[Boba Fett] - 4(2)

“Prepare for landing,” he said to his ship, and to himself.

Boba hated to admit it, but he needed Jabba the Hutt.





CHAPTER TWO


“Planets are like people,” Boba’s father always used to say. “They all have individual personalities.”

At the time, this hadn’t made sense to Boba.

Since then, Boba had learned that it was true.

Kamino, his home world, was gray and grim and cloud-covered, plagued by rains that could last for months on end. The native Kaminoans were like their planet. They were cool and seemingly unchanging, well-mannered but obsessed with control. They were the ideal supervisors for the creation of the clone army.

Aargau, run by the InterGalactic Banking Clan, was strictly ordered on its surface. But underneath that orderly surface was the chaos of the Undercity. In the Undercity, anything could happen.

And Tatooine?

As Slave I banked, Boba stared at the spaceport below him. It was a jumble of domes, pleasure spires, and gambling minarets. He saw long, low warehouses, and the rusted spines of outdated space-traffic control towers. He saw racing arenas, coliseums, and junkshops. Biggest of all was the enormous Arena Citadel. That was where the Podracers began

their competition, before hurtling off into the desert.

Everything was coated with a thick layer of dust. Mos Espa’s ragtag buildings looked as though they had crawled in from the desert like giant sand-worms, and then collapsed, too exhausted to go on. Beyond the borders of the spaceport stretched the vast expanse of the Dune Sea, wastelands of sand and dust and wind-carved rocks.

If Tatooine has a personality, Boba thought with bleak amusement, it’s a mixed-up one.

Slave I cruised slowly above the network of docking bays. From here they looked like craters, bristling with surveillance and repair equipment. Droids scurried around them like ants. Boba stared down, trying to determine which docking bay would be safest. He had barely enough credits left to pay for docking, and none for refueling. He’d have no more credits at all until he met with Jabba the Hutt.

What would my father do? he thought.

And suddenly he knew.

He put on his father’s Mandalorian helmet, which, he noticed proudly, fit better than it had just a few months ago. He felt a slight warmth as the helmet’s eye sensors scanned his retinas, and then the reassuring hum as the interactive system recognized him.

He searched Slave I’s memory banks for the location of the docking facility last used by Jango Fett.

The nav computer informed him that the docks belonged to Mentis Qinx.

Boba punched in the coordinates. He leaned back in the control seat. Smooth as flowing water, the ship banked. It began its descent into a warren of dilapidated towers surrounding a large and very battered docking bay.

Boba smiled. He adjusted the Mandalorian helmet. He checked to make sure his book was in his pocket. Minutes later, Slave I landed safely at Mos Espa.

He had made it. But that was only the beginning.

He had to find Jabba.

Boba decided to wear the helmet, at least at _first. That way no one would know how young he was. He was dressed in standard-issue Mandalorian uniform - gray-blue tunic and trousers, darker shirt, high black boots. With the helmet covering his face, he might be anyone of small stature. He might be a Mrlssi physicist, or a Bimm merchant, or a Sullustan pilot.

Nobody had to know he was just a kid.

He cleared his throat, then clambered out of Slave I and into the docking bay.

The air of Tatooine struck him like a fist. Hot, dry air, so saturated with grit and dust that he could taste it on his tongue, despite the protective helmet. A few meters away, small service droids scurried and rolled beneath another ship. There were fuel lines and repair equipment scattered everywhere. Boba looked around for someone in charge, standing as straight as he could to project confidence.

“Sir!” a smooth voice greeted him, recognizing the ship. “Jango Fett, is it?”

A gleaming figure was approaching him - a silver-plated 3D-4X administrative droid. Its blunt, tube-shaped head whirled as it looked from Boba to Slave I.

“Fett, that’s right,” Boba said. He felt a small surge of relief. A droid would be easier to fool than a human or an alien. “I need to leave my ship here for a while.”

“Very good, very good,” said the droid. It halted. Boba could hear a garbled stream of syllables coming through its communications transmitter. After a moment it turned back to him. “Master Qinx wishes you to be reminded that there is a small matter of an outstanding debit on your account.”

Boba swallowed. Inside the helmet his face felt as though it were melting. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and said, “I am aware of that. Here - “