Star Wars - The Bounty Hunter Wars - The Mandalorian Armor

by K. W. Jeter

  to mean?"

  "It's simple." Boba Fett grasped one of the ladder's

  rungs. "Like everything with the Shell Hutts." He started

  up toward the Slave Fs cockpit. "We're going to go down

  and talk business, and we'll do it unarmed. They'll send

  a shuttle for us to go on-world, and we'll leave all our

  weapons right here."

  "You're joking!" Bossk stared after him in amazement.

  "I'm not going down there defenseless!"

  "That's up to you." At the cockpit hatchway, Boba

  Fett halted and looked back down at the Trandoshan.

  "There's an alternative, of course. We can eliminate you

  from the team right now." He drew his blaster from his

  hip and aimed it at Bossk. "You decide."

  A few seconds passed before Bossk finally gave a slow

  nod. "All right," he said. "You win. That's how we'll

  play it." An ugly sneer formed on his face. "But there's

  a slight problem. What about him?"

  Zuckuss and the others turned in the direction to

  which Bossk's gesture pointed. At the side of the Slave

  I's holding area, silent and waiting, stood the massive

  shape of D'harhan. The tracking systems of the laser

  cannon, bonded inseparably to his torso, looked toward

  Fett.

  "Even him," Fett said quietly. "He's going with us as

  well."

  D'harhan punched a string of words into his voice box

  and turned the device away from himself. "you would have

  to kill me," it spoke aloud. "to render me weaponless."

  The voice had sounded like thunder beneath the roiling

  clouds of steam. The laser cannon's tracking systems

  gazed hard at Boba Fett as the next words were displayed.

  there is no

  DIFFERENCE. . . BETWEEN ME AND MY WEAPONS.

  "Maybe..." With growing unease, Zuckuss let his gaze

  move up the enormous figure. The yellow lights on the

  side of the laser-cannon housing were darkening, as

  though they were about to shift to the red of imminent

  destruction. "Maybe we don't really need to take him with

  us. I mean ... if we're just going down to Circumtore to

  talk . . . that's not really his specialty, is it?"

  "No one is being left behind," Fett stated with cold

  finality. "The whole team is going. That's the plan."

  "Whose plan?" demanded Bossk.

  "Mine." Another simple, flat statement. "That's the

  only one that matters." Boba Fett turned back toward

  D'harhan. "I know better than anyone that to remove your

  weapon would be the same as killing you; I haven't

  forgotten about these things. I was there when you became

  as you are now. So I also know other things that your

  weapon can be rendered nonfunctional, incapable of

  firing, by a relatively simple procedure. The removal of

  the light-mass core alone will do it. And then the Shell

  Hutts will have no basis for refusing you permission to

  enter their world."

  Zuckuss flattened himself against the holding area's

  bulkhead as he watched D'harhan rising to his full

  height, the top of the laser-cannon housing scraping the

  durasteel ceiling. The light inside the space seemed to

  dim, as though the creature's expanding form were

  swallowing it up. D'harhan's chest, the remaining flesh-

  and-blood part of it, swelled outward, thrusting forward

  the curved gearing of the weapon mount welded to his

  breastbone; his shoulders pulled back, arms tensing at

  his sides, one hand clenching into a fist, the other

  still holding the muted voice box. Through clouds of

  hissing steam, the oiled metal of the pistons gleamed

  like naked sword blades; the indicator lights along the

  laser cannon's barrel burned a fiery, nebulous red.

  Now it's going to happen-fear twisted sicken-ingly in

  Zuckuss's gut. We're all going to die. Mesmerized, he

  watched as Boba Fett stepped up in front of D'harhan, the

  red light blurring through the steam and silhouetting him

  as though by fire seen through ominous storm clouds.

  "you're wrong." D'harhan raised the voice box toward

  Fett. "IT won't be easy at all."

  "I am aware of his meaning." A trace of fear sounded

  in even the droid IG-88's voice. "The light-mass core is

  shielded behind a grid of protective interlocks-that is

  standard for weapons of the class he bears, to prevent

  just such tampering. Removal is ill-advised, even for a

  skilled armory technician. You could trigger an overload

  destruct sequence that would destroy this ship even more

  thoroughly than the Shell Hutt's explosive charges would

  have."

  "Listen to it," pleaded Bossk. "You're going to kill

  us all-"

  "I know what I'm doing." Boba Fett spoke with an

  unnervingly icy calm. "Do not interfere-if you value your

  lives."

  "do you know?" Another cloud of steam hissed from the

  laser cannon's mounting as the tracking systems narrowed

  their focus on the man standing in front of them. "the

  weapon is my spirit. when you take THAT BY WHICH I KILL

  OTHERS . . . THEN YOU KILL ME."

  "It will only seem that way," said Boba Fett.

  "There's a difference between this death and true death."

  Slowly, he reached up toward the glistening machinery

  whose coils were buried deep in D'harhan's chest. "Trust

  me."

  "Fett . . . don't . . ."

  Whether it was his own voice or one of the others,

  Zuckuss could no longer tell. Flinching from certain

  doom, he averted his face; the last thing he saw was Boba

  Fett shrouded in steam, one hand sinking into the coils

  and wires nested beneath the laser cannon's mounting, as

  though the bounty hunter were a battlefield surgeon

  performing a crude, septic heart transplant. With a

  screech of grinding metal from the geared wheel, the

  weapon's barrel convulsively angled upward, the tracking

  systems blindly defocusing, as though a pain voltage

  beyond the reach of mortal anesthesia had coursed through

  D'harhan's embedded circuitry. The indicator lights

  pulsed and flared even brighter than before; Zuckuss

  could hear someone, probably Bossk, diving to the gridded

  floor of the holding area, as though there were any

  chance of hiding from the firepower that would rip the

  Slave I apart.

  With all muscles involuntarily tensed, crouching

  against the bulkhead, Zuckuss awaited the harsh,

  deafening noise that he knew would be the last thing he

  would ever hear.

  Instead, there was silence, ended by a sighing

  emission of steam, as though from a dying machine, the

  source of its energy shut off by a single valve.

  He looked up, bringing his eyes away from his own

  lowered forearm. The red lights that had burned through

  the steam mist were gone now; as Zuckuss watched, the

  inert metal of the laser cannon shifted angle, its dark

  barrel slowly inching down from its ceiling-high

  trajectory. The blank voice box swung on a cord from

  D'harhan's waist as his black-gloved hands tr
embled open,

  palms outward. His knees buckled, diminishing the massive

  form that had reared up inside the ship's holding area,

  turning him into something weaker and more human than ma

  chine. D'harhan collapsed onto the floor, rolling heavily

  onto one broad shoulder, the muzzle of the laser cannon

  scraping an arc across the floor, ending at the tip of

  Boba Fett's boot.

  Zuckuss's gaze broke from the silenced weapon and

  turned toward the other bounty hunter. Boba Fett hadn't

  moved from where he had been standing, as though the fall

  of the laser cannon was an ocean tide that he knew would

  break harmlessly upon the shore, millimeters away from

  him. In Fett's hand, the one that had reached into the

  intricate lock and coil of D'harhan's chest, was a dull

  metal rod, less than half a meter long, thick enough to

  fill the grip fastened upon it. When Fett dropped it with

  a leaden clang, the residual heat from the weapon's

  reactor core brought a final sizzling puff of steam from

  the water vapor that had collected on the grid's surface.

  The barrel of the laser cannon lifted, moving with

  crippled d ifficulty. D'harhan's tracking systems focused

  upon Boba Fett standing above him; one hand grasped the

  voice box and slowly thumbed in a few words.

  you owe me. D'harhan raised the silent communication

  device. big time.

  Boba Fett said nothing, but turned away and strode

  toward the ladder leading to the cockpit. He halted with

  one boot on the bottom rung and looked over at the others

  watching him. "They're already waiting for us," he said

  quietly. "Down on Circum-tore."

  Then he was gone. Zuckuss looked over at Bossk, just

  now getting to his feet in the doorless holding cage.

  "We're lucky," said Zuckuss, "to be alive."

  Bossk glanced up, toward the empty hatchway of the

  cockpit, then back down. The thin smile he gave Zuckuss

  contained at least a small particle of admiration.

  "I suppose we'll find out"-Bossk slowly nodded, his

  gaze narrowing-"just how lucky we are. . . ."

  16

  "What exactly is the history between you and the

  Shell Hutts?" Zuckuss wasn't asking just to pass the

  time. Sitting at last on the surface of Circumtore,

  surrounded by the durasteel-plated Hutts and, even worse,

  their various guards and mercenaries, he felt no less

  endangered than before. It just keeps getting worse,

  Zuckuss mused gloomily to himself. Pretty soon he'd be

  wishing that everyone on this intrepid little team had

  gotten blown to spiraling, whistling atoms. "I mean . . .

  the way that the negotiator talked . . ."

  Boba Fett stood with his arms crossed, watching the

  Shell Hutts' customs inspectors poking through the

  interior of the Slave I. They weren't looking for

  contraband-which was something that the Shell Hutts, like

  all the members of the species, had no aversion to, as

  long as they got their piece of the action-but were

  combing the ship and its passengers for undeclared

  weaponry. Without his usual panoply of rocket launchers

  and other means of destruction, Fett looked even more

  dangerous, oddly enough; as though his simmering anger

  were some newly aroused lethal force, provoked by the

  intrusion on his personal domain.

  "Hutts say all sorts of things." Boba Fett didn't

  turn toward Zuckuss as he spoke. "There's a lot of it you

  can safely ignore. A lot of creatures in the galaxy

  believe that all the Huttese are efficient businessmen,

  with nothing but credits on their minds, but they're not.

  They spend too much time brooding about the past, keeping

  old scores. Bearing grudges. That kind of emotion always

  gets in the way of true rationality."

  Nobody would ever make that kind of assessment,

  Zuckuss figured, of Boba Fett. The more time he spent

  anywhere near Fett, the more he was impressed-and

  appalled by the cold calculations taking place inside

  that visored helmet. Even over something like the team

  disarming itself for its landing on the Shell Hutts'

  world; if Boba Fett was willing to go along with that, it

  must mean his intricately worked-out plans included this

  factor, accounted for it in some way. We might make it

  back out of here alive, thought Zuckuss. Or at least some

  of us might. The plans that he had let himself become

  part of- Cradossk's plans-called for one death out here,

  if not more.

  "It seemed kind of specific, though. What Gheeta

  said." Zuckuss tried again. "When he was talking about

  what happened before. Is there some kind of old score to

  settle between you and the Shell Hutts?"

  The customs inspectors-multilegged droids, bristling

  with inspection probes and energy-level meters-continued

  their inspection of the Slave I. Their black, spidery

  forms could be seen through the ship's open hatches and

  up inside the transparent shielding of the cockpit. One

  of the inspectors lay crumpled in pieces, a few lights

  still forlornly blinking, on the thrust-scarred landing

  dock. That one had been a little too brusque in frisking

  the Trandoshan Bossk for any concealed weapons, and had

  paid the price in quick, bolt-snapping disassembly.

  "Nothing you have to worry about," said Boba Fett.

  "It's a personal thing. Actually, between me and Gheeta.

  There was a time when he wasn't a mere negotiator, being

  sent out on those kinds of errands to ships seeking

  permission to land. He was very high up in the Shell Hutt

  hierarchy. That was why he was in charge of the design

  and construction of the on-planet terminal and diplomatic

  reception site- basically, everything you see around you

  here." Fett gestured with one raised hand; past the

  landing dock's archways could be seen a complex of inter

  linked spires and domes. "His budget allowed for a nearly

  unlimited expenditure of capital, including the hiring of

  one of the top freelance architects in the galaxy. A man

  named Emd Grahvess-"

  "I've heard of him." Zuckuss actually had, though he

  couldn't remember from just where.

  "There may be better ones, but if there are, they'd

  be working for Emperor Palpatine, or someone like Prince

  Xizor. Exclusively. So Grahvess was the top of the line

  for the Shell Hutts, and Gheeta knew it; that's why he

  hired him. The only problem was that Gheeta had other

  plans for Grahvess, once the project was completed;

  unfortunately for Gheeta, Grahvess was no fool. He knew

  how dangerous it can be, working for any kind of Hutt.

  They don't like paying up, and they like having things

  that no one else can have. If they can't buy exclusivity,

  they have . . . other ways of achieving it. And that's

  what Grahvess found out that when this job was done, he

  wouldn't be taking on any others." Fett glanced over at

  Zuckuss. "Ever."

  "That's kind of cold," said Zuckuss
. "Having somebody

  killed, right after he's done some great job for you."

  "Get used to it. It happens to bounty hunters as

  well-if they're not careful." Boba Fett gave a slow nod.

  "This galaxy is full of treachery. There's no one you can

  really trust. . . ."

  Words to live by, thought Zuckuss. Or die. "So what

  happened to this architect, this Grahvess person? Did

  Gheeta manage to have him killed or not?"

  "Not." Satisfaction was audible in that single word

  from Boba Fett. "Because Grahvess was just a little bit

  smarter than Gheeta. Smart enough to contact me and

  propose a mutually satisfactory business arrangement."

  "Like what?"

  "You don't need to know all the details." Boba Fett

  continued to watch the customs inspectors stalking around

  inside the Slave I. "At least not yet. Let's just say

  that Grahvess and I had everything worked out well before

  his work here on Circumtore was completed. So that Gheeta

  and his hench creatures never had a shot at him.

  Essentially, Grahvess put out a bounty on himself. A

  nice, fat one, which I was only too happy to collect by

  making a quick raid here and snatching him away, right

  out from Gheeta's hands. That's the main reason why the

  Shell Hutts' security procedures are so tight now; they

  don't want a repeat of that kind of action. Makes them

  look foolish. Hutts can't stand that."

  "Pretty clever." Zuckuss nodded in appreciation. "The

  only one that winds up screwed is this Gheeta. The

  architect gets to keep his life, and you get the credits.

  Smart."

  "I got more than that out of it."

  Zuckuss studied the other bounty hunter in puz

  zlement. "What more would you want out of it than

  credits?" He couldn't imagine any other incentive for

  someone like Fett.

  "An investment. So to speak." Boba Fett watched the

  Shell Hutts' customs-inspection droids emerging from the

  ship. "That pays off later. In a big way."

  There wasn't time for Zuckuss to ask what that meant.

  The inspectors spider-legged their way toward the waiting

  bounty hunters. A couple of the droids lagged behind and

  began picking up the scattered wreckage of their forcibly

  disassembled companion, the broken circuits of its main

  sensory input/ output box still buzzing and moaning.

  "Thank you for your cooperation." The lead inspector

  droid halted in front of Boba Fett. "Our examination of