by K. W. Jeter
Hutts, our cousin Jabba for instance, say if he heard
that we had not provided for others' famished appetites?"
"We're not hungry," said Boba Fett. "Not for anything
that you're likely to serve."
"Ah-I think otherwise, my dear Fett. This meal is one
that I've been preparing for a long time; a very long
time. Since the last time you were here on Circumtore,
and things went less than graciously... for some of us."
"More complaints." The immense Shell Hutt- his name,
Fett remembered, was Nullada-rolled his yellow eyes
beneath his brow's folded and sagging pouches. "Nothing
but complaints," he rumbled ole-aginously. "You've been
obsessed for too long a time, Gheeta. Perhaps you should
be relieved of even those duties that you've retained
this far so that you could take a long rest to clear your
mind."
A flash of anger showed in Gheeta's face, like a
lightning stroke in storm-heavy clouds. The crablike
mechanical hands locked their claws together, as though
preventing themselves from slashing a set of parallel
bloodied furrows down the older and larger Shell Hutt's
face.
"I've had time enough." Gheeta's voice was a snarling
whine. "But let's not waste any more of it. Come along,
then." Even with just his own jowl-wrapped face
protruding from the collar of his floating cylinder, the
effort required to regain control was visible. The
cylinder turned slightly, angling toward the center of
the great reception hall, where more of the Shell Hutts'
encased forms jostled around a rectangular dais,
surrounded on all sides by low, concentric steps.
"Everything has been placed in readiness for you." The
claws unclasped, allowing one of them to make a sweeping
gesture toward the dais. "Shall we?"
Boba Fett didn't feel like making any further
conversation with their host. He led the way toward the
dais, letting the other members of the bounty-hunter team
fall in behind. There were enough reflective surfaces
scattered throughout the space, beams of polished
durasteel supporting the domed roof above, that he could
see Bossk and the droid IG-88 following his quick stride,
with the Trandoshan glaring with suspicion and enmity at
every one of the bobbing and floating Shell Hutts. Behind
that pair, the massive shape of D'harhan trod heavily,
the inert laser cannon still impressive in its glistening
darkness, like an emblem of latent destruction wrapped in
trails of hissing steam.
At Fett's elbow, Zuckuss trotted to keep up with him.
"I don't like the looks of this," panted the shorter
bounty hunter. "I don't like the looks of this one bit-"
He knew just what Zuckuss was talking about. Around
the sides of the great reception hall, from alcoves and
corridors branching off the central space, other figures
had appeared, ones that weren't Shell Hutts.
"Mercenaries," said Boba Fett quietly. In black,
insignialess uniforms, armed and watching; if he'd wanted
to, he could very likely have identified more than a few
of them from past encounters. There was always a loose
assemblage of thugs and venal murderers, varying in
number and quality, depending mainly upon who had been
killed recently and to a lesser degree upon who was
rotting away in the galaxy's various penal institutions,
shifting back and forth among the less civilized worlds,
finding employment as enforcers and private hit men. The
Shell Hutts' distant species relation, the notorious
Jabba on backwater Tatooine, usually paid the highest
wages and got the pick of the lot, the quickest with
their chosen weapons and the least encumbered by scruples
about what kind of jobs they took care of for their
employer. "What else," Fett asked Zuckuss, "did you
expect?"
"This many?" Still at Boba Fett's side, Zuckuss
quickly scanned the perimeter of the great reception
hall. "There must be a couple dozen of them. At least."
He took another count, looking past the raised dais in
the middle of the space. "Maybe fifty of 'em-"
"Gheeta told us that he'd been preparing for this for
a long time." Without turning his visored helmet, Boba
Fett had taken his own estimate of the forces arrayed
along the hall's perimeter. "He's obviously called in a
lot of favors." This much firepower didn't come cheap;
most of the mercenaries cradled late-model blaster rifles
against their chests; Gheeta must have provided the
weapons, as they were obviously more expensive than the
usual cheap and nasty-if lethally efficient-gear with
which mercenaries usually kitted themselves. These types
disgusted Fett; they took no real pride in their
equipment, the tools of their trade; if they did, they
wouldn't spend s o much of their ill-gotten pay on their
own bad habits. "He couldn't pay for all this himself,"
continued Boba Fett aloud. "Gheeta must've gone into
major hock with his other clan members."
"But what for?" Zuckuss's curved eyes reflected the
ominous black-clad figures. "We're unarmed-"
"I know how Gheeta's mind works. Let's just say he's
not given to taking chances. Or at least," said Fett,
"not after the last time I did business with him."
Bossk had overhead the comment. "I'm ready to do
business with him," the Trandoshan growled from behind
Boba Fett. "Right now." His clawed hand hung close to the
empty blaster holster at his side. Even without a weapon,
Bossk looked ready to take on whatever army the Shell
Hutts had assembled, as though he could pull each of the
mercenaries apart, limb from limb, with nothing but his
own brute strength. "Let's get it over with."
"It seems apparent," commented IG-88, "that your
desire in that regard is about to be fulfilled."
Pushed along by his riveted casing's repulsor beams,
the Shell Hutt Gheeta had floated ahead of the bounty
hunters. As they reached the bottom of the steps
surrounding the dais, Gheeta had already risen to the top
section, where the cylinder bobbed beside a rectangular
construction a little over two meters long and a quarter
of that dimension in width; its surface was draped with a
heavy cloth embroidered with golden thread, the corner
tassels loosely knotted and flowing down the steps. On
top of the cloth were towering arrangements of exotic,
off-planet florals, their brilliant petals thick and
heavy as flayed Tatooinian dewback hide; from their
stickily wet confluence exuded cloying, opiatelike
perfumes. Even through his helmet's filtration units,
Boba Pert could taste the acrid molecules collecting on
his tongue; they had no effect on the clarity of his own
thoughts, but he saw how some of the Shell Hutts gathered
closer to the dais, the pupils of their eyes narrowing as
their slit nostrils widened, deeply inhaling the laden
air. Their lipless mouths curved into all-encompassing
pleasure.
Behind him, Boba Fett heard Bossk snort in disgust.
He knew that the Trandoshan nervous system lacked any
receptor sites for the flowers' narcotic fragrance; any
scent less subtle than rotting meat was wasted on him.
"Lovely." Bossk sneered. "Looks like you've got the place
ready for a funeral."
"How perceptive of you!" Gheeta had perhaps inhaled
too deeply, though the scent appeared to have a stimulant
rather than a soporific effect on him. "Exactly so!" The
floating cylinder spun about, bringing the Shell Hutt's
face, luminous with toxic sweat, toward the bounty
hunters. Ramping up the strength of the repulsor beams,
Gheeta floated above the rank-smelling blossoms, the
thick petals quivering with the unseen force. "How often,
though, that we fail to understand-" The crablike
mechanical hands reached down and scooped through the
floral mass, gathering the bright colors and pulpy
tissues to the underside of the cylinder. For a moment
the crushed blossoms obscured the lower half of Gheeta's
face; then his ecstatic expression was revealed again as
the gleaming metal appendages flung themselves wide,
scattering the flowers across the steps of the dais. "We
fail to appreciate what a joyous occasion a funeral can
be!"
The overripe stench of the flowers filled the inside
of Boba Fett's helmet as the petals, bruised and crushed
by Gheeta's mechanical arms, fell across the toes of his
boots. He looked down at them for a moment, then kicked
the flowers away; the heaviest of them left wet, bleeding
trails across the inlaid floor of the great reception
hall.
"I don't have much of a feeling for funerals," said
Fett evenly. He looked up across the dais steps toward
Gheeta. "One way or the other."
"Oh, but you should! You will!" Gheeta's manner
became even more frenetic and excited. The cylinder
vibrated as it hovered in place, as though the fever of
the creature inside had somehow been transmitted to the
enclosing metal. Some of the other Shell Hutts edged away
from the central dais, as though fearful of an explosion;
Gheeta's agitation had even pierced the stupor of those
who had fallen furthest beneath the blooms' heavy
fragrance. "I guarantee it!"
"Watch out," said Zuckuss in a low voice. From the
corner of his sight, behind the dark visor of his helmet,
Boba Fett saw Zuckuss's warning nod toward the edges of
the space. But Fett was already conscious of what was
happening there Some of the black-uniformed mercenaries
had stepped forward from the alcoves and adjoining
corridors where they had first appeared. There were other
motions, of weapons being raised, the shoulder straps of
the blaster rifles slackening as the barrels were swung
up into firing position, the rifle butts braced against
the mercenaries' hips. He could see Bossk and IG-88
turning their heads, scanning the details of the trap
closing tighter around them. Zuckuss's voice sounded
tight with apprehension "I think they're going to make
their move. . . ."
Fett knew that nothing was going to happen, at least
not for another few seconds; the cylindrical shapes of
the Shell Hutts were still bobbing and floating around,
too close to the dais and the team of off-planet bounty
hunters. Even as trigger-happy as this bunch of thugs was
likely to be, they would still know better than to start
shooting while their employers were in the line of fire.
And besides, there was one more thing that he was
absolutely sure of. Gheeta's little show wasn't over yet.
. . .
"You wanted to talk business?" The Shell Hutt's voice
had spiraled up into a screech, loud enough to flutter
the wattles at his pallid throat. "Fine! Let us do just
that! But as you said, there's no point unless the
merchandise in question is there on the table, right in
front of us!"
"Gheeta . . ." The elder Nullada grabbed hold of the
collar of Gheeta's cylinder with a metal-clawed hand.
"Don't make more of a fool of yourself than you already
have-"
"Silence!" One of Gheeta's crablike hands furiously
knocked away the larger Shell Hutt's grasp. "You'll see
as well! All of you!" The faces of the other Shell Hutts,
protruding from the collars of the floating cylinders,
turned toward Gheeta, some with expressions of muddled
astonishment, others cruelly relishing the spectacle that
was being played out before them. "You were all pleased
enough when this scoundrel"-the claw point of one of
Gheeta's hands shot out, gesturing toward Boba Fett-"when
this thief stole from me that which was to be my crowning
glory!" Both of the crablike mechanical hands flung
upward, indicating the great reception hall's vaulted
roof and all that it contained. Gheeta's maddened gaze
crossed over Nullada and the other Shell Hutts. "Don't
think I didn't hear your sniggering jeers and laughter!
You were happy to see me fallen and disgraced, weren't
you?"
Boba Fett discerned now that Gheeta's escalating
shrillness was due to more than the intoxicants released
by the mounds of flowers and their viscous, oozing
centers. Enough of Gheeta's thick neck had protruded from
his floating cylinder that a thin tube could be seen,
almost buried in the folds of his gray skin; the tube
ended in a surgically implanted IV tap, a needle plunged
and sealed into Gheeta's bloodstream. The tube's other
end was concealed inside the cylinder; Fett could surmise
that it was hooked up to a time-metered dispensary
module, leaking some rage-provoking stimulant through the
Shell Hutt's central nervous system. Just as Boba Fett
had already suspected, the sight of the pharmaceutical
tube confirmed that Gheeta had prepared for this
confrontation by chemically stripping out any sense of
caution that might still have been lingering inside his
brain. Suicidally so; with his having gone this far out
of control, there would be no way that the other Shell
Hutts would let him continue living and operating in
their midst. There was a line beyond which honor and the
desire for vengeance interfered with business, and Gheeta
was now obviously well past it.
The others were getting there as well; a sense of
panic tinged the air inside the great reception hall as
the Shell Hutts' floating cylinders collided with each
other, reversing away from the central dais, then turning
and perceiving the armed and ready mercenaries stationed
around the perimeter. Some of the Hutts were obviously
fuddled enough by the heavy opiatelike scent of the
scattered florals to have lost all reasoning ability.
That was the main reason that Boba Fett had programmed
&
nbsp; the air filters in his helmet to catch and expunge those
intoxicating molecules; more than that, he had paid hefty
amounts to the galaxy's finest black-market microsurgeons
to have the corresponding receptor sites stripped away
from the branching ends of his own nervous system.
Whatever stimulation to the pleasure centers of his brain
that might have been lost thereby was more than
compensated for by the control he retained in situations
like this; in his business, he couldn't afford the
simpleminded hysteria to which the Shell Hutts were
already succumbing. From the corners of his vision, as he
continued focusing on Gheeta at the top of the dais, he
could discern the repulsor-borne cylinders slamming
harder into each ot her, the riveted durasteel plates
clanging like an atonal percussion section; the crablike
mechanical hands tangled with each other and clawed at
the wide-eyed, panting faces of the Shell Hutts as they
twisted and spun about, rebounding in fear from the
exits, blocked by the blaster-toting mercenaries.
Gheeta was caught up in a spiraling feedback loop,
his own overexcited state mounting as it absorbed the
frightened, lunatic pulse from the other Shell Hutts.
"And you were laughing, too! I know you were!" One of the
mechanical hands slung beneath his floating cylinder
suddenly jabbed toward Boba Fett, the metal shimmering
with the fury of his accusation. "All the way back to
whatever hole that scummy architect paid you to hide him
in-" Gheeta's lipless mouth had stretched into a frenzied
grimace, far enough that a trickle of blood seeped into
the milky salivation leaking from its corners. "That was
a good joke, Fett! But the best jokes always come with a
price attached to them, don't they?"
"Ancient history," said Boba Fett. He could almost
feel sorry for the Shell Hutt, locked inside an account
that he could never settle to his profit. Almost, but not
quite; sympathy was something else that he'd stripped
from his nervous system, using the scalpel of his own
transforming will. "We came here to talk about other
merchandise. We're here for Oph Nar Dinnid."
"Ah, yes!" Gheeta's eyes grew wider and more maniacal
as the IV tube pulsed like an artificial vein at the
wattles of his neck. "And the merchandise should always
be on the table, shouldn't it, before we can start
dealing-that's how you want things, isn't it? Then by all
