Star Wars - The Bounty Hunter Wars - The Mandalorian Armor

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