[Bounty Hunter Wars] - 01(38)

“Look there-” Zuckuss pointed to the one viewport still functioning, set at an angle from the Hound’s midsection.



Sitting in the middle of the cockpit floor, Bossk looked over his shoulder at the screen. A fiery course of light, with a too-familiar shape at its head, shot across the field of stars.



“That’s the Slave I,” said Zuckuss. Unnecessarily-any fool would have known that much. “The real ship.”



“Of course it is, you idiot.” If Bossk had had a wrench in his claws, he would have been torn between throwing it at his partner or at the screen, as though he could somehow hit Boba Fett’s ship with it. “That was the whole point, with the decoy and the bomb.” The Slave I was already dwindling away, heading for the perimeter station of the Bounty Hunters Guild. “Fett knew somebody would be waiting for him.”



“Apparently so.” Zuckuss gave a slow nod of his head. “Somebody like him … he’s got a lot of enemies.”



“He doesn’t have any fewer now.” Bossk glared at the empty screen. You made one mistake, he told the vanished Boba Fett. You should’ve used a bigger bomb. One that would have killed instead of merely humiliated. Bossk-and his hunger for revenge-was still alive.



Another quick burst of sparks shot from behind the screen. A knot of tangled circuits, welded together and emitting smoke, dangled bobbing from one of the overhead panels. The image of the stars blanked out and was gone.



“Come on,” said Bossk. He stood up, then reached down to pull Zuckuss to his feet. “We’ve got work to do.”





9


Everything was settled by the time Cradossk’s son finally showed up.



Boba Fett could tell that the younger Trandoshan was not in a good mood as he strode into the council chamber of

the

Bounty Hunters Guild. Failed assassination attempts often had that effect on sentient creatures. There really was nothing worse than making the decision to kill someone else, and then not being able to bring it off. All the emotions associated with violence, mused Fett. He had never experienced them, himself, but knew that others did. And none of the benefits. It was sad, really.



The council’s long, crescent-shaped table had been set

for

a celebratory banquet. One of Cradossk’s scurrying servants had set a crystalline goblet, the mingled shades of cobalt and amethyst within revealing the expense of the vintage it contained, in front of Boba Fett. He had touched the dark liquid with a gloved fingertip, just enough to send a few ripples across its surface. Etiquette demanded that much; anything less, and the old reptilian sprawled next to him would have been offended. If other sentient creatures wished to deal in hollow symbols rather than reality, it made no difference to Fett. Cradossk and all the other Guild elders could befuddle themselves with strong drink, if they wished; this goblet’s contents would remain un-tasted.



He watched as the tall, arched doors of the council chamber were shoved open, the gilded and gem-encrusted panels flying to either side as Bossk stormed in. Servants bearing flagons and laden platters scattered in all directions; anger-ridden Trandoshans were notoriously rough on the hired help.



“Ah, my son and heir!” Cradossk was already well on the way to inebriation. His age-blunted fangs were mottled with wine stains, and his yellow-slitted eyes gazed with blurry affection at his spawn. “I was hoping you’d be here for the festivities.” More wine slopped down Cradossk’s scaled arm and from his elbow as he lifted his own goblet high. “We’ll tell the musicians to strike up the old songs, the ones our spawn-fathers knew, and we’ll do the lizard dance all around the courtyard-“



The

goblet went clattering across the chamber’s terrazzo floor, the wine a ragged pennant on the inlaid tiles, as Bossk knocked it from his sire’s hand with one swing of his clawed hand. Across the high-ceilinged space of the chamber, hung with the empty combat gear and other trophies taken off the Guild’s long-ago enemies, silence fell. The collective gaze of the council members turned toward their chief and his enraged offspring.



“Your manners,” said Cradossk softly, “are severely lacking. As usual.”



Boba Fett had had enough experience with Trandoshans over the years to know what a bad sign it was when their voices went low and ominous like that. When they shouted and

snarled, they were ready to kill. When

they whispered, they were ready to kill everything.

He carefully shifted away from Cradossk’s side so as not to be in the way if the old reptilian decided to leap over the table and tear out his only son’s throat.