How can I survive? For a moment, that thought blotted out all others in Bossk’s mind. He had his own list, one that he had never before paid much attention to, of creatures in the galaxy that had reason to hold a grudge against him. In his own bounty hunter career, back when the Guild had still been in existence, he had bought his personal triumphs at the cost of stepping on a lot of other hunters’ toes, stealing hard merchandise out from under their noses and handing out other humiliations, just as if none of the others would ever have a chance of retribution at him. That list was probably as long as Boba Fett’s-perhaps longer, considering that more of them were still alive. Creatures who wound up running afoul of Boba Fett also had a way of winding up dead, their grievances buried with them.
The other difference, between his list of enemies and Boba Fett’s, was that only a few, and those the most foolhardy ones, would take a shot at getting satisfaction from Fett. Better to sit on one’s grudges rather than give Boba Fett any more reasons for eliminating someone else from the universe of the living. If Bossk had still been in any way rational on the subject of the long-hated Boba Fett, that would have been the advice he’d have given to himself. The same kind of warning no longer held for any of Bossk’s own enemies, especially now that it had been demonstrated to the entire galaxy, over and over, that he could be bested in a confrontation. Any other bounty hunter who might have previously had second thoughts about settling accounts with Bossk would now be having third thoughts about the matter-and deciding to act on them. If Bossk hadn’t had a good reason for keeping a low profile before, that one would do for now.
“When creatures think zero,” continued Figh, “chances of death high. For you.”
One corner of Bossk’s muzzle lifted in a snarl. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Figh stroked the stiff whiskers of his pointed snout. “So not matter of mere emotion, your grudge against Boba Fett. More important. Squatting aquatic avian, until proved that killer stuff in you. Somebody get, sooner, later. Too bad. Only way to get respect of others back, plus keep skin intact, take down Boba Fett. Nothing else do.”
He knew Eobbim Figh was right about that. There was a lot more at stake than just his honor and reputation. Once word got out that he was stuck here on Tatooine-and it would, no matter how many gossipy street beggars he killed-then he’d be a target for all those other bounty hunters. Some of them might even have conceived the notion that he, rather than Gleed Otondon, was sitting on the treasury from the old Bounty Hunters Guild. That would add a financial motive-always an effective one for bounty hunters-to their personal ones, for seeking him out, murder in mind.
“Wait a minute.” Bossk peered suspiciously at Figh. “How do you know Boba Fett’s still live?”
“Simple.” Figh mimed a shrug. “Open data, one like
you. Can see through all way. Brooding on failures, humiliations-very unlike. Heard about, before your arrival here, even. To get under scales that bad, only possible for Boba Fett. Your long-standing rivalry well known, everywhere. If Fett really dead, you a happy Trandoshan. Happy as Trandoshans can get. Brood, sulk, you know that Fett alive. What you know, I know. Or can guess.” Figh’s imitation smile showed. “Guess proved right, just now.”
Bossk nodded. “You’re pretty smart,” he said. “For a Mhingxin.”
The comment got the reaction he expected-and wanted. Figh’s coarse, spiky fur bristled across his neck and shoulders. “Smarter than you,” spat Figh. “Not waiting to get killed, sitting around. Like you.”
“Simmer down. You didn’t come over here to talk to me just to point out the obvious, did you?” The glass was empty in front of Bossk; he pushed it away with one claw-tipped finger. “You must have had your reasons. Somebody like you always does.”
Figh’s black, beadlike eyes still flashed with irritation. “So smart, then you say. My reasons, talk with you.”
Bossk had dealt with other Mhingxins in the past. They had a simple, easily manipulable psychology. “Simple,” he said. “You think the two of us can do some business together.” Mhingxins had a low self-image, due probably to their resemblance to the kind of furtive creatures that crept into food supplies on any number of worlds, and a well-aimed personal remark could easily provoke them. That’s when their guard slipped. “You know what I want to do; maybe you got some notion of how you could help me accomplish that.”
“Help you? Not likely!” Figh thrust his tapering snout forward; his long, hairy, and knobby hands flattened themselves against the table. “Want to track down Boba Fett, get name back, do it on your own. Got information that could help, but give to you, think again.”