The Mandalorian Armor (star wars)

by K. W. Jeter

  "I'm talking about the same thing you were talking about, just now." With his other hand, Bossk pointed a clawed thumb back toward the unlit depths of the bone chamber behind him. "I was in there the whole time the two of you have been blabbing away. And I heard everything you said. All that stuff about clearing out the undesirables from the Bounty Hunters Guild. And you know what?" Bossk tightened his hold, his fist at Cradossk's throat lifting the older Trandoshan up onto the claws of his toes. "I agree with you about all that. You're absolutely right The Guild is going to be a lot smaller. Real soon.'"

  "Don't... don't be an idiot...." Cradossk managed to summon up a reserve of courage. "You can't kill me ... and get away with it...." His claws dug deeper into Bossk's wrist, enough to let a trickle of blood seep down his son's forearm. "I've got…connections…friends …." His voice became weaker and more fragmented as the hold at this throat constricted tighter. "All the…council of elders..."

  "Those old fools?" Bossk sneered at his father. "I'm afraid you're a little behind the times; there have been things happening already that you just don't know about. Maybe if you didn't waste so many hours in here, mumbling and fondling your moldy reminders of past glories, these things wouldn't have sneaked up on you quite so fast." Still holding Cradossk upright, he turned and slammed the older reptilian against the table outside the bone chamber's entrance; the impact against his spine visibly dazed Cradossk. "Some of your old friends, your beloved elders, have already seen the light; they've come over to my side. In fact, some of them have been on my side for quite a while, just waiting for the right moment to-shall we say?-force your retirement. One way or another." The elaborate wording, so much different from Bossk's usual blunt speech, was a cruel way of toying with his father.

  "Of course, some of the elders weren't so smart; they per sisted in their folly. Right up to the end."

  "What…" Cradossk could barely squeeze any words out at all. "What do you mean…?"

  "Oh, come on. What do you think I mean?" Bossk looked disgusted. "Let's just say there are going to be some fresh acquisitions in my little trophy chamber. The skulls of some of your old friends will look very nice mounted on its walls-"

  "Watch out!" Zuckuss shouted a warning to Bossk. As Cradossk had fallen back against the table one of his hands had reached back and grasped an ornate ceremonial dagger; the gems embedded in its hilt flashed as he swung his arm around, the point of the blade aiming straight for Bossk's throat.

  There was no way for Bossk to avoid the blade; if he had leaned back, the movement would only have presented a wider target for the blade to slash across. Instead, he lowered his head, catching the razor-sharp edge with the corner of his brow. The impact of flesh and bone against metal was enough to knock the weapon out of his father's hand and send it spinning off into a far corner of the room.

  Ta king a hand from his father's throat, Bossk wiped away the blood seeping down through his face scales and into his eyes. "Now that," he said with eerie selfpossession, "didn't hurt at all." With a shake of his head, he sent blood spattering across Cradossk's face, as though sealing the bright ideogram of a death sentence there. "But I promise you-this will." From the doorway, Zuckuss could hear shouts and blaster fire coming from somewhere else in the Guild compound. That didn't surprise him; it had been pretty much what he'd been expecting since the Twi'lek majordomo had gone off to notify the others in the breakaway faction.

  He turned back toward Cradossk's private quarters and watched the rest of what happened in there. For as long as he could. Then he stepped out into the corridor, shaking his head.

  Bossk was certainly right about one thing, he had to admit. It did take a lot to kill a Trandoshan. The sound of the breakaway faction's weapons was heard even farther away.

  Not literally; the news was reported secondhand to Kud'ar Mub'at. "Ah," the assembler purred, "that is most excellent!" Identifier had relayed all the details to him as they had come in from the listener nodes embedded in the web's fibrous exterior. "Isn't it pleasant," Kud'ar Mub'at asked rhetorically, "when things go fust the way they're supposed to?" It wrapped several sets of its thin, chitinous legs around itself in a hug of selfsatisfaction. "All my planning and scheming, and everything just so. Excellent! Exceedingly excellent!" The assembler's multiple eyes looked around the close space of its throne room, watching how its own pleasure and excitement spread in concentric waves through all the nodes connected to the strands of his nervous system. Even the most developed and relatively independent of them, like Balancesheet, was visibly aglow, with its little claws and arachnoid legs skittering around the tangled walls as though it were the complete embodiment of the assembler's good mood.

  Perhaps even a little too excited; ostentatiously so, it seemed to Kud'ar Mub'at. Sometimes he detected a certain false note to Balancesheet's displays of enthusiasm. For a simple number-crunching node, Kud'ar Mub'at found himself thinking, that's a bit much. He made a mental note, one that was carefully shielded from the synaptic connections that would have let the subassembler nodes in on it, to reabsorb this balancesheet and begin growing a new one. Just as soon as this business with Boba Fett and the Bounty Hunters Guild was finished…It didn't seem like that would be much longer, from what the identifier node had just told Kud'ar Mub'at. Ignoring the jabbering of the nodes surrounding itself, the assembler adjusted its soft, globular abdomen into a more comfortable position in the self-generated nest; when it was done making adjustments, it contemplated the news with a calmer, more tranquil attitude. No sense getting agitated, it admonished itself, over something I knew was going to happen. Empires might rise and fall-they had before-and the galaxy might even collapse upon itself in one dark ball of relentless gravity. But until then, Kud'ar Mub'at, or some creature very much like it, would still be trading in the folly of other sentient creatures. That was its nature, just as it was the nature of those less wise to find themselves enmeshed in the traps spun for them ….

  "Sometimes," mused Kud'ar Mub'at aloud, "they don't even know until it's too late. And sometimes they never know."

  "Know what?" Balancesheet, a little calmer after its initial burst of enthusiasm, dangled itself close to the spiky mandibles of its parent's face. "What do you mean?" That kind of curiosity on a subassembler's part indicated the degree of independence that Kud'ar Mub'at had let develop in the node. There hadn't even been a mention of numbers, and still this tethered offspring wanted to know. A sharp paternal feeling twinged inside Kud'ar Mub'at; it would be a shame, however necessary, to pluck the node's legs one by one and crack its shell to extract the recyclable proteins and cellular matter inside.

  Kud'ar Mub'at reached out one thin black leg and stroked the ridges of Balancesheet's small head.

  "Creatures are dying," said Kud'ar Mub'at, "even as we speak." That had been the gist of the message transmitted through the web by the listener and identifier team of nodes. With the transport engines that had been salvaged decades ago and incorporated into the web's external structure, Kud'ar Mub'at had slowly brought its drifting home-and-body within communication range of the Bounty Hunters Guild. It had wanted to be close to where the action was happening, the pulling shut of the snare he had woven, with no delay in getting word sent out by an encrypted tight-beam signal from his contacts in the Guild compound. "Of course," it said, "there will be other deaths after these; that's all part of the plan." One snare led to another, a universe of entangling strands, as though the contents of Kud'ar Mub'at's web had been turned inside out and transmogrified into something big enough to loop whole planets into its grasp. It spoke matter-of-factly, without sympathy or remorse. "Even the ones who think they're on my side, who believe they are still free-they'll find out the truth soon enough. No one escapes forever."

  Balancesheet folded a couple of its own legs across its smaller abdomen. "Not even Boba Fett?" That question surprised Kud'ar Mub'at. Not that the answer wasn't known to it, but that the question had come from a source such as one of his subassembler nodes. Even f
rom a developed one such as Balancesheet; that indicated a level of strategic thinking that Kud'ar Mub'at hadn't expected.

  "Not even Boba Fett," answered Kud'ar Mub'at slowly. It kept a set of eyes on the accountant node, dangling from the intricately woven ceiling of the throne space. It watched for any expression in the narrow-angled face, so much like a miniature version of its own. "How could he? Escape, that is. For him to do so, he would have to be wiser than I am." Kud'ar Mub'at peered closer at Balancesheet. "Do you really believe that such a thing is possible?"

  The eyes studding Balancesheet's face were like sets of black pearls, darkly shining but revealing no depths beyond their surfaces. "Of course not," said the subassembler. A chorus of other nodes, bobbing or scurrying around the space like the embodiments of Kud'ar Mub'at's own thoughts, echoed the sentiment. "No one is even as wise as you are. Not even Emperor Palpatine."

  "True," said Kud'ar Mub'at. Though the assembler had to admit that Palpatine operated on a grander scale. But that's just megalomania, brooded Kud'ar Mub'at. For Palpatine to think that he could control the entire galaxy, to lay his cold hand upon the neck of every sentient creature on all the worlds…even those who didn't have necks, properly speaking…that was madness, sheer madness. And worse, in Kud'ar Mub'at's estimation it was folly. To become absorbed in the big picture, the sweep of history on a cosmic scale, and overlook the little details, was to risk the complete and utter ruination of one's plans. There were things going on underneath Emperor Palpatine's nose that he knew nothing of; not just the hidden errands of the Rebellion and its sympathizers, but connections between beings that were yet so faint that even it, the wise Kud'ar Mub'at, couldn't trace them out. Bits and pieces of rumors, stories of long-vanquished Jedi Knights, and its own wordless guesses were all that Kud'ar Mub'at had to go on. Something to do with the planet Tatooine, and a few humans who lived thereon, innocent and unaware of exactly how important they were. Or did they know? Perhaps one of them had a notion of these secrets, perhaps that old man living out in the endless wastes of the Dune Sea, that Kud'ar Mub'at had heard of. ...

  Gloom permeated the meditations of Kud'ar Mub'at as the assembler reminded himself of just how much still lay beyond the strands of his web. Just as well, it philosophically decided, that all those things are Palpatine's concerns and not mine. True wisdom rested in knowing one's limitations.

  "Exactly so," chimed in Balancesheet. It had picked up its parent's thought over the spun-silk neural network that both connected and housed them. "That shows how wise you are. Would Emperor Palpatine ever have thought of such a thing?"

  For a moment Kud'ar Mub'at was annoyed that the little subassembler node had listened in to these private musings-it thought that it had inhibited the appropriate neurons to prevent just such two-way data flow. Then its mood softened. "Now you're the one who's wise," said Kud'ar Mub'at affectionately. It reached over another black, spiky leg and let the accountant node scramble onto its end. "I'll very much regret that day when I'll have to-" Kud'ar Mub'at cut off its words just in time.

  "Have to what?" At the end of Kud'ar Mub'at's leg, the accountant node peered back at its progenitor.

  "Nothing. Don't worry about it." Kud'ar Mub'at was sure that the little node hadn't picked up on that particular thought, the one that had to do with its inevitable-and imminent-death. "Let me do th e deep thinking."

  "Of course," said Balancesheet. "I would not have it otherwise. The only reason I asked about Boba Fett…"

  "Yes?"

  "I only asked," continued the subassembler node, "because we would have to anticipate the cost of his services to us rising as one of the results of the Bounty Hunters Guild being catastrophically disbanded. Since there would be a considerable diminishment in the number and quality of the competition for such operations. That should be factored into our calculations, regarding any further negotiations involving this individual. Unless of course"-Balancesheet spoke archly-"we were to make other arrangements about Boba Fett's future. ..." That was a good point; Kud'ar Mub'at realized he should have thought of it himself. Though it was also one of the advantages of having a well-developed, semiindependent node like Balancesheet around. Whatever slipped by Kud'ar Mub'at's attention would be caught by the subassembler's.

  "Thank you," said Kud'ar Mub'at to the little creature still tethered to it. "I'll give it some thought."

  "Actually," said Balancesheet, "I have suggestions along those lines."

  Deep in the heart of the web Kud'ar Mub'at had spun for itself, floating in the cold vacuum between the stars, the assembler listened. Just as though it were listening to its own wise and precise calculations, whispered into its ear from something outside; something almost separate.

  From the docking port at the edge of the compound, Boba Fett could hear the shouting and the sound of blaster fire. None of it was aimed his way, so he went on working, recalibrating and tuning Slave I's weapons systems.

  There hadn't been time, after he and the rest of the team had lifted off and rendezvoused with the autonomic storage unit in orbit above Circumtore, to get everything fully functional once more. Not if he was going to get Bossk back to the Bounty Hunters Guild in time to lead the breakaway faction's uprising against the elders. As he bolted down a recoil brace on one of the ship's exterior laser cannons, Fett supposed that old Cradossk was akeady dead by now. That was the first thing that Bossk had sworn to take care of, once the Trandoshan had fully comprehended how his father had set him up for getting killed on the Oph Nar Dinnid job. A few encrypted transmissions from Slave I, as it had journeyed back toward the Guild compound, had also arranged for Cradossk's death to be the start of the coup action. More blaster fire sounded as Boba Fett's tools spotwelded the wiring harness's main trunk connections. Slave I's armaments were extensive and not designed for easy removal; some of them had circuitry that reached right down to the innermost bowels of the ship. Putting all of that back together was a long job, and one that had to be done exactly right; more than once, Fett's life had depended on these weapons as much as the ones slung across the back of his uniform and fastened to his wrists and shins. With his attention thus focused, there was little chance of his being distracted by the violent internal politics of the Bounty Hunters Guild. Besides, thought Boba Fett, I've already done my part. He touched a probe to the bare join, read off the voltage, then withdrew it and let the replicating insulation swarm a thin yellow sheath over the wire. Or at least most of it, he corrected himself. The ship repair would be completed soon enough, but he knew there was still more to be taken care of before the job of destroying the Bounty Hunters Guild was finished. One great rift, between the old leadership and the upstarts, wasn't enough. By his calculations, there would be an even split between the two groups once the binding agent of Cradossk had been removed. Some of the elders, who had always chafed under the old Trandoshan's leadership, would throw in their lot with the young, impatient bounty hunters; some of the latter, reluctant to accept Bossk's leading the breakaway faction, would side with whatever was left of the Guild's elder council. But on both sides, Boba Fett would have his ringers and stoolies, feeding him useful information and helping to drive even more wedges of suspicion and greed between one bounty hunter and the next. There were two factions now; soon there would be dozens. And then, thought Fett with a cold lack of emotion, it'll be every bounty hunter for himself. That was something he was looking forward to. He closed the access panel on the Slave I's curved, glistening hull and looked up the craft's length. The muzzle of the laser cannon, a newer and sleeker instrument of destruction than D'harhan had ever carried, could just be seen as it pointed toward the wash of stars overhead. D'harhan was dead, another piece of the past erased as though it had never happened at all; eventually all the past would be gone, consumed as if by the annihilating energy at the heart of the darkest stars. .

  . .

  And that was fine with him as well.

  Boba Fett moved over to another panel, close to the ship's anterior m
aneuvering jets. With the code function embedded in his glove's fingertip, he opened the panel and got to work, tracing and reconfiguring the intricate circuits.

  The blaster fire from the compound continued, like the electrical discharge of a distant storm.

  Someday, Fett supposed, the destruction of the Bounty Hunters Guild would be nothing but memory. But not his; he had no use for memory.

  All remembering was in vain ….

  18

  NOW

  She watched him at work. Or getting ready for work. His kind of work, though Neelah. That was what was indicated by the weapons, all the various mechanisms of reducing the galaxy's inhabitants to scattered pieces of bleeding or charred tissue. Boba Fett had returned from the land of the dead, from its gray portal in which he'd slept, and was ready to fill his hands again with death.

  "Which one's that?" Neelah pointed to the brutally efficient-looking object, all matte-black metal and embedded electronics, in Boba Fett's grasp. An empty lens at the rear of the weapon's metal glittered in a curve of crosshaired glass. "What does it do?"

  "Rocket launcher." Boba Fett didn't look up from his painstaking labors. With a tool as delicate as a humanoid hair, improvised from one of the medical droids' IV syringes, he scraped a dried mucuslike substance, a remnant of the weapon's time in the Sarlacc's gut, out of its intricate circuits. "And what it does, if you know how to work it, is kill a lot of creatures. At once. At a nice long distance away."

  "Thanks." She felt one corner of her mouth twisting in an expression that would have been ugly if there had been an audience for it. "But I could figure that much out. Don't think you have to patronize me. I was just trying to pass a little time with something like conversation. But I guess that's not within your range of skills."

  He made no answer. The motions of the wire-stiff tool and its sharpened point were reflected in the visor of his helmet as he continued working.