The pond was ringed with foul-smelling ferns. It was a brighter green than the last one, and it looked deeper. A lot deeper.
Boba summoned up his courage and stepped off the edge, into the ferns. His boots sank into the ground. He took another step and sank up to his boot tops. Boba tried to pull his left leg free; it sank even deeper.
Another step, and it was up to his knees. Boba was more than halfway across, but he was stuck. The ooze felt like hands, pulling him down deeper and deeper.
Boba tried to take a step back, but he couldn’t. Instead, he slipped farther into the greenish muck. Now it was up to his waist.
He tried again to pull his legs free, but thrashing around only sank him deeper into the stinking, glue like mud.
He quickly sank in up to his neck.
The mist was rising into his mask, and he could hardly breathe. He could feel a burning sensation in his knees and feet. It felt as if he were being dissolved by the acid gunk.
I am being digested!
Only the helmet allowed him to breathe, to survive. It seemed to have stopped the sinking and the digesting for some reason. But for how long? His chin sank into the muck. In a moment his mouth and nose would be covered, too. The mask was clearly being rejected by the horrible mass… but how long would that last?
Boba searched frantically for a means of escape. He saw a coil of wire sticking out of a slag heap on the other side of the pond, but it was too far away. A stick lay closer, on the bank below the wire, but still out of reach. The reeds were all around, but they were too thin and frail to hold his weight.
Then Boba remembered: self-sufficiency. It meant using whatever was available.
He managed to get one arm out of the muck and grabbed the longest reed he could find, pulling it up by the roots. It felt slimy, even through his gloves. He used it like a long flexible hook to snag the wire, inching it across the mud until it was within the reach of his hand.
Yes! The wire felt plenty strong. Boba wrapped it around his hand and began to pull.
It was almost too late. His eyes were burning and he could hardly breathe. His arms were weak. He gathered all his strength and pulled…
The wire was coming loose from the slag pile. It dislodged a tiny clod, starting a small landslide down the slippery slope of slag and garbage. Then it jerked tight again. It had snagged on something.
Boba pulled again, but more carefully this time. The wire was barely caught on the edge of an old piece of machinery. If it slipped off, he was a goner.
This was his last chance. Hardly daring to breathe, he pulled himself toward the shore of the pond. One leg was free… then the other…
Boba grabbed a handful of reeds and pulled himself out of the stinking liquid, onto the slimy shore. “Whew!” Plain old slime had never felt so good before.
He was free.
Boba blended in with the crowd of droids, warriors, and workers streaming in the wide, brightly lighted doorway. No one noticed him, and Prax was nowhere to be seen.
Even the filth that covered him didn’t give him away. Many of the others were filthy as well, from the dig.
Boba took off his helmet and wiped it clean. It had saved his life, that was for sure. He now realized why it was so important to his father… and why it would be important to him.
Boba joined the “dig” workers in the shower that steamed the worst of the slime off his clothes and his boots, and then dried them instantly. Now all he had to do was make it back to his room and no one would know he had been outside.
He stepped out of the shower, his clothes already dry - and grimaced in pain as a rough, strong hand gripped his shoulder.
“Come!” The voice was unmistakable. Boba opened his mouth to explain that he hadn’t meant to break the rules, that it was all a mistake. But what was the point?
Cydon Prax wasn’t listening as he dragged Boba down the corridor, toward the Count’s inner sanctuary.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Count wrinkled his finely arched nose.
“We shall have to clean you up,” he said dismissively.
Boba tried to keep from shaking. He knew it was best never to show fear. He gripped his father’s helmet in his hands.
“Your father didn’t teach you very well,” said the Count. “You have been sticking your nose where it does not belong.”
“I didn’t see anything,” Boba said. He could feel the Count’s power turning steadily into wrath.
“Oh, really?” The Count was scornful; He stood behind his desk, in front of the “window” that showed a blue lake under a blue sky: Anything but the real filth of Raxus Prime.
“Really,” said Boba. “I just stepped outside the door. I didn’t go far.”
“Perhaps I should take on your training, after all,” said the Count: Boba felt a moment’s hope. But the hope was dashed by the Count’s next words: “If I did, the first thing I would teach you is how to lie. You are not very good at it.”