[Bounty Hunter Wars] - 01(73)

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obsequious grin on his face. “And

his conversation with the unsavory individual known as Boba Fett proceeded just as you, in your ever-present wisdom, predicted it would.”



Cradossk regarded the bobbing figure of the Twi’lek, all crouching curtsies and avarice-brightened eyes. The glistening,

bifurcate head tails of his

underling reminded him of both Nirellian ground-slugs and uncooked sausages. That notion sparked an automatic twinge of hunger in his gut-but then, most things had that effect upon him.



“Of course it did.” In his own luxuriously appointed quarters, Cradossk fidgeted with the heavy straps of his normal business garb, the fabrics a minor-keyed visual symphony in somber yet tasteful grays and blacks. The gaudier robes he’d worn at the banquet welcoming Boba Fett to the Guild had been hung by the majordomo in a vacuum-maintained, humidity-controlled closet. “Things go as I predict them, not because of any wisdom I might possess, but because of a tiresome lack of wisdom on other creatures’ parts.”



“Your Worshipfulness is entirely too modest.”



Ob Fortuna worked his way around Cradossk, pale and clammy hands darting out to make some final adjustments to his employer’s everyday outfit. “Would I have foreseen such things? Or your illustrious colleagues on the Guild council? Not very likely.”



“That’s because you and they are fools alike.” The thought depressed Cradossk; all the burdens of leadership weighed upon his shoulders. There was no one to help him guide the Bounty Hunters Guild through these perilous shoals, in which conspiratorial enemies thronged like pack sharks. Not even his own son. Spawn of my seed, Cradossk mused gloomily. It just showed that

true rapacious savvy was derived more from experience than genetics. I shouldn’t have been so easy on him, when he was just a little reptile.



“Someone else is here to see you.” The majordomo made a few more final adjustments to Cradossk’s garb. “Did you call for him? Should I grant him admittance?”



“Yes to both questions.” The fawning Twi’lek was getting on his nerves. “And it’s a private matter. So your presence is not required.”



The majordomo ushered in the bounty hunter Zuckuss, then disappeared on the other side of the door he closed behind himself.



Of all the younger, rawer bounty hunters who’d gained admittance to the Guild, Zuckuss had always seemed one of the least suited for the trade. Cradossk gazed at the breathing-masked figure in front of him and wondered why any rational creature would place himself at such risk; it was like a child playing a dangerous adult game, where the wagers were one’s own life and the forfeits were measured out in pain and death. His original motivation for pushing Zuckuss, with that less-than-imposing stature and dangling tubes of breathing-assistance apparatus, onto Bossk had been to give his son an easily disposable partner, someone who could be sacrificed in a tight situation with little regret or loss to the organization. There were more where Zuckuss came from; would-be bounty hunters, with inflated notions about their own skills and toughness, were always lining up at the Guild’s doors. This particular situation had changed, though; Cradossk had another use for young Zuckuss.



“I came as quickly as I could.” Zuckuss was visibly nervous. And audibly: the breath tubes curving at the bottom of his face mask fluttered. “I hope it isn’t anything that-“



“Calm yourself.” Cradossk lowered himself into a folding campaign chair made of femurs reinforced with durasteel rods. “If you were in any kind of trouble, believe me, you’d know about it already.”



Zuckuss didn’t appear reassured. He glanced over his shoulder, as though the door of the chamber had been a trap mechanism snapping shut.



“Actually, there’s nothing wrong at all.” The bones of the chair were worn smooth beneath Cradossk’s palms. “Much of what you’ve done has met with my approval.”



“Really?” Zuckuss turned his gaze back toward the Guild leader.



“Of course,” lied Cradossk. “I have had reports concerning you. My son Bossk is not easily impressed-that is, with anyone other than himself. But he spoke quite highly of you. The business with that accountant … what was his name?”



“That was Posondum.” Zuckuss gave a quick nod. “Nil Posondum. It’s really a shame that didn’t go better. We nearly had him.”



Clawed hands spread wide, Cradossk’s shrug was both elaborate and soothing. “One does the best one can. Not everything happens the way it should.” To say something like that required genuine acting ability on his part. “Bad luck can happen to anyone.” Inside himself, Cradossk still felt like pulling off both his son’s and Zuckuss’s heads for screwing up that job so badly. Boba Fett had made complete fools out of both of them, and then repeated the ignominy when he’d slipped past them to come sailing into the Bounty Hunters Guild headquarters. “Don’t worry about it. There’ll be other times, other chances. There’s always another piece of merchandise.”