Before Zuckuss could answer, she saw 4-LOM stand-ing in the shadows, blaster drawn. "What are you do-ing, 4-LOM?" she asked. "What's wrong?"
How quickly humans give their trust. 4-LOM thought. She had come to them unarmed. He put down his blaster. "I am doing nothing, now," he said.
But there were many things wrong, many things he could not explain to her. All the choices he and Zuck-uss had made had brought them to this point. They had known there were risks in Hunting Governor Nardix, and now they had to accept the consequences of that Hunt.
But a set of subprocessors in 4-LOM's mind finished one set of calculations he had begun. He calculated a 72.668 percent chance that the New Republic would license bounty hunters to help enforce its laws and pro-tect its citizens from criminals. He calculated that he and Zuckuss had an astonishing 98.992 percent chance of founding the New Republic's first bounty hunting guild. It could be an opportunity worth pursuing. He would have to study it further.
"Zuckuss really is safe here," she told 4-LOM. "But if you are this concerned, I will come help guard him on my time off. I know you need to attend to your ship, and you can do that while I watch Zuckuss."
4-LOM attempted to calculate the best reply, but for a moment he could not. Her words made additional old programs activate in his mind, and it took him a moment to quiet them. It had been many Standard years since he had allowed himself to attribute a posi-tive meaning to another's actions, the way Toryn had understood his drawn blaster to mean that he was guarding Zuckuss.
"Thank you, Toryn," Zuckuss said. "But you can sit here with Zuckuss unarmed. Zuckuss would find it a pleasure to talk with you when you have time."
"Then we will talk," she said. "But I'm here now to extend an invitation to both of you. I'm a little embar-rassed to say this, but the letter I brought to General Rieekan was actually a letter commending my actions aboard the Bright Hope. The Rebel command is promot-ing me to the rank of commander tonight. I would like you both to attend the ceremony, since I would not be here without each of you."
Zuckuss tried to speak, but he started coughing. 4-LOM helped him lie back down. "I cannot go any-where tonight, Toryn," Zuckuss said. "But I congratu-late you."
"I asked General Rieekan to hold the ceremony here, so you could attend-if that is all right?" Toryn said. She had tried to explain to the general that she was not qualified for a promotion. She told him what she had done for Samoc. "But of course you helped Samoc," the general had said. "She is one of our best pilots. We cannot afford to lose her. I thank you for everything you did on her behalf."
Toryn wondered if the general were just being kind, yet her promotion demonstrated confidence in her and her judgment. So she had accepted the promotion and her new work.
Zuckuss looked at Toryn. "I will be honored to wit-ness the ceremony here," he said.
4-LOM looked at Toryn. "I also congratulate you. What will you command?"
"A unit of Special Forces," she said. "I want to talk to both of you about that later."
Samoc, Rory, Darklighter, Rivers, the medical droids Two-Onebee and Effour-Seven, and many other impor-tant supporters of the Rebellion attended the cere-mony. General Rieekan announced the promotion and Toryn's new assignment.
"She and I have discussed how best to rescue our friends who took the Bright Hope's escape pods back to Hoth," he said. "We are still working to come up with a viable plan, and Toryn has asked to lead the rescue mission, whatever it eventually entails."
Everyone applauded, but the ceremony was not over. General Rieekan walked forward. "For your resource-fulness and courage in the line of duty, Toryn Farr, the Rebellion is pleased to grant you this award of merit."
The general draped the medal around Toryn's neck and shook her hand. Amidst the applause that fol-lowed, a golden protocol droid popped open a botde in the back of the room and an R2 unit carried drinks to all the oxygen breathers. Ammonia breathers among the Rebels brought glasses and a fine bottle-from Gand itself-to Zuckuss. Perhaps one day, perhaps soon, other Gands would join the Rebel Alliance. The med droids analyzed a small sample of liquid from the bottle, conferred amongst themselves, and decided that if Zuckuss imbibed one congratulatory drink it would not hurt him. They let two ammonia breathers enter his chamber to present him with the drink. They took off their helmets, introduced themselves, and poured for Zuckuss. He held his drink for a moment and looked at 4-LOM.
He and 4-LOM had never been treated like this, not even by their own guild. The Empire certainly never invited them to witness its ceremonies. It had rushed to give them many things after they accepted the contract from Vader, but it had not given them as gifts. It had not included them as members of a team fighting for an important cause, like these Rebels did.
The other ammonia breathers poured themselves full glasses. Zuckuss held his glass up. "To Toryn," he said. They all drank. Zuckuss then held his glass up to 4-LOM. "To our new lives here," he said. 4-LOM bowed to Zuckuss while Zuckuss took a drink. Zuckuss coughed a little. 4-LOM helped steady him on the edge of the bed. He quickly calculated the importance of ceremony. He and Zuckuss would incorporate it in their new guild. Ceremony, and the bonding it pro-moted, would give them a small statistical edge over other guilds that might form in the New Republic.
In the days that followed, while Zuckuss healed, 4-LOM received programming for his new work in Special Forces, and he oversaw the camouflaging and refitting of the Mist Hunter. Rebel technology would make her a remarkable ship indeed. General Rieekan had talked with him about how he and Zuckuss might attempt a possible rescue of Han Solo, since they would probably have access to Jabba's Palace. Perhaps they could even intercept Boba Fett.
The time they spent waiting for Zuckuss's lungs to rapidly grow could be explained as time spent hiding from Imperials. 4-LOM calculated extreme dangers in such a plan, since the bounties Vader had placed on him and his partner were undoubtedly large enough to tempt Jabba, but it amused 4-LOM to calculate Jabba's surprise when-if he and Zuckuss succeeded in rescu-ing Solo-Jabba would realize that he and Zuckuss were not merely luckless bounty hunters but Rebel agents.
It also often amused 4-LOM to calculate the Imperi-als' shock when they realized that not only had he and Zuckuss defected to the Rebellion, but that they had managed to take ninety Rebels and two medical droids from a downed transport with them.
That the Imperials would be furious was an under-statement.
And often, as he worked alone on his ship, he prac-ticed meditation. He completed more and more of his equation. In one meditation, he thought he glimpsed the futures that lay ahead of him. One, above the oth-ers, intrigued him. In it, he saw himself sitting with young Jedi Knights in a newly established academy. He could not tell if he had learned the ways of the Force or if he were still attempting to learn them. It was a brief glimpse only, and just one of many possible futures.
When 4-LOM told Zuckuss what he had seen, Zuck-uss never doubted him.
The Last One Standing: The Tale of Boba Fett
by Daniel Keys Moran
The last statement of the Journeyman Protector Jas-ter Mereel, known later as the Hunter Boba Fett, before exile from the world of Concord Dawn:
Everyone dies.
It's the final and only lasting Justice. Evil exists; it is intelligence in the service of entropy. When the side of a mountain slides down to kill a village, this is not evil, for evil requires intent. Should a sentient being cause that
landslide, there is evil; and requires Justice as a conse-quence, so that civilization can exist.
There is no greater good than Justice; and only if law serves Justice is it good law. It is said correctly that law exists not for the Just but for the unjust, for the Just carry the law in their hearts, and do not need to call it from afar.
I bow to no one and I give service only for cause.
"Jaster Mereel."
Journeyman Mereel sat in his cell, in chains, with early morning sunshine streaking in through a tall and narrow barr
ed window, high on the cell's wall.
His ankles were chained together so that he could not walk; another chain encircled his waist, and his wrists were linked to that. He was young, and he did not rise when the Pleader entered his cell; he could see that the discourtesy displeased the older man.
The Pleader Iving Creel seated himself on the bench facing Mereel. He wasted no time on courtesies, him-self. "How will I plead you?"
Mereel had been stripped of the uniform of the Jour-neyman Protector. He was an ugly young man who wore his prison grays with dignity, as though they were themselves a uniform, and he took his time answering, looking the Pleader over, examining him-as though, the Pleader thought with a flash of annoyance, it was Iving Creel facing a trial today, and not this arrogant young murderer. "You're Iving Creel," he said finally. "I've heard of you. You're rather famous."
Creel said stiffly, "No one wants it said you were not treated fairly."
An unpleasant grin touched the young man's lips. "You'll plead me unrepentant."
Creel stared at him. "Do you understand the serious-ness of this, boy? You killed a man."
"He had it coming."
"They'll exile you, Jaster Mereel. They'll exile you-''
"I could always go join the Imperial Academy," Mer-eel said, "if I got exiled. I expect I'd make a good storm-"
Creel overrode him: "-and they may execute you, if you anger them sufficiently. Is it such a hard thing to say you're sorry for having taken a life unjustly?"
"I am sorry," said Mereel. "Sorry I didn't kill him a year ago. The galaxy's a better place without him."
Pleader Creel studied the boy, and nodded slowly. "You've chosen your plea; well enough. You can change it any time before I make the plea, if you wish. think on it, I urge you. You'll face prison or exile for the murder of another Protector; for all the man was a disgrace to his uniform, you had no business killing him. But your arrogance is likely to see you exe-cuted yourself, Jaster Mereel, before this day is done."
"You can't love life too much, Pleader." The ugly young man smiled, an empty, meaningless movement of the lips, and the Pleader Iving Creel found himself remembering that smile, at odd moments, for the rest of his life. "Everyone dies."
Years passed.
The target was young-younger than the man who had taken the name of Fett had been led to believe; indeed, tonight's target was not long out of his teens. In itself that was not a problem; Fett had collected children many years younger than that. Among his earliest col-lections, not long after leaving the stormtroopers, had been a boy of barely fourteen Standard years; the boy had dishonored the daughter of a wealthy businessman who had, even in Fett's wide experience, a rather re-markable vindictive turn. Most fathers, Fett knew, on most planets, would not have killed a boy for such be-havior; indeed, most bounty hunters would have turned down such a job.
Fett was not among them. Laws vary, planet to planet; but morality never changes. He had delivered the boy to his executioners and he had never regretted it.
Now, years later, he stood in the shadows at the back of the Victory Forum, in the town of Dying Slowly, on the planet Jubilar, and watched them set up for the main match in Regional Sector Number Four's All-Hu-man Free-For-All extravaganza.
The Victory Forum was a huge place, poorly lit, named by the winning side for a recent battle in one of Jubilar's wars. The Forum had had another name, not too long ago; and would, in Fett's estimation, have an-other name again sometime soon. The current war was not going well. Jubilar was used as a penal colony by half a dozen worlds in the near stellar neighborhood; which army a convict ended up in depended upon which spaceport he was evicted at.
The Forum's seats sloped down toward the five-sided ring, two hundred rows of rising seats separating Fett from the ring itself, and the fighting. The audience was still arriving, only minutes before the main bout, and the Forum was only half full, an audience of some twenty thousand, mostly men, filling the seats.
Fett was in no hurry; he focused his helmet's macrobinoculars on the ring, and the area immediately about it, and prepared to wait through the fight.
Young Han Solo watched the ring attendant, a Bith, hosing the blood from the previous bout out of the ring, and wondered how he'd gotten himself into such a mess.
Well, not wondering, exactly, that wasn't accurate, since actually he remembered the events with a certain painful clarity. Wondering how he'd been stupid enough to get himself into the current mess was more like it. Han stood in the tunnel with the other three fighters, watching the blood get cleaned off the mat he would shortly be standing on-fighting on-and swore to himself that if he got out of the current mess with his skin still holding his insides inside, he'd learn to deal seconds so well that no one would ever catch him at it.
Anyway, how was a traveling man supposed to know that cheating at cards was a felony in some jerk backwa-ters? "A felony, "Han muttered aloud. He glanced over. and up. and up some more. at the fighter standing next to him. "What did you get sent to Jubilar for?"
The man looked down a considerable distance at Han and said slowly, "I killed some people."
Han looked away. "Right. me too," he lied after a moment. "I killed lots of people."
The heavily armed ring attendant, standing behind the four of them, growled, "Shut up."
A movement, out of the corner of his eye, caught Han's attention; he leaned forward slightly and looked off to the right. A fellow in. gray. Gray combat armor of some sort; he appeared to be watching the ring.
Boba Fett was not watching the ring. He was watching a young entrepreneur named Hallolar Voors, who sat ringside with a pair of beautiful, immaculately dressed women in the seats to each side of him; a young entre-preneur who was going to be dead before he had the opportunity to sample the charms of either of them.
Even at that early age, Han Solo had managed to get some experience on him: "That's Mandalorian combat armor. Who-"
The muted sounds of the crowd rose up in a roar and drowned him out.
The ring attendant yelled over it. "Time to fight, you low trash, you smelly sinful one-eyed egg-sucking sons of slime-devils! Time to fight!"
From where he stood, high above the ring, Boba Fett watched as the fighters came up, out of the tunnel, and into the five-sided ring. Four fighters, as Fett had been told was usual for a Free-For-All; the announcer stood in the fifth corner, waiting patiently as the fighters dis-robed and took their positions, as the full-throated roar of twenty thousand men reverberated through the Fo-rum.
Pickups, situated around the edge of the ring, would broadcast the fight around the planet.
Three of the fighters were what Fett would have ex-pected, big bruisers for whom the Free-For-All ring had been the obvious alternative to conscription. The fourth surprised him; Fett zoomed in on the man-
The face jumped into focus. For a moment the image startled Fett; the fighter appeared to be staring straight up at Fett. He zoomed the macrobinoculars out to a wider viewing angle-and interestingly enough the im-pression was accurate; the fellow was staring at him. The young fighter disrobed slowly, staring up past the ring lights, into the gloom, at the spot where Fett stood, as the other fighters limbered up in their corners.
The man was young-no older, in all likelihood, than Fett's target tonight. Bad night, thought Fett, to be young and quick and full of promise.
The announcer moved out into the center of the ring, and raised his hands, palms out. His voice echoed out across the Forum and the watching audience: "This is the final elimination! These are the rules: no eye gouges. No blows to the throat or groin. No inten-tional deaths. There. are. no. other.
rules." He paused, and the audience's cheers rose to a frenzied pitch as his voice boomed out: "The last one standing will be the victor!"
The announcer climbed out of the ring, and despite himself, watching the fighters, the youngster in particu-lar, standing there alone and brave and scared, despite himself Fett found his pulse quickening as, with
the rest of the crowd, he waited for the dropping flag that would signal the bout's beginning.
There were moments when Fett appreciated life-he was hardly an old man himself, and there were nights, nights like these, when it was good-and behind the helmet, Fett grinned at the thought as it came to him- when it was good to be young, and quick, and full of promise.
The dark blue match flag fluttered down from the rafters, and into the ring.
The three bruisers moved in on the young fighter.
Boba Fett said, "Spice."
The target, Hallolar Voors, said "Yes, Gentle Fett. Spice. Eighteen canisters. And if you can handle it, we can deliver the same amount again, twice a quarter."
Fett nodded as though he were paying attention. It was not long after the end of the fights, and he walked with Voors through a huge, dimly lit, apparently de-serted warehouse at the edge of Executioners Row; Executioner's Row was a slum that was itself at the edge of Dying Slowly. Fett wasn't impressed with the imagi-nation they showed on Jubilar, but he had to concede they displayed a certain consistency.
Star Wars - Tales Of The Bounty Hunters Page 28