[Bounty Hunter Wars] - 01(102)

“No…” Gheeta moaned in sudden fright. The crablike arms fluttered in front of him as the cylinder started to back away. “Don’t…” He pulled his head back inside the cylinder’s collar, which then began to iris shut.



But not fast enough. Boba Fett pushed forward on the laser cannon’s housing; steam hissed between his gloved fingers as he lowered his shoulder and put his weight into the thrust. Dragging the still-breathing body of D’harhan along, the weapon’s barrel lurched forward. The black

metal muzzle, shimmering with residual heat, slammed into the vacated collar of Gheeta’s floating cylinder just as the curved blades of the seal mechanism locked down tight upon it.



Boba Fett shifted his weight, now pushing down upon the rear of the laser-cannon housing. The barrel angled upward, with the Shell Hutt’s cylinder attached like a ripe gourdfruit. When the barrel had reached its maximum elevation, Fett struck the firing stud with his fist.



All eyes in the great reception hall-those of the other bounty hunters, the mercenaries left alive, even the other Shell Hutts who were brave enough to unseal the fronts

of

their cylinders when the fighting

had quieted-turned toward the tapered metal shape that for a moment stood aloft on the black stem of the laser cannon. A few of the observers flinched, but continued watching as the weapon sounded its snarling roar, only slightly muffled by the object clamped onto the barrel’s muzzle.



The sound of the laser cannon’s bolt echoed through the great reception hall, then faded like the last thunder of a storm broken by daylight. Lightning had flashed, contained with the cylinder caught at the end of the cannon’s barrel; it had burst through the seams of the bolted durasteel plates, sending a rain of white-hot rivets arcing across the space and landing like sizzling hail on the rubble left by the battle. When the light of the laser-cannon bolt was gone, as quickly as it had flashed into being, the plates of the Shell Hutt’s cylinder were singed around their edges; they rattled dully against each other as the cylinder contracted again, the surge of energy that had forced it larger now only an afterimage burned into the observers’ eyes.



Boba Fett lowered the laser cannon’s barrel, and the cylinder slid off the end of its muzzle. The cylinder fell to the great reception hall’s floor with a lifeless clang. Slowly, a red pool formed around it as Gheeta’s liquefied corpse seeped through the joins between the plates and out the empty rivet holes.



“Just as well,” wheezed another Shell Hutt’s voice. The elder Nullada floated toward the dead cylinder; it looked like a mechanical egg, cracked but not yet peeled of its metal shell. The claws of one of Nullada’s crablike arms held back the roll of blubbery tissue over his eyes; with the other he prodded the side of what had been Gheeta’s metal casing. Silently, the cylinder rolled back and forth in the red mire. “He had already made more of a nuisance of himself than he had any right to.”



That statement, Boba Fett figured, would probably be the extent of Gheeta’s obituary. Hutts of any variety were not given to sentimentality. If the late Gheeta had left any estate after having paid off the Narrant-system liege-holder



clan

and

hiring



this



band



of mercenaries-though he had probably gotten them fairly cheap-the remaining assets would be quickly picked apart and swallowed up by the other Shell Hutts. Nullada himself would no doubt take the largest bite.



At the elder Shell Hutt’s direction, a couple of the dark-uniformed mercenaries had come over and dragged Oph Nar Dinnid’s body out from under the wreckage of the central dais. “Most distressing,” said Nullada, with genuine if predacious regret. “This is what happens when someone lets their emotions get in the way of business. We could have gotten a lot more from those parties with an interest in this matter.”



Boba Fett wasn’t listening to the old Shell Hutt. With Zuckuss and IG-88 watching him, the weapons in their hands lowered, he laid D’harhan’s body down upon the floor. The laser-cannon barrel turned and slowly came to rest, its muzzle scraping through the charred debris.



D’harhan’s black-gloved hands fumbled for the voice box clipped to his waist. The rise and fall of his chest, pinned by the cannon’s curved mount, was quick and labored as a single fingertip punched out a message. Kneeling beside him, Boba Fett looked at the words glowing on the box’s screen.



I SHOULD NOT HAVE TRUSTED YOU.



“That’s right,” said Fett, with a single nod. “That was your mistake.”



you’re wrong. The fingertip moved with agonizing slowness. it was … my decision… .