkly shining eyes. "Just four words."
"Which are?"
" 'Boba Fett,' " said Dengar, " 'is alive.' "
Both of the Q'nithian's feathered brows rose. "That's the message? That's it?" The wings lifted and fell in a rudimentary shrug. "Seems to me ... that you're spending an awful lot of credits ... on some odd kind of hoax." The Q'nithian studied Den-gar through the lens.
"Not that anyone is going to believe it, anyway.
Everybody knows ... that Boba Fett got eaten by the Sarlacc. Some of Jabba the Hutt's ex-employees ... came right here into the cantina ... and told all about it."
"Good for them. I hope somebody bought 'em a drink."
"You appear to be ... a serious person. And you're paying ... serious credits." The eye behind the magnifying lens blinked. "Are you telling me ... that the renowned Boba Fett is alive?"
"That's none of your business," said Dengar. "I'm just paying you to get the message to where it needs to go."
"As you wish," replied the Q'nithian. "And just where is that?"
"The planet Kuat. I want Kuat of Kuat to receive it."
"Well, well." The Q'nithian's feathers rustled as he shifted position on the seat opposite Dengar. "Now, that is interesting. What makes you think a creature as important as the CEO of Kuat Drive Yards ... would be interested ... in hearing something like that? Whether it's true or not." "I told you already." Dengar spoke between gritted teeth. He was about ready to reach over and crush the magnifying lens in his fist. "That's not your business."
"Ah. But I think ... it is." The beak opened in a crude simulation of a humanoid smile. "We are something like partners now ... you and I. If Boba Fett is alive
... there are others who would be interested in knowing that ... rather intriguing fact."
Dengar glared at the Q'nithian. "When Santhananan ran this business, he knew that his customers weren't just buying a message being transmitted. They were also buying him keeping his mouth shut."
"You're not dealing ... with Santhananan now." The bright gaze behind the magnifying lens was unperturbed.
"You're dealing with me. And my backers; I'm not a completely independent agent the way Santhananan was . .
. but then, that may be why he's dead and I'm not. Let's just say ... that I have certain additional expenses .
. . that I need to cover." The tip of the lens pointed toward Dengar. "For which you should be grateful."
"Yeah, I'm grateful, all right." Dengar shook his head in disgust. That was the problem with doing business in Mos Eisley; there were always payoffs that had to be made, bribes in either the form of credits or information. And disregarding what he was holding back for the on-delivery payment for the message, he was effectively tapped out of credits. That left only one thing to barter. "You want to know why Kuat would be interested? I'll tell you. It's because he just made one hell of an effort to make sure that Boba Fett was dead.
Did word of that bombing raid out on the Dune Sea reach here?"
"Of course it did," said the Q'nithian. "The seismic shocks had structural beams cracking ... all over Mos Eisley. Really-the Imperial Navy cannot engage in a routine practice operation such as that ... and not have sentient creatures notice it."
"It wasn't the Imperial Navy. It was a private operation."
"Oh? And what proof do you have of that?"
Dengar reached inside his jacket, past the drawstring pouch with the rest of the credits and to the larger, heavier object he'd found when digging up the damaged swoop. Back there, he'd brushed the sand off the device, a dully gleaming sphere that had filled his hand with its weight and potentiality, and had read the words and serial numbers incised upon its thick, armored shell.
Reading those words, and realizing what they meant, had changed all his plans in an instant; they were why he was here in the Mos Eisley cantina, talking to a message e
xpediter like this Q'nithian. That hadn't been part of Boba Fett's plans for this little errand into the spaceport. Dengar was operating on his own now.
He handed the sphere, with its two off-enter cy lindrical protrusions, to the Q'nithian. "Take a look."
The sphere was cradled in the taloned hand before the Q'nithian realized what it was. He almost dropped it, then his twin claws gripped it desperately tighter and kept it from bouncing on the tabletop. A dismayed, wordless squawk sounded from deep within the feather- wrapped body as he thrust it back toward Dengar.
"What's the matter?" Dengar let his own smile turn cruel, savoring the other creature's discomfiture.
"Something frighten you?"
"Are you mad?" The Q'nithian gaped at him without benefit of the magnifying lens. "Do you know what this is?"
"Sure," answered Dengar easily. "It's an atmospheric phase-change detonator for an Imperial-class M-12 sweep bomb. If it's the same as the others I've come across, it'd be set to ignite an attached charge at a perceived twenty-millibar differential." His smile widened. "Good thing it's not hooked up to one, huh?"
"You idiot!" The sphere trembled in the Q'nithian's talons. "There's still enough explosive in this fuse to take out half of Mos Eisley!"
"Relax." Dengar took the sphere back from the Q'nithian. "It's cold. Safely inert. Look-" He turned the object so a thumbnail-sized data readout showed. "Do you see those three illuminated red LEDs?"
The Q'nithian shook his head. "No." He raised the magnifying lens and peered closer. "I don't see any lights at all."
"Exactly." Dengar set the sphere down between them.
"This one's a dud. These particular detonation devices have a failure rate in the field approaching almost ten percent. That's why the Imperial Navy doesn't use them anymore; they've upgraded to a more reliable gravity-wave system that's integrated into the main explosive's casing. It's not removable like this thing. That should've been your first clue that it wasn't the Empire doing a practice bombing run out there in the desert."
"Hmm." The Q'nithian's ruffled feathers smoothed back down. "You seem to possess ... an unusual degree of expertise in these matters."
