[Boba Fett] - 4(3)

Boba held out a credit chip, all that remained of his father’s fortune. The droid scanned it, then rotated its head.

“That is not enough.”

“I’m aware of that, too,” Boba said quickly. He was glad the droid couldn’t see his face. “Please inform your master that I have a private audience with Jabba the Hutt regarding some old business of my own. Once I’ve met with Jabba, I’ll make payment in full.”

“Master Quinx specifically stated that - “

Boba shook his head. “I am certain that your master would not want to make me late for my meeting with Jabba,” he said in the warning tone he’d heard his father use so many times. “Of course, I can inform Jabba that there will be a delay….”

Boba turned and took a step back toward his ship. His breath came too fast in his throat. What if the droid knew he was bluffing?

Behind him he could hear the whine of the 3D4X’s communicator.

“Very well,” the droid said. Its smooth voice sounded slightly anxious. “Of course, we do not want to delay your meeting with Jabba the Hutt. Will there be anything you need upon your return?”

Safe behind his helmet, Boba grinned. Why not?

“Yes,” he said. “Please provide a full overhaul and restocking of my ship. And refuel it.”

“Very well, sir.” The droid began to stride purposefully toward the service droids. “You, there! Leave that and get over here immediately!”

Boba watched as the droids began to surround Slave I, beeping and whirring. Then he turned and headed for the ramp that led down to the streets.

Maybe this will be easier than I thought! He smoothed the front of his tunic and walked outside, head held high. Jabba, here I come!

In less than a minute, he was hopelessly lost.





CHAPTER THREE


From the air, “Mos Espa had looked confusing, but not chaotic. Boba had recognized streets and alleys, even major roads leading into the desert. It was all complicated, but he assumed there was a pattern. And if there was a pattern, he would figure out how to use it.

But as soon as he stepped from the overhang of the docking bay, Boba realized there was no pattern here. There was no logic, except the, logic of buying and selling and stealing.

For just a moment, Boba forgot about appearing to be in control.

“Wow,” he breathed, amazed.

From the air, Mos Espa - all of Tatootine - had seemed to be one color. The color of sand, of dust, of raw rock.

But now that he stood in the middle of it all, Boba saw that was not true. His father had told him once about seeing the world in a grain of sand. That was what Boba felt like he was seeing now.

Around him was a swirl of deep gold, pale buff, almost white. Ancient buildings made of cracked rock and brick; roads of broken stones and alleys of packed dirt. There were water harvesters and rusted tankers, and cracked useless water vaporators.

And there were life-forms everywhere. They hurried past him, shrouded against the relentless wind and dust. He saw groups of tiny Jawas in stained, dirt-colored robes and hoods. Their yellow eyes glowed balefully as they moved on. Some of them rode tall, placid rontos that swung their horned heads to stare calmly at Boba.

There were jabbering merchants, selling water and smuggled goods. There were Feeorin pirates, their faces jowled with indigo tentacles, and beautifully dressed women, heavily jeweled and masked as they made their way to Hutt casinos.

“Magravian spice, m’Lord?” a voice hissed at Boba’s helmet. “It will make your reflexes sharp as chrsyalide claws!”

Boba shook his head as a snouted Rodian thrust a filthy hand toward him.

“No thanks,” Boba said. He took a few quick steps into the street.

“GEGGAOURRAAAY!” a voice shouted.

Boba looked up and saw a huge form bearing down on him. It was a bantha, its large, sloped body swaying back and forth. On its back stood an armed Tusken Raider. Boba stared at it, marvelling: He knew it was rare to see one so far from its desert home.

The Raider yelled threateningly at Boba. Boba couldn’t understand what it was saying, but he knew what it meant.

Move!

Boba lunged out of the way. He could feel the bantha’s stiff fringe of hair brushing against him as it lumbered past. He heard the whoosh of the Raider’s staff slicing through the air just above him.

That was close - way too close, Boba thought.

He hurried on. Ahead of him stood a bustling, run-down building: a cantina. Droids and aliens, recent immigrants and Tatooine natives all milled in front of it, or made their way in and out. Suspicious-looking men in dusty robes hawked caged beasts - chittering neeks from Ambria and crablike suuri, phosphorescent boeys in glass globes.

“Young warrior!” a smuggler called in a low voice as Boba passed. “I have blasters, the very finest, very cheap, very fine.”