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bursting out of the access ports, sizzled across both bounty hunters.
A few seconds later silence filled the Hound's Tooth.
The smell of burning circuitry hung acrid in the air, mixed with the steam of
the ship's automatic fire-dousing units. A few last sparks stung Zuckuss, and
he slapped at them with his heavily gloved hands.
"We'll be here awhile." Bossk didn't need to do a preliminary damage
assessment on the Hound to know that.
Until the navigation modules were rigged back into some kind of operating
order, he and Zuckuss were stuck in this remote sector of space. If
Trandoshans had any capacity for the emotion of gratitude, he would have been
glad that the sequential bomb hadn't torn the Hound's
Tooth into bits. He and Zuckuss would have been dead instead of merely adrift.
As it was, he just felt a deep irritation over how much work it was going to
take to put his ship back together again, with the tools and probes that were
now undoubtedly scattered all over the en gineering lockers.
"Look there-" Zuckuss pointed to the one viewport still functioning, set at an
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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-blu nted 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
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