THE HUTT GAMBI(50)

Calrissian was already loading the injector again, this time with the other vial, the blue one. He shook the bounty hunter, who groaned and stirred. “He’s coming around, so here goes nothing,” he grunted. Han, who had reappropriated his blaster, kept the bounty hunter covered while Calrissian lifted the front of Fett’s helmet, exposing his throat. The bounty hunter suddenly struggled violently. “Freeze!” Han ordered, holding the blaster against his helmet. “This isn’t set on stun, Fett,” he snarled. “After what you almost did to me, I’d cheerfully disintegrate you.”

Boba Fett lay quiet as Calrissian shoved the injector against his neck and triggered it.

Moments later Fett shivered. “Lie still,” Calrissian ordered.

The bounty hunter obeyed. Han and Lando grinned at each other ˇ . .

slow, nasty grins.

“All right, sit up,” Calrissian said.

Boba Fett did as he was told.

“You know what we ought to do,” Calrissian said thoughtfully. “If we had any idea of how long this stuff stays in the system, I’d say take him down to one of the local bars for a couple of hours and collect fees from folks who’d pay well to humiliate this guy. He’s taken a lot of bounties. He’s got to have lots of enemies.”

“He said it would last several hours. There’s no way to tell exactly,” Han pointed out. Personally, he wanted nothing more than to get as far away from Fett and Slave I as he could. For a moment he considered ordering Fett to march himself across the permacrete and down an airshaft, but a moment’s reflection convinced him that even though it might be the smart thing to do, he just couldn’t do it. Killing someone in a blaster fight was one thing, but callously ordering a sentient to kill himself—even when that sentient was a scummy bounty hunter—was quite another.

“True.” Calrissian stood up. “Well, I think maybe my first idea is the best one. Stand up, Boba Fett,” he commanded. The bounty hunter stood up.

“Disarm yourself. Now.”

Minutes later Han and Lando regarded a largish pile of assorted weaponry of all different kinds that lay before them on the sunlit permacrete.

“Minions of Xendor,” Han said, shaking his head, “this guy could have set up shop with just what he had on him. Lookit those Mandalorian wristlets.

Bet the darts are poisoned, too.”

“One way to find out,” said Lando. “Boba Fett, answer me. Are these darts poisoned?”

“Some of them,” the bounty hunter replied. “Which ones?” “Left wristlet.”

“What’s on the right wristlet darts?”

“Soporific.”

“Nice,” Han said, fingering the wristlets carefully. “These oughta be worth quite a bit to a collector. So, now … what do we do with him?”

“I think we set his autopilot to blast out of here, and set a course for some far system. Then we order him not to interfere with the course we’ve set. If this stuff takes hours to wear off, by the time it does, he could be sectors away.” Calrissian paused. “He’s killed so many people, I’m almost tempted to just shoot him. But I’ve never killed anyone in cold blood like that.” He frowned, almost seeming embarrassed. “I’m not eager to start now, I have to admit.”

“Me, too,” Han said. “Your plan sounds fine. Let’s get him aboard.”

Obediently, Boba Fett opened up his ship, and the three of them walked into Slave I. Han and Lando strapped Fett into one of the passenger seats.

“Are you a pilot?” Han asked.

“No, I’m not,” Calrissian admitted. “Matter of fact, that’s why I was looking for you. I need to hire a pilot.”

“You got one,” Han said. “Anything I can do to help you out. Like I said, I owe you, pal.”

“We’ll talk about that later. Let’s get rid of our friend here.”

Han quickly set the autopilot to take the ship up, and prerecorded all the necessary responses Slave I would need to make to Nar Shaddaa’s sector traffic control. Then he chose a course that would take Slave I clear across Imperial space in a series of bewildering hyperspace jumps. With any luck, Boba Fett would be unable to regain control until he was tens of thousands of parsecs away.

“We’re ready,” Han said, finally. “She’ll lift in three minutes.”

“Okay.”

Lando turned back to the helpless bounty hunter. “Fett, listen to me, and do exactly what I say. You are to sit in this seat, strapped in, and not go near the controls of your ship until you reach the destination Solo has set for it, or until your obedience drug wears off, whichever comes first. Do you understand?”