“You are wasting time,” announced SHSl-B from within the suddenly revealed space beyond the rocks and settling dust.
The
medical
droid had
busied
itself
by disconnecting the various tubes and monitoring wires that had been hooked up to Boba Fett. “Therapeutic protocols render it imperative that the patient be removed from these unsafe premises at once.”
Lying on the pallet, Boba Fett had lapsed back into unconsciousness, either from the crashing impact of the bombing raid or from an anesthetic dose administered by the medical droid. Dengar and Neelah scrambled over the rocks; each took one end of the pallet and lifted, hoisting Fett high enough to carry out into the hiding place’s main chamber.
“Wait a second.” After they were clear, Neelah set down her end of the pallet and climbed back into what remained of the subchamber space. Cracks spidered across its ceiling, showering down more dust and loose stones as the sharp, percussive hammer strokes from above grew louder. Neelah emerged a second later with Boba Fett’s scoured and dented helmet and combat gear; she piled it on top of the unconscious bounty hunter, then grabbed hold of the pallet again. “Okay, let’s go.”
They both collapsed in exhaustion when they had reached the safety of the lower, Sarlacc-dug tunnels. The two medical droids fretted over their patient as Dengar and Neelah sprawled back against the fused-smooth walls curving around them. From here, the bombing raid sounded as though it were happening on some other, unluckier world.
“What’s that smell?” Neelah wrinkled her nose as she turned her gaze toward the darkness and the stench of the tunnel’s lower reaches.
Dengar lifted the lantern he had managed to scavenge hastily from the hiding place’s equipment. Its feeble glow extended a few meters into the dark before being swallowed up. “Probably the Sarlacc,” he said. “Or what’s left of it. The part that could be seen in the Great Pit of Carkoon was just its head and mouth; it had tentacles extending all through the rock. Some say as far as the edges of the Dune Sea. When our friend here blew out the Sarlacc’s gut”- Dengar pointed with his thumb to Boba Fett on the pallet-“there was a lot of dead beast left rotting down here. You can’t expect something like that to smell too good, you know.”
The
stench of decay grew worse, as though the vibration of the surface bombing had shaken open a buried pustule. Neelah’s face paled, then she quickly scrambled to her knees and hurried to a farther bend of the tunnel. The sounds of gagging and retching traveled back to Dengar.
She’s not used to this sort of thing, mused Dengar. Or some part of her wasn’t; something held in the darkness and hidden memory inside her. That intrigued him. A mere dancing girl, a pretty servant in the court of Jabba the Hutt, would have gotten accustomed to the smell of death quickly enough; it had pervaded the walls of Jabba’s palace, seeping up from the rancor pit beneath the throne room. Hutts in general liked that smell; it was one of the more loathsome characteristics of their species to revel in a constant olfactory reminder that they were alive and their enemies, and the objects of their lethal amusements, were dead and rotting beneath them. That, among other things, was why Dengar had considered employment with the late Jabba or any of the other members of his clan as a choice of last resort. Especially so after Dengar had found Manaroo-and his love for
her. How could one return to that being who represented one’s essence, an almost forgotten purity and grace, with the stink of dead, defeated flesh wrapped around oneself? It was impossible.
It seemed impossible for this Neelah to endure as well. She had the temperament of one born to the galaxy’s nobility, a bloodline accustomed to command and the obedience of others. Dengar had noted that, just from the way she had faced him down in their first encounter. Anyone else who had gone through the unsavory rigors of Jabba’s court, followed by unprotected exposure to the Dune
Sea,
would have quailed before the
obvious superiority of Dengar’s strength and weaponry. But some spark of courage inside Neelah had burned even brighter under those conditions, fierce enough to have burned his outstretched hand, if he had dared to touch her.
That aristocratic strain was apparent in the female’s face as well, even darkened and toughened as it was by the lash of the double suns and the scouring of the Dune Sea’s hot, razorlike winds. She’ll be trouble, Dengar already knew. He’d had enough on his hands before she had come along, but with her presence added to the equation, the result was increased exponentially.
Neelah returned, face even paler in the glow from the single lantern. “I’m sorry,” she said.