by K. W. Jeter
possible. Minor dings and scrapes to the exterior hull
were war badges, emblems of encounters that he had
survived and someone else hadn't. But future survival
might depend on his being able to lay his armor-gloved
hand on one of the Slave I's weapon-systems remotes in a
split second, without the firing buttons or data readout
being obscured by dirt or dried blood.
Besides, thought Boba Fett grimly, / can't stand the
smell. He squeezed his fist tighter, a soapy antiseptic
wash trickling into the bucket set on the floor of the
cargo area. There was something nauseating about the
humanoid scent of fear that seeped into the very metal of
the cages. Of all the sensory data he had ever
experienced, from the acrid steam of the Andoan swamp
islands to the blinding creation-swirl of the Vinnax
system's countervacuum, those molecules signaling panic
and desperation were what Fett found to be the most
alien. Whatever minute subcutaneous organ produced fear
sweat, it was missing in him. Not because he had been
born without it-no sentient creature was-but because he
had forced it into nonexistence, excised it from his mind
with the razor-sharp scalpel of his will. The ancient
Mandalorian warriors, whose lethal battle-gear he wore,
had been just as coldly ruthless, according to the
legends that were still told and retold in whispers
throughout the galaxy. Long ago, when he had first gazed
upon one of their empty helmets, a relic of an
extinguished terror, he had seen in its narrow, un
readable gaze an image of his own future, of the death-
bringing entity he would become.
Less than human, mused Boba Fett as he swabbed down
the bars that his most recent captive had been held
behind. That was what fear did, that was the
transformation it wrought in those who let it spring up
in their spirits. The thing in the cage, which had
carried the name of Nil Posondum, had been some kind of
talking, fruitlessly bargaining animal by the time Fett
had transferred it to Kud'ar Mub'at's web. Fear of death,
and the pain that Hutts enjoyed producing in the targets
of their vengeance, had swallowed up all the human parts
inside the little accountant.
An odd notion moved in Boba Fett's thoughts, one that
he'd turned over and examined like a precious Gerinian
star-stone many times before. Perhaps . . . I became more
human than human. Not by adding anything to himself, but
through a process of reduction, of stripping away the
flawed and rotten parts of his species. The antiseptic
rag in his glove slid over one of the cold-forged bars,
leaving no microbe behind. The ancient Mandalorian
warriors had had their secrets, which had died with them.
And I have mine.
Fett dipped the rag in the bucket again. He could
have left these chores to one of Slave I's maintenance
droids, but he preferred doing it himself. It gave him
time to think, of just such matters as this.
The soapy liquid trickled from the battle-gear's
elbow as Fett checked the forearm-mounted data-screen
patched into the Slave I's cockpit. Rendezvous with the
Bounty Hunters Guild's forward base was not far off. He
was ready for that-he was never not ready, for anything
that might happen-but he would still regret the
termination of this little slice of nontime, the lull and
peace that came between jobs. Other sentient creatures
were allowed to enjoy a longer rest, the ultimate peace
that came with death. Sometimes he envied them.
He unlocked the empty cage and stepped inside. The
fear scent was already diminished, barely detectable
through the mask's filters. Posondum hadn't left much of
a mess, for which he was grateful; some merchandise let
their panic devolve them well past the point of
maintaining control of their bodily functions.
The floor of the cage was scratched, though. Bright
metallic lines glinted through the darker layer of
plastoid beneath Boba Fett's boot soles. He wondered what
could have caused that. He was always careful to take any
hard, sharp objects away from the merchandise, with which
they might damage themselves. Some captives preferred
suicide to the attentions they were scheduled to receive
from those who had put up the bounties for them.
Fett glanced over to the corner of the Slave Fs cargo
area, where he had tossed the food tray. None of the gray
slop had been touched by Nil Posondum, but one of the
tray's corners had been bent into a dull-pointed angle.
Just enough to scrape out the markings on the cage's
floor-the accountant must have been working on it right
up until Kud'ar Mub'at's subassemblies had crept in
through the access portal. The spiderlike minions had
looped restraining silk around him, then carried him from
one prison to another. He might have had time enough to
finish whatever message he'd wanted to leave behind.
But there wasn't time now to read it. A red light
pulsed on the data readout, alerting him that a return to
the craft's piloting area was necessary. The jump out of
hyperspace couldn't be accomplished by means of a remote;
the Slave I's maneuvering thrust-ers were too finely
gauged, set for zero lag time, in case any of Fett's many
enemies and rivals might be waiting for his appearance.
And right now he would be sailing straight into the nest
of all those who bore him a grudge. He supposed that
lizard-faced bumbler Bossk would already have returned to
Guild headquarters, licking his wounds and complaining to
his spawn-sire Cradossk about the impossible assignment
he'd been given. What Bossk wouldn't mention would be why
it had been impossible, and just who had beaten him to
the goods. Cradossk was a wilier old reptile, though-Boba
Fett even had a grudging respect for the head of the
Bounty Hunters Guild, from some long-ago encounters with
him-and would know just what the score was with his
feckless underlings.
The Mandalorian battle-gear had a built-in optical
recorder, its tiny lens mounted at one corner of the
helmet's visor. Boba Fett leaned over the scratches left
by the captive accountant, not even bothering with an
effort to decipher them. A second later he had scanned
the marks and inserted them into the helmet's long-term
data-storage unit. He could deal with them later, if he
grew curious about what pathetic epitaph the accountant
might have devised for himself. Maudlin self-pity held
little interest for Boba Fett. Right now an additional
beeping tone was sounding in sync with the red dot; Slave
I, his only true companion, demanded his attention.
He left the bucket of cold, dirty water on the cage's
floor. If it spilled and slopped across the plas-toid-
clad metal, if the feet of all the captives to come
scuffed out th
e scratched message, whatever it was, there
would be no great loss. Memory was like that the
leavings of the dead, best forgotten and erased after
payment for their sweat-damp carcasses was made. The
moment when his hand was about to seize the neck of the
merchandise was the only time that mattered. Readiness
was all.
Boba Fett climbed the ladder to the interstellar
craft's cockpit, his own boots ringing on the treads. The
new job that he had taken on, this scheme of the
assembler Kud'ar Mub'at, was about to commence. Soon
there would be more payments to add to his account. . . .
And more deaths to be forgotten.
7
NOW
"I want to see him." The female had a gaze as sharp
and cold as a bladed weapon. "And to talk to him."
Dengar could barely recognize her. He remembered her
from Jabba's palace; she had been one of the obese Hutt's
troupe of dancing girls. Jabba had liked pretty things,
regarding them as exquisite delicacies for his senses,
like the wriggling food he'd stuffed down his capacious
gullet. And just as with those squirming tidbits, Jabba
had savored the death of the young and beautiful. The pet
rancor, in its bone-lined cavern beneath the palace, had
merely been an extension of Jabba's appetites. Dengar had
witnessed one of the other dancing girls, a frightened
little Twi'lek named Oola, being ripped apart by the
claws of the beast. That had been before Luke Skywalker
had killed the rancor, followed sometime later by its
owner's death. No great loss, thought Dengar. With either
one of them.
"Why?" Leaning against the rocky wall of his hiding
place's main chamber, he kept a safe distance from the
female. "He's not exactly a brilliant conversationalist
at the moment."
Her name was Neelah; she had told him that much when
he had caught her sneaking down the sloping tunnel from
the surface. He had gotten the drop on her, catching her
off guard from behind a stack of empty supply crates.
With her throat in the crook of his arm, as Dengar's
other hand had painfully bent her wrist up toward her
shoulder blades, she'd answered a few questions for him.
And then she had caught him in the shin with a hard, fast
back kick, followed by a knee to the groin that had sent
a small constellation of stars to the top of his skull.
"That's personal." They were in a standoff now,
glaring at each other from across the cramped space. "I
have my own business with him."
What business would an ex-dancing girl have with a
bounty hunter? Especially one as close to death as Boba
Fett was right now. Maybe, mused Dengar, she thinks she
can get a discount from him, since he's so messed up.
Though who would she want him to track down?
He glanced over to the doorway of the hiding place's
other chamber. "What condition is our guest in today?"
The taller medical droid tilted its head unit to
study the display of vital signs mounted on its own
cylindrical body. "The patient's condition is stable,"
announced SHS1-B. "The prognosis is unchanged from its
previous trauma-scan indices of point zero zero twelve."
"Which means?" "He's dying."
That was another question Why couldn't these
fnarling droids just say what they meant? He'd had to
bang this one around until the solenoids had rattled
inside its carapace just to get it to speak this much of
a plain Basic.
"Wounds," added SHSl-B's shorter companion.
"Severity." le-XE gave a slow back-and-forth rotation of
its top dome. "Not-goodness."
"Whatever." Dengar was looking forward to being rid
of this irritating pair. That would come with either Boba
Fett's death-or his recovery. Which was looking
increasingly less likely.
"If that's the case," said Neelah, "then you're
wasting my time. I need to talk to him right now."
"Well, that's sweet of you." Arms folded across his
chest, Dengar nodded as he regarded her. "You're not
really concerned with whether some bounty hunter pitches
it or not. You just want to pump him for some kind of
information. Right?"
She made no reply, but Dengar could tell that his
words had struck home. The look the female gave him was
even more murderous than before. A lot had changed since
she'd been one of Jabba's fetching playthings; even in
this little time the harsh winds of Tatooine's Dune Sea
had scoured her flesh leaner and tauter, the heat of the
double suns darkening her skin. What had been soft,
nubile flesh, revealed by gossamer silks, was now
concealed by the coarse, bloodstained trousers and
sleeveless jacket that she must have scavenged from the
corpse of one of Jabba's bodyguards; a thick leather
belt, its attached holster empty, cinched the uniform
tight to her waist and hunger-carved belly.
Starving, thought Dengar. She had to be; the Dune Sea
didn't exactly abound with protein sources. "Here-"
Keeping an eye on her, Dengar reached into one of the
crates and dug out a bar of compressed military rations,
salvage from an Imperial scoutship that had crash-landed
years before. He tossed the bar to the female. "You look
like you need it."
Appetite widened her eyes, showing their deep violet
color. Her fingers quickly tore open the thin metallic
wrappings; she raised the slab, already softening as it
absorbed what moisture it could from the air, to her
mouth, but stopped herself before taking a bite.
"Go ahead," said Dengar. "I'm not in the habit of
poisoning people." He reached behind himself to one of
the niches concealed in the chamber's stones. "If I
wanted to get rid of you"-his fist came out with a
blaster in it; he raised the weapon and pointed it at
Neelah's forehead-"I could do it easier than that."
Her gaze fastened on the blaster, as though its
muzzle were doing the talking.
"Good," said Dengar. His groin still ached from the
blow he'd received. "Now I think we understand each
other."
A few seconds passed, then the female nodded slowly.
She took a bite of the rations bar, chewed and swallowed.
"I must inform you," came SHSl-B's voice from the
subchamber doorway. "That any further casualties will
have a deleterious impact on our ability to perform our
functions in a manner consistent with an appropriate
level of therapeutic practice."
Dengar swiveled the blaster toward the droid. "If
there's any more 'casualties' around here, I'll be
sweeping them up with a magnet. Got me?"
SHSl-B leaned back, bumping against his companion.
"Understanding," said le-XE, speaking for both of them.
"Completeness."
"That's nice. Go take care of your patient," said
Dengar, slipping the blaster inside his own belt. He
glanced back over a
t Neelah. "You enjoying that?"
She had virtually inhaled the rations bar. Her pale
fingernails plucked out a few last crumbs from the
wrappings.
"Give me some answers," said Dengar, "and you can
have another one."
She crumpled the foil into a shining ball inside her
small fist.
I'm getting soft, thought Dengar. There had been a
time when he wouldn't have bothered asking questions. He
wouldn't have lowered the blaster, either, until there
had been a corpse lying in front of him, with a hole
burned through its brain. That was what letting himself
fall in love-not with this female, but with his
betrothed, Manaroo-had done for him. That was always a
fatal mistake for a bounty hunter. Somebody like Boba
Fett survived at this game for as long as he had by
stripping those useless emotions out of his heart. To
look at Fett, even when he was unconscious on the pallet
in the other chamber, was to look at a weapon, an assault
rifle fully primed and charged for maximum destruction.
Peel away that Mandalorian battle armor of his, and
something equally hard and deadly was found beneath. And
that, Dengar knew, was the difference-one of them, at
least-between himself and the galaxy's most feared bounty
hunter. There was still something human inside Dengar,
despite his having worked the bounty-hunter trade, with
all its spirit-eroding capabilities. That was the part
that had looked upon Manaroo, and had decided, despite
all the rest of his scrabbling, callused nature, to twine
his fate with hers. Manaroo had asked him to marry her,
and he had said yes; that human part had wanted to stay
human, like a dwindling flame that struggles to keep from
being snuffed out. He didn't want to wind up like Boba
Fett, a killing machine with a blind, unfathomable mask
for a face.
It was that human part that had also decided to send
Manaroo away, once she had helped him get Boba Fett into
this hiding place. Their separation from each other would
continue at least until this business with Boba Fett was
over. Dengar knew the risks in getting involved with
someone who had as many grudge-bearing enemies as Fett;
there were plenty of diehards from the old Bounty Hunters
Guild who had good reason to hate his guts. If they found
out that Boba Fett was still alive, they'd be swooping
