by K. W. Jeter
ship's central hold. He could hear Zuckuss right behind
him as he furiously grappled his way through the tube's
flexing pleats and back aboard the Hound's Tooth.
The first explosion ripped the transfer away from
both ships, sending ragged strips of plastex spiraling
across the Hound's midsection viewports. With his stomach
across the back of the pilot's chair, Bossk slapped at
the hull integrity controls, sealing off his own ship
before any significant amount of ak could escape.
"We ... we should be okay now. . . ." Panting,
Zuckuss supported himself against the cockpit's naviputer
displays. "That wasn't . . . much of a bomb. . . ."
There wasn't even time for Bossk to tell the other
bounty hunter not to be an idiot. The second explosion,
larger than the first, struck the Hound's Tooth. Roiling
thermic fire filled the viewports as the impact of
Bossk's spine with the bulkhead above stunned him into
barely conscious silence. Blood swirled across the scales
of his face as the ship's artificial-gravity generators
struggled to catch up with its end-over-end tumbling.
Bossk smashed his fist against as many of the thruster
controls as he could reach; the resulting force had him
digging a hold into the pilot's chair to keep from being
flung through the open hatchway behind him.
A stern-mounted scanner showed the bomb, smaller now
but even deadlier, trailing in the erratic wake of the
Hound's Tooth. "It's . . . it's locked onto us. . . ."
Zuckuss clawed his way up beside Bossk. He pointed to the
screen above the controls. "Here it comes. . . ."
Bossk knew how incremental-sequence bombs functioned.
The first two charges work you over, he told himself. The
third one kills you. His voice grated in his throat "Not
. . . this time ..."
He hit the rest of the thrusters, at the same time
throwing the Hound into a suicide arc. Stars blurred
across the viewport as the angle of the ship's turn
deepened. A deep basso groan sounded as increasing
vectors tore in different directions across the hull.
Sharper cracking noises signaled the navigation modules
ripping away from the exterior.
The third and final explosion completed the partial
disassembly of the Hound's Tooth. Bossk's desperate
maneuver had put enough distance between the ship and the
bomb; the hull shook with the impact but remained intact.
Zuckuss was knocked onto his face mask by the bulkhead
deforming behind him, the blast's force warping the
section from concave to convex. The pilot's chair broke
in two, sending Bossk sprawling across the cockpit's
floor, claws holding the padded back of the seat tight
against his chest. A rain of sparks, bursting out of the
access ports, sizzled across both bounty hunters.
A few seconds later silence filled the Hound's Tooth.
The smell of burning circuitry hung acrid in the air,
mixed with the steam of the ship's automatic fire-dousing
units. A few last sparks stung Zuckuss, and he slapped at
them with his heavily gloved hands.
"We'll be here awhile." Bossk didn't need to do a
preliminary damage assessment on the Hound to know that.
Until the navigation modules were rigged back into some
kind of operating order, he and Zuckuss were stuck in
this remote sector of space. If Trandoshans had any
capacity for the emotion of gratitude, he would have been
glad that the sequential bomb hadn't torn the Hound's
Tooth into bits. He and Zuckuss would have been dead
instead of merely adrift. As it was, he just felt a deep
irritation over how much work it was going to take to put
his ship back together again, with the tools and probes
that were now undoubtedly scattered all over the en
gineering lockers.
"Look there-" Zuckuss pointed to the one viewport
still functioning, set at an angle from the Hound's
midsection.
Sitting in the middle of the cockpit floor, Bossk
looked over his shoulder at the screen. A fiery course of
light, with a too-familiar shape at its head, shot across
the field of stars.
"That's the Slave I," said Zuckuss. Unnecessarily-any
fool would have known that much. "The real ship."
"Of course it is, you idiot." If Bossk had had a
wrench in his claws, he would have been torn between
throwing it at his partner or at the screen, as though he
could somehow hit Boba Fett's ship with it. "That was the
whole point, with the decoy and the bomb." The Slave I
was already dwindling away, heading for the perimeter
station of the Bounty Hunters Guild. "Fett knew somebody
would be waiting for him."
"Apparently so." Zuckuss gave a slow nod of his head.
"Somebody like him . . . he's got a lot of enemies."
"He doesn't have any fewer now." Bossk glared at the
empty screen. You made one mistake, he told the vanished
Boba Fett. You should've used a bigger bomb. One that
would have killed instead of merely humiliated. Bossk-and
his hunger for revenge-was still alive.
Another quick burst of sparks shot from behind the
screen. A knot of tangled circuits, welded together and
emitting smoke, dangled bobbing from one of the overhead
panels. The image of the stars blanked out and was gone.
"Come on," said Bossk. He stood up, then reached down
to pull Zuckuss to his feet. "We've got work to do."
9
Everything was settled by the time Cradossk's son
finally showed up.
Boba Fett could tell that the younger Trandoshan was
not in a good mood as he strode into the council chamber
of the Bounty Hunters Guild. Failed assassination
attempts often had that effect on sentient creatures.
There really was nothing worse than making the decision
to kill someone else, and then not being able to bring it
off. All the emotions associated with violence, mused
Fett. He had never experienced them, himself, but knew
that others did. And none of the benefits. It was sad,
really.
The council's long, crescent-shaped table had been
set for a celebratory banquet. One of Cradossk's
scurrying servants had set a crystalline goblet, the
mingled shades of cobalt and amethyst within revealing
the expense of the vintage it contained, in front of Boba
Fett. He had touched the dark liquid with a gloved
fingertip, just enough to send a few ripples across its
surface. Etiquette demanded that much; anything less, and
the old reptilian sprawled next to him would have been
offended. If other sentient creatures wished to deal in
hollow symbols rather than reality, it made no difference
to Fett. Cradossk and all the other Guild elders could
befuddle themselves with strong drink, if they wished;
this goblet's contents would remain un-tasted.
He watched as the tall, arched doors of the council
chamber were shoved open, the gilded and
gem-encrusted
panels flying to either side as Bossk stormed in.
Servants bearing flagons and laden platters scattered in
all directions; anger-ridden Trandoshans were notoriously
rough on the hired help.
"Ah, my son and heir!" Cradossk was already well on
the way to inebriation. His age-blu nted fangs were
mottled with wine stains, and his yellow-slitted eyes
gazed with blurry affection at his spawn. "I was hoping
you'd be here for the festivities." More wine slopped
down Cradossk's scaled arm and from his elbow as he
lifted his own goblet high. "We'll tell the musicians to
strike up the old songs, the ones our spawn-fathers knew,
and we'll do the lizard dance all around the courtyard-"
The goblet went clattering across the chamber's
terrazzo floor, the wine a ragged pennant on the inlaid
tiles, as Bossk knocked it from his sire's hand with one
swing of his clawed hand. Across the high-ceilinged space
of the chamber, hung with the empty combat gear and other
trophies taken off the Guild's long-ago enemies, silence
fell. The collective gaze of the council members turned
toward their chief and his enraged offspring.
"Your manners," said Cradossk softly, "are severely
lacking. As usual."
Boba Fett had had enough experience with Trandoshans
over the years to know what a bad sign it was when their
voices went low and ominous like that. When they shouted
and snarled, they were ready to kill. When they
whispered, they were ready to kill everything. He
carefully shifted away from Cradossk's side so as not to
be in the way if the old reptilian decided to leap over
the table and tear out his only son's throat.
"As is your understanding." Bossk spoke with a cold
control, through which his anger still managed to appear.
"What kind of brain-withered old fool shares wine with
his enemy?" He flung a gesture toward Boba Fett. "Have
you forgotten so much, has every day faded from your
memory, that the Guild's history is a blank slate to you?
This man has made fools of us more times than we can
count." Bossk turned to either side, making sure that
everyone in the chamber could hear his words. "You all
know who it is that sits with you now. He's taken the
credits out of our pockets and the food out of our
mouths." He looked back at his sire. "If you weren't
drunk"-Bossk's voice sounded like dry gravel scraping
across rusted metal-"you'd take what's fallen into your
grasp and sink your teeth into Boba Fett's heart."
"I wasn't drunk when he arrived here." Cradossk's
response was both mild and somewhat amused. "But I intend
to get very drunk-and very happy-now that we've all had a
chance to listen to Fett. What he came here to say has
pleased me a great deal." He raised his goblet and took a
long draft that left wet lines trickling down the sides
of his throat, then slammed the goblet down. "That's one
of the differences between him . . . and you."
Barely suppressed laughter ran along the arms of the
crescent table. Without turning his head, Boba Fett could
see the other council members and their lackeys
whispering back and forth, their sardonic glances taking
in the young bounty hunter standing before them. Be sure
you know who your friends are, he wanted to warn Bossk.
This lot will carve you up anytime it suits them.
"What're you talking about?" Bossk gripped the edge
of the table in his claws and leaned toward his father.
"What's this sneaking scum told you?"
"Boba Fett has made us an offer." From an ornately
enameled tray held behind him, Cradossk plucked another
empty goblet, holding it out to be filled by one of the
other attendants. He held the wine out toward his son. "A
very good one; that's why we're celebrating." Cradossk's
mottled smile widened. "As you should be."
"Offer?" Bossk didn't take the goblet from the older
Trandoshan. "What kind of offer?"
"The kind that only a fool would refuse. The kind of
offer that solves a great many problems. For all of us."
Confusion showed in Bossk's gaze as he looked over at
Boba Fett, then back to his father. "I don't understand.
. . ."
"Of course you don't." Boba Fett spoke this time,
leaning back against the leatherwork of the chair that
had been given him. "There's so much you don't
understand." He might as well start working Bossk into an
irrational fury now as later. "That's why your father is
still head of the Bounty Hunters Guild. You have a lot of
wisdom to acquire before you'll have your chance."
"Explain it to him." With a single crooked claw,
Cradossk motioned one of the other council members over.
"I tire so easily nowadays. . . ."
"Then take a nap, old man." Bossk turned angrily
toward the robed figure that had approached. "Spit it
out."
"So simple, is it not?" The watery pupils at the ends
of the council member's eyestalks regarded Bossk with
kindly forbearance. "And so indicative- yes?-of both your
father's and our guest's foresight. Though Boba Fett is
not to be called our guest anymore, is he?"
"All I know," growled Bossk, "is what I call him."
"Perhaps so, but should you not call him 'brother'
now?"
Those words struck Bossk speechless.
"For is that not what Boba Fett has offered the
Guild?" The council member folded his hooked, mantislike
forearms together. "To be one of us? Our brother and
fellow hunter-has he not offered to join his not
inconsiderable forces and cunning with ours, and thus
become a member of the august Bounty Hunters Guild?"
"Damn straight he has." Cradossk drained his goblet
and slammed it back down on the table. "Let's hear it for
him."
"It's true." Another one of the Guild's younger
bounty hunters had sidled up to Bossk's elbow; Fett
remembered this one's name as Zuckuss. "I just heard
about it outside." The shorter bounty hunter pointed a
thumb toward the chamber's tall doors. "That's what the
word is-that Boba Fett has asked for membership in the
Guild."
"That's impossible!" Bossk's claws tightened into
fists, as though he were about to swing on either his
partner or the elder from the council, or both. "Why
would he do something like that?"
Fett regarded the reptilian with no show of emotion.
"I have my reasons."
"I bet you do. . . ."
"And are they not good reasons?" The elder swiveled
its eyestalks toward Bossk. "Should not all propositions
make such excellent sense? For all of us-do we not gain
the benefit of the esteemed Boba Fett's skills? Known
throughout the galaxy!" A saw-edged forelimb gestured
toward Fett on the other side of the table. "And does not
he acquire thereby the many advantages that come with
membership in our Guild
? The warmth of our regard, the
comradely fellowship, the excellent weapons maintenance
facilities, the medical benefits-that alone is not to be
lightly considered in our hazardous line of work."
"He's lying to you!" Bossk looked across the faces of
the other council members. His straining fists rose
alongside his head, nearly knocking over the smaller
Zuckuss. "Can't you see that? It's some plan of his-like
all his other plans--"
"What you don't see," said Boba Fett, "is how the
times have changed. The galaxy is not as it was, when
your father was as newly hatched as you. The fields upon
which we pursue our quarry are shrinking, just as the
strength of Emperor Palpatine increases." He could see
the council members around the crescent nodding their
acknowledgment of his wisdom. "The Bounty Hunters Guild
must change as well, or face its extinction. And so must
I change my ways as well."
"The old days," murmured Cradossk, slumped down and
gazing wistfully into his empty goblet. "The old days are
gone. . . ."
"Anyone with eyes and a brain can tell that the
bounty-hunting trade is being squeezed into a tighter and
tighter corner." Some of the words Fett used were
straight from what Kud'ar Mub'at, back at its web
drifting in space, had told him. They were true enough,
or at least to the point where they would be believed by
these fools on the Guild council. "Not just by the
Empire; there are others. Black Sun . . ." He merely had
to mention the name of the criminal organization for that
point to be made. The whispers turned into guarded
silence. "Bounty hunters such as ourselves have always
operated on both sides of the law, as need be; that's the
nature of the game. But when both sides turn against us,
then we must band together to survive. There's no room
for an independent agent such as myself. We either join
forces, you and I, or we go our separate ways. And await
our separate destruction."
A strange, raw ache tightened Boba Fett's throat. It
had been a long time since he had spoken that many words
all at one go. He didn't live by making speeches, but by
performing deeds the more danger, the greater the
profit. But the job he'd accepted from Kud'ar Mub'at was,
in some sense, a job like any other. Whatever it takes,
thought Fett. If it required getting a bunch of aging,