[Bounty Hunter Wars] - 03(14)
Though now, it appeared as if somebody else had done all right by the smashing of the old Guild. It and its successor fragments, the Guild Reform Committee and the True Guild, were long gone-why would any bounty hunter in his right mind stay in either organization when all it seemed to do was target him for death by the other side? The even smaller and less powerful splinter groups, forming after the disintegration of the two main factions, held no attraction for Bossk. He had already decided that it was better to be an independent operator, on one’s own or, at the most, hooked up with a partner. The Hunter’s Creed, the honor code that had kept most bounty hunters from killing one another off too readily, was over with; from now on, it was every hunter for himself. The only thing left of value from the old Bounty Hunters Guild had been its treasury-and now that was gone as well.
As was Gleed Otondon. That scum, brooded Bossk. Otondon had been one of old Cradossk’s chief advisors, a power on the ruling council of the Bounty Hunters Guild. Then he had become the head negotiator for the True Guild splinter group. For all Bossk knew, Otondon might well have been the absolute leader of the True Guild all along, the one that the other old-timers had looked to for their marching orders. If so, Otondon had pulled a fast one on them as well: Bossk knew the whereabouts of all the bounty hunters still alive, the young ones and the old-timers who hadn’t yet managed to kill one another off, and none of them showed any signs of having that kind of credits on them. They were all scrabbling to survive, now that the Guild and its offshoots were no more. The only one that couldn’t be located, either alive or in his grave, was Gleed Otondon. He
had conveniently vanished-conveniently for himself, that was; if Bossk had been able to get his hands on him, he would have torn out Otondon’s throat and most of his internal organs in pursuit of the stolen Guild treasury.
The kind of disappearance that Otondon had undergone took credits, a lot of them; the galaxy was stuffed with informants and squealers, and none of them had a clue as to Otondon’s whereabouts. Bossk didn’t even other asking Eobbim Figh sitting across from him whether there had been any word in these parts about the missing bounty hunter; that kind of news would only reach Tatooine long after it was common knowledge everywhere else.
“No talk Gleed Otondon? All those credits?” Figh made a show of feigning sympathy for Bossk. “Can understand. More bad luck for you, eh?” He gave a slow shake of his head. “Silence preferred, no surprise.”
“I’ll take care of Gleed Otondon when the time comes,” said Bossk. “He’ll have his turn. But not right now. I’ve got other things on my agenda.”
“No-one thing.” Figh smiled. “Boba Fett.”
The Mhingxin had read that much right, as though Bossk’s anger had written the other bounty hunter’s name on his scale-covered brow. The image of Fett’s narrow-visored helmet, battered and dented, but still as awesomely functional as when it had shielded some long-ago Mandalorian warrior, filled Bossk’s gaze when he squeezed his eyelids shut. He had never seen Boba Fett’s actual face-very few creatures had, and lived to tell about it-but Bossk could still vividly imagine how the blood would seep from beneath that helmet’s hard gaze as he crushed the other’s neck in his bare hands. Right now, here in the Mos Eisley cantina, his fists clenched tighter, talons digging into his palms, as he yearned to make the vision of Boba Fett’s death a reality. That vision, that death, was all that Bossk could think of; the thirst for revenge, like burning acid poured down his throat, seeped through every fiber of his being. As much as he hated and despised the vanished Gleed Otondon for having stolen from him, that was a matter of mere credits. For a Trandoshan, wealth meant nothing compared to honor. And that was what Boba Fett had stolen from him.
“My reputation,” said Bossk, ominous and quiet. “That’s what he took. Over and over and over…”
“Reputation? Yours?” Another gale of squealing laughter came from Figh. “Such doesn’t exist. Not anymore. Zero on any scale, what creatures think of you.”
A galling realization broke over Bossk. He’s not afraid of me-he looked across the table at the Mhingxin with something like horror. That was how much his own reputation had diminished; that was the ultimate consequence of his continuing series of defeats at the hands of Boba Fett. A scurrying sentient rodent such as Eobbim Figh could laugh at him, without apparent fear. The humiliation of that fact was like a flood of ice water dumped on the fires of his anger. And more than humiliation: if fear hadn’t shown itself in the creature sitting across from him in the booth, its dark flower now rose inside himself.