[Bounty Hunter Wars] - 01(17)

The accountant named Nil Posondum looked around the bare cage. A thin pale hand gripped one of the bars. “I’d hardly call this comfortable.”



“It can get worse.” The shoulders of Boba Fett’s armored combat gear lifted in a shrug. “My ship is built for speed, not luxury accommodations.” He’d left the Slave I’s controls set on autopilot; a small datapad clipped



to

his

forearm

monitored

the

craft’s uninterrupted course through hyperspace. “You should take what pleasure you can from your time here. Things won’t be any better for you where you’re going.”



In fact, Boba Fett knew they would be much worse for the accountant. Posondum had made the grievous error of shifting allegiances, changing jobs in an industry where loyalty was prized-and disloyalty punished. Worse, the accountant had been keeping the financial records for a chain of illicit skefta dens in the Outer Rim Territories that were controlled by a Huttese syndicate. Hutts tended to view their employees as possessions-one of the reasons that Boba Fett had always kept a freelancer’s independent relationship

with his frequent client

Jabba.

The accountant Posondum hadn’t been so smart; he’d been even stupider when he’d gone over to his former employers’ competition with a cortical data-splint loaded with the Hutts’ odds-rigging systems and gray-market transfer shuffles. Hutts were even more secretive than possessive; Boba Fett had sometimes wondered if they grew so huge by greedily ingesting everything that came into reach of their little hands and huge mouths, and letting nothing go. Not even one frightened accountant with a computer-enhanced brain full of numbers.



“Why don’t you just kill me now?” Posondum hunkered on the floor of the cage, his back against its bars. He’d tasted the tray and pushed it away in disgust. “You’d do a quicker job of it than the Hutts



will.”



“Likely so.” He felt no pity for the man, who’d brought his troubles upon himself. You hang out with Hutts, he thought, you’d better be careful not to get rolled over on. “But as I said. I do what I get paid for. No more, no less.”



“You’d do anything for credits, wouldn’t you?” Boba Fett could see his own reflection, doubled in the small mirrors of the accountant’s resentfully burning eyes. The image he saw was of a full helmet, battered

and discolored, yet completely functional; his face was concealed by the narrow, T-shaped visor. His combat gear bristled with armaments, from shin to wrist; the tapered nose of a directional rocket protruded from behind one shoulder. A walking arsenal, a humanoid figure built out of machines. The lethal kind.



The reflected image nodded slowly. “That’s right,” said Boba Fett. “I do the things I’m good at, and for which I get paid the best.” He glanced down at the data readout. “It’s nothing personal.”



“Then we could make a deal.” Posondum looked up hopefully at his captor. “Couldn’t we?” “What kind of deal?” “What do you think?” The accountant stood up I and gripped the bars nearest to Fett. “You like getting paid-I know the kind of outrageous fees you charge for your services-and I like remaining alive. I’m probably as fond of that as you are of credits.” Boba Fett let his masked gaze rest upon the other’s sweating face. “You should have considered how precious your life is to you before you incurred the wrath of the Hutts. It’s a little late for regrets now.



“But it’s not too late for you to make some credits. More credits than the Hutts can pay you.” Posondum pressed his face into the bars, as though he could somehow squeeze out between them through the sheer force of his desperation. “You let me go and I’ll make it worth your while.”



“I doubt it,” said Fett coldly. “The Hutts pay excellent bounties. That’s why I like taking on their jobs.”



“And why do you think they want to get me back so badly?” Posondum’s knuckles turned white and bloodless as his fists tightened. “Just for the old ledgers I’ve got stowed away inside my head? Or just so the competition won’t find out a few little trade secrets?”



“It’s not my business as to why my clients desire certain things. Things such as yourself.” A small in dicator light pulsed on his wrist-mounted data readout; he’d have to return to the Slave I’s controls soon. “I’m just pleased that they do want them. And that they’ll pay.”



“Just like I will.” Posondum lowered his voice, though there was no one to overhear. “I took more than information when I left the Hutts. I took credits-a lot of ‘em.”