Tales of the Bounty Hunters

by Kevin Anderson

  In a moment, Jabba sent the Quarren to pack, and Tessek scurried away through an exit in the far wall.

  Dengar ducked back into the hall, into the safe shadows. Had Jabba found the bomb? Obviously Jabba suspected something.…

  But the Hutt hadn’t killed Tessek, and he hadn’t sent guards after Dengar. So Jabba couldn’t have had proof of the treason. Which suggested that the Hutt had merely heard rumors of their plans. Or perhaps Jabba had some other reason to threaten Tessek.

  Still, Dengar didn’t want to be around here right at the moment. If Jabba found that bomb, heads would roll. Dengar didn’t want his head to be one of them.

  There was still time to escape. It might well be that Jabba wouldn’t discover the bomb at all, and if that were the case, he might be on or near the skiff when it exploded. The plot might still succeed. In any case, whether it succeeded or failed, it would do so without further effort from Dengar.

  But if Jabba did find the bomb too soon.…

  Dengar decided it might be a good time to go into Mos Eisley for the day. If his plan worked, Jabba would die. If it didn’t—Dengar might still escape.

  Dengar returned to his cramped quarters and began throwing his clothes and weapons into a bag. Among his effects he found the Attanni. He could not contact Manaroo with it—but Dengar could receive images, sounds, emotions.

  And as he looked at the device, he recalled the hunger Manaroo had felt for his presence, her fears for her life. Sometimes he wondered how she could feel anything for him. In his own eyes he was broken, undeserving of her attention. Yet she’d stayed beside him even after he’d rescued her parents. He felt there was nothing left that he could give her, except perhaps a false sense of safety.

  And by running out now, he would be denying her even that.

  He unwrapped his neck, screwed the Attanni into the socket there.

  And what he saw surprised him. Manaroo was dressing for a performance, putting on leggings of some sheer material in softest violet, a top that revealed her ample breasts. She sorted through a bin of musical instruments—tambours, bells, cymbals—looking for something exotic, and decided to take a golden flute. To play it while dancing would be difficult, and to play it poorly would be to tempt fate. But Manaroo would be dancing for her life, and she needed to impress the Hutt.

  She’d been commanded to dance before Jabba, and everyone in the room knew that he was in a foul mood because the rancor was dead. The other dancers sat huddled in a far corner and shot Manaroo pitying glances.

  What amazed Dengar was her mood. She was almost numb with fear and had no recourse but to put her confidence in her abilities. These feelings lay heavily in the background of her mind.

  And in the foreground, Manaroo was concentrating, trying to firm her resolve by playing mental games. Just as Dengar would psyche himself up for an assassination by imagining that he was killing Han Solo, Manaroo was playing similar games in her own mind.

  She envisioned Jabba’s throne room, but instead of Jabba on the throne, she imagined Dengar there. He was watching her steadily, calling out “Dance, dance for your life!” as if it were some great jest.

  And in her dreams, Manaroo danced lovingly, with her heart. She imagined each move, practiced over the years, and each spin and flourish was dedicated to Dengar. Each of them had been conceived and prepared for the man she loved, the man she hoped someday to meld minds with, so that they became one. And in her imaginings, as she danced gracefully before Dengar, she whispered, “If I please you so much, my lord, my love, then why don’t you please me in return? Why don’t you marry me?”

  Dengar pulled off the Attanni in astonishment, and knew that he could not leave now. The powerful feelings that washed through him when he was connected acted as a moral compass, telling him what to do. And like Han Solo, who sometimes seemed to suffer from a death wish, Dengar knew that he would have to turn his face to the storm.

  He had to save her, but how?

  Dengar was amazed that she would be preparing for a performance now, while the palace was in such disarray, and realized immediately that he would have to plan a diversion. To blindly go into the throne room and try to kill the Hutt would be insane, but over the past few days, there had been two murders in the palace.

  Both incidents had been fully investigated and caused a great deal of commotion for several hours. A few hours was all the time that Manaroo needed. A random assassination seemed in order. Among the henchmen in Jabba’s stable, there was no lack of deserving victims.

  The problem was solved rather easily. Dengar simply went up to a guard room and tossed in a grenade. In the general cacaphony of the palace, few people even noticed the event, but the ensuing investigation took up a better part of the evening, and the Hutt’s mood brightened considerably after he saw the carnage that Dengar’s grenade had made out of some poor Gamorrean guard.

  So it came as a great shock when Jabba finally looked up from the messy guard and a cold gleam came to his eyes. “I’m hungry,” grumbled. “Bring me food, and rouse my dancing girl! Have everyone gather in the great hall! Tonight we party, and I will have no more interruptions!”

  • • •

  The nights were short on Tatooine, and few slept through them, for it was a time to retreat from the blistering heat of the day.

  So it was that late that evening, Dengar sat in the throne room, waiting for Manaroo’s dance. He had his Attanni in, and he listened for Manaroo’s thoughts. Her own mind was numb at the thought of the coming dance, and she was preparing hastily, trying to calm her breath, relax.

  In the great hall the musicians had begun to gather, and servants brought heaping platters of food. The Hutt grabbed a few squirming things from one huge box and shoved them in his mouth, then bellowed for his dancing girl.

  It was then that Dengar saw his mistake. The Hutt was feeling bloodthirsty tonight, and the sight of the dead Gamorrean guard, rather than distracting him, had only enticed him further. Han Solo and the others would die, but Jabba was not a patient creature. He would not wait for blood. So he called for Manaroo.

  Dengar loosened his heavy blaster in its holster, wondered what to do. Killing Jabba would be hard. Hutts had notoriously thick hides, and it could take several shots from his blaster. Dengar wasn’t sure he’d get those shots. The room was crowded with hundreds of Jabba’s henchmen and servants, all gathered for one last mad feast, for many worried that at dawn they would be battling the Rebel Alliance. So the musicians played with a manic edge to their tune, and the henchmen feasted as if this brief meal would be their last.

  As Dengar waited for Manaroo to make her appearance, Boba Fett approached his table, swaggering, carrying a long green jug of Twi’lek liquor.

  “Join me for a drink?” Boba Fett asked. Boba Fett was normally a very self-contained individual. He never sought out another person’s company, and at first Dengar was confused by the request. But nearly all the other tables were full, and so the request did not seem out of line.

  “Sure, have a seat,” Dengar said, kicking a chair back from the table.

  Boba Fett sat, put his jug down, motioned for a serving boy to bring some glasses.

  “I’ve been watching you,” Boba Fett said, the microphones in his helmet making his voice sound unnaturally loud and gravelly as he spoke to be heard above the noise of celebration. “You’re not like the others here,” he waved at the henchmen gorging themselves at the other tables, “given to excess. I like that in a man. You seem cool, competent, professional.”

  “Thank you,” Dengar said, unsure where this might be leading.

  “Tomorrow morning, Han Solo dies,” Boba Fett said.

  “I know it’s scheduled, but I’m not certain Jabba can pull it off,” Dengar said, unwilling to admit that in all likelihood, Han Solo, his nemesis, would die an ignoble death at dawn. It seemed too easy a way for him to go. At a nearby table, two of Jabba’s henchmen began singing a raucous drinking song.

  “I’m leaving af
ter the execution,” Boba Fett said more loudly. “I’ve got a job—a big job. More than one man can handle. But the rewards are extravagant. Interested?”

  “Why should I trust you?” Dengar asked absently. Through his Attanni, he could see that Manaroo was being released from her cell. A Gamorrean guard was shoving her through a dark narrow passageway that would lead her to Jabba’s throne. “You bombed my ship. You’ve already betrayed me once.”

  Boba Fett sat back a bit in his chair, as if he were surprised at the accusation. “That was when we were in business as competitors. This time, we would be in business as partners. Besides, I did leave you alive.”

  “It was indeed a kindness. Which is why I haven’t tried to kill you in return,” Dengar said.

  Boba Fett chuckled, a very disturbing sound simply because it was something Dengar had never heard before. Boba Fett leaned his head back, and the palace lights shined on his visor like stars. “You and I are a lot alike. What do you say? Partners?”

  Dengar studied Boba Fett. He was a careful man, a dangerous man who was deserving of his reputation. And Dengar was low on funds. He nodded slightly. “Partners, I suspect. Tell me more about the deal.” Dengar leaned forward as if interested in speaking with Boba Fett, but he was really watching down toward the lighted area before Jabba’s throne.

  Manaroo had just come out from behind a curtain, and now she stood blinking, trying to let her eyes adjust to the brightness of the stage after days in the dungeon. Her heart hammered with fear as the musicians began to strike another tune, and she went to their leader, begged him to wait a moment.

  “Agreed,” Boba Fett said. “Let’s wet our tongues as we discuss our plans. I’ve a vintage here that I think will surprise you. It should have warmed enough by now.” He opened the green container and poured the liquor into two glasses. For a moment, Dengar dared hope that he would finally get to see what lay hidden behind Boba Fett’s visor, but the warrior simply pulled a long feeding straw out from beneath the visor and stuck it into the glass, then began sipping.

  At the sight of that, Dengar began to wonder if all the rumors about Boba Fett’s paranoia might not be true. If so, then in the past his sickness had served him well. People paid Boba Fett to be paranoid. Working with him would be interesting.

  Only when Dengar saw that Boba Fett had safely drunk the liquor, did he also take a drink. It was a dry drink, with a piquant bouquet and a slightly sweet nose. Dengar found it quite appealing.

  Down by the throne, the musicians struck up a dancing tune. Dengar found that his hands were shaking as he shared Manaroo’s fear, and he knew he needed to steady his nerves in case he had to open fire on Jabba. He swallowed half a glass.

  “Watch out there,” Boba Fett said, “not so fast. This is more potent than you imagine.”

  Dengar nodded absently. Down on the dance floor, Manaroo swirled across the room, playing a golden flute as she leapt, and Jabba leaned forward and studied her hungrily, as if she were one of the squirming insects on his food tray. The Hutt opened his mouth, just barely, and licked his lips with his horrible tongue.

  Dengar leaned closer, his heart pounding. On the dance floor, Manaroo was swirling, playing her pipe in deliberate frenzy, and Dengar felt the room begin to spin around him. He put both hands on the table to keep from toppling forward, and found that his eyelids felt enormously heavy. He strained to keep his eyes open, and each time they closed, he saw the room as Manaroo did, spinning around, the leering faces studying her.

  “Are you all right?” Boba Fett asked, his voice sounding distant and tinny.

  “Got … to get Manaroo out,” Dengar muttered, and he tried to stand. His legs felt as if they were tied to the chair, and he wondered how he could feel so weak. “Liquor … poison …?” He reached for his blaster. His eyelids closed by themselves, and he saw the room spinning, heard the pipe shrilling unnaturally as Manaroo played.

  When he opened his eyes, Boba Fett was there at his side, holding Dengar upright, helping him pull the blaster from his holster. Dengar’s hands felt too heavy, too big and uncoordinated for such a delicate task, and he was grateful for Boba Fett’s help getting the blaster free from its holster.

  “Not poison,” Boba Fett said, and Dengar had to concentrate to hear him above the noise of the great hall, the shrilling of the pipe. “Just drugged—on the rim of your glass. Jabba has something special in mind for you. You are to feel the Teeth of Tatooine.” Dengar lurched up, knocking his own table over. Around the throne room, the music stopped, and everyone turned to watch him. Jabba himself laughed merrily, his eyes gleaming as Dengar struggled forward, hoping to strike one blow at the monster.

  Someone stuck a foot out to trip Dengar, and he landed on the floor, rolled to his back. There was a shout and applause, and one of Jabba’s henchmen raised a glass in salute to Dengar, and people cheered. The annoying little rodent-like Salacious Crumb had climbed up on the lip of the overturned table and was laughing uproariously at Dengar.

  “Payback!” Manaroo shouted from the dance floor. Dengar was sure that he heard her cry so loud only because he wore the Attanni.

  He saw through her eyes as she tried to rush to him through the crowd, but one of Jabba’s Gamorrean guards grabbed her arms and shoved her back down to the dance floor with a growl. Manaroo’s heart hammered in panic.

  Then Dengar’s eyes closed of their own accord, and everything went black.

  Four: The Teeth of Tatooine

  Dengar woke under Tatooine’s blistering suns just past dawn. The ground was heating. Dengar could feel that some small desert creature with a hard shell had crawled under his body, seeking refuge from the coming day there among the shadows and the rocks.

  Dengar opened his eyes, looked around, still dazed. He was in a wide canyon, lying on the desert pan, a sterile plain of greenish-white rock, eroded—perhaps even polished—by the wind. Each of his hands and feet was bound by three cords, all pulled tight and bolted into the rock, so that he could not move. The leathery cords were slightly moist, designed to shrink in the heat of the sun, pulling him tighter.

  There was no sign of a craft nearby, no guards or even a droid to record Dengar’s death. There was no singing of insects or call of wild animals, only the steady soughing of the wind over rock.

  Dengar licked his lips. It seemed that Jabba intended to let him die of dehydration, a death that was neither particularly appealing nor particularly unpleasant—as far as deaths go. Painful, but not extraordinary.

  Dengar wondered at that. He recalled Boba Fett’s pronouncement—the Teeth of Tatooine. But what were a planet’s teeth? Its mountain peaks? That would seem logical, but Dengar was far from the mountains.

  So it had to be an animal. There were tales of dragons in the desert, creatures large and vicious. Dengar watched the horizon, both on land and air, for sign of such beasts, and he slowly tested his bonds. Dengar was stronger than most people gave him credit for. But the straps that held him were more than adequate. He inhaled deeply, tasting mineral salts in the air, and began working vigorously to free himself.

  Dengar closed his eyes after thoroughly testing each bond, and considered. It was just past dawn, and if Jabba had kept his promise, then Han Solo and his companions were already gone, dying interminably as they were ingested by the mighty Sarlacc at the Pit of Carkoon. Dengar felt hollow at the thought. The Empire had cut away most of Dengar’s feelings. They’d left him with few companions—his rage, his hope, his loneliness.

  At the thought of Han dying, Dengar felt somehow cast adrift, more alone than ever in the great void. For ages now, catching Han had been his only goal, his only purpose for being. Without Han, there seemed to be no reason left to exist. Except Manaroo. And he was no longer sure that she was alive. He remembered her terror, in that last moment before he’d lost consciousness. She had been sure that Jabba intended to kill her.

  Dengar mourned her. In the moments when he had touched Manaroo’s mind, Dengar had almost known what
it was to be human again. He’d almost known what it was to be whole. Someday, he imagined, that with her help, he might have learned to love and laugh again.

  But if she was not dead already, she was languishing in one of Jabba’s cells, doomed to an early death.

  Dengar began working harder.

  In moments he had built up a fine sweat, and he managed to rub the skin off his left wrist so that blood began to flow from it. Still, the ropes had not begun to weaken.

  Dengar stopped worrying the wrist, began working on his left foot. The ropes there were tied over his armored boots, providing some protection for his legs. The Imperial surgeons had boosted Dengar’s reflexes, given him greater strength. But he couldn’t pull his leg back to kick much, and even after an hour he had not succeeded in breaking a rope or pulling a single line free from the bolt that held it into the rock.

  Indeed, all his work only succeeded in chafing his wrists, so that the blood came more profusely.

  A strong morning wind began gusting, blowing sand through the broad plain. Dust clouds formed in the distance down below Dengar’s feet—dirty gray streaks that filled the sky like thunderheads or fog. They were kilometers away, but he could see them rolling toward him, menacing.

  He closed his eyes for a bit, trying to keep the grit from blowing into them, and he remembered one of Jabba’s henchmen mentioning a place not far from the palace, a place called the Valley of the Wind.

  He had no doubt that that was where he was now. A comforting thought, for at least he knew he was near Jabba’s Palace, perhaps within walking distance of water, if he could only get free.

  Out across the pan, Dengar heard a bleating roar. He turned to his side and saw a shaggy bantha running hard, heading toward him. Three Sand People rode on its back, up behind its curling horns, and in moments the Sand People were at his side.

  Two of them leapt down and stalked toward him, weapons ready, while the other stayed on the bantha, watching for signs of ambush.

  Dengar had heard tales of the Sand People, how they fell upon travelers and killed them, only to harvest the water from their dead bodies. Indeed, the two that hovered over Dengar were making odd slurping sounds, hissing in their own tongue, and Dengar was reminded of darker tales, where it was hinted that the Sand People, to show their contempt for captives, would bind their prisoners and insert long metallic tubes into their bodies, then drink from their prisoners while they yet lived.