[Boba Fett] - 6(8)

Just beyond the asteroid belt, a small moon orbited Xagobah. If I can get there, I can repair the starboard wing. And once I lose this Jedi, I can get back on Wat Tambor’s trail….

Anakin’s voice once more boomed through the comm unit.

“WE HAVE NO RECORD OF A SEPARATIST VESSEL FITTING YOUR DESCRIPTION,” he announced. He almost sounded disappointed. “NOR DO WE HAVE RECORDS INDICATING YOU ARE PART OF THE REPUBLIC’S PEACEKEEPING FORCE - “

“I fought on the side of the Xamsters,” Boba broke in quickly. That was true enough. “And now I’m heading for that moon to make repairs. So - “

Keeping a close watch on the Jedi starfighter, Boba began to slowly bank Slave I toward the moon.

” - if you’ll just let me go, I can get my job done - and so can you.”

Boba knew he was taking a risk. There was no way he could outfly Skywalker now, not with Slave I’s shattered wing - though once that was repaired, he’d give him a run for his credits!

Plus, Skywalker must have better things to do than waste time with an injured mercenary! thought Boba. Then he looked up.

Hmmm. Apparently not - Anakin’s streamlined starfighter filled Slave I’s viewscreen.

“MY SHIP WILL ESCORT YOU,” Anakin said. He made the simple statement sound like an order. “IF YOU CHANGE COURSE, YOUR SHIP WILL BE DESTROYED.”

“I’ll try not to forget that,” Boba snapped - after he’d switched off the comm unit.

He reset Slave I’s coordinates and headed for the moon. It looked barren and uninhabited, its surface pocked with craters. The atmosphere was thin, but it would sustain human life-forms - for a little while, anyway.

Boba intended to be there only a short time. He scoped out a narrow valley between two craters and prepared Slave I for landing. Skywalker’s ship trailed him, close enough that Boba couldn’t have eluded him if he’d tried.

Somehow, that didn’t seem like a good idea at the moment.

Boba throttled down, and Slave I began its final descent. Boba watched impassively as Skywalker’s ship followed him like a shining shadow. Within minutes Slave I had touched down. Seconds later the starfighter did the same.

“STAY WHERE YOU ARE,” a voice crackled through the base comm unit.

Boba snorted. No way he was going to stay here like a placid Khommite strider, just waiting to be picked off! He checked his weapons belt, making sure his blasters were well-concealed. Then he grabbed his helmet and started for the door.

And stopped.

Boba’s Mandalorian battle helmet had belonged to his father, Jango Fett, before he was killed by Mace Windu. For the last few years Boba had worn it, along with his father’s body armor. Even after all this time, Boba missed his father terribly; the armor was one of the few legacies Jango had left to his son. Boba wore it with pride and skill. Jango’s helmet and armor had become a dreaded sight to all whom Boba hunted down.

But did Boba want to be recognized right now?

For a moment he brooded. He was here now because a high-ranking member of the Republic had paid off Jabba, requesting that the Huttese gangster have one of his bounty hunters track down and kill Wat Tambor. The Republic wanted Wat Tambor’s death to appear to be the work of a lone assassin. And Jabba had known that only his best bounty hunter - Boba Fett - would be able to kill the wily Techno union     foreman.

But Boba had failed. So far, anyway.

Anakin Skywalker was leading Republic troops in their continuing strife with the Separatists. What if he knew of Boba’s mission? If word got back to Jabba the Hutt, Boba’s reputation would be ruined!

More than his reputation - his life.

And I have kind of a sentimental attachment to that, Boba thought.

He looked at the Mandalorian helmet, then glanced out the viewscreen. Anakin Skywalker was clambering down from his starfighter. Puffs of sand rose as his booted feet made contact with the moon’s surface. He paused to give his starfighter a cursory damage inspection, then turned and headed for Slave I.

Boba took a deep breath. Reluctantly he removed his helmet - for now.

“This is only temporary,” he said, catching a glimpse of himself in the dark viewscreen. He looked grim and determined, a younger, rangier version of his father. The superficial resemblance he bore to Jango Fett’s clones had long since been etched away by strife and battle. A clone didn’t survive long enough to wear his experiences upon his face.

But years of hunting and killing had hardened Boba’s expression. He smiled seldom these days. When he did, it was usually when he saw his friend Ygabba and her father, Gab’borah, back on Tatooine.

But he wasn’t on Tatooine now. And he wasn’t going to return there until he could report Wat Tambor’s death or capture to Jabba the Hutt.