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Boba Fett climbed the ladder to the interstellar craft's cockpit, his own
boots ringing on the treads. The new job that he had taken on, this scheme of
the assembler Kud'ar Mub'at, was about to commence. Soon there would be more
payments to add to his account. . . .
And more deaths to be forgotten.
7
NOW
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"I want to see him." The female had a gaze as sharp and cold as a bladed
weapon. "And to talk to him."
Dengar could barely recognize her. He remembered her from Jabba's palace; she
had been one of the obese Hutt's troupe of dancing girls. Jabba had liked
pretty things, regarding them as exquisite delicacies for his senses, like the
wriggling food he'd stuffed down his capacious gullet. And just as with those
squirming tidbits, Jabba had savored the death of the young and beautiful. The
pet rancor, in its bone-lined cavern beneath the palace, had merely been an
extension of Jabba's appetites. Dengar had witnessed one of the other dancing
girls, a frightened little Twi'lek named Oola, being ripped apart by the claws
of the beast. That had been before Luke Skywalker had killed the rancor,
followed sometime later by its owner's death. No great loss, thought Dengar.
With either one of them.
"Why?" Leaning against the rocky wall of his hiding place's main chamber, he
kept a safe distance from the female. "He's not exactly a brilliant
conversationalist at the moment."
Her name was Neelah; she had told him that much when he had caught her
sneaking down the sloping tunnel from the surface. He had gotten the drop on
her, catching her off guard from behind a stack of empty supply crates.
With her throat in the crook of his arm, as Dengar's other hand had painfully
bent her wrist up toward her shoulder blades, she'd answered a few questions
for him.
And then she had caught him in the shin with a hard, fast back kick, followed
by a knee to the groin that had sent a small constellation of stars to the top
of his skull.
"That's personal." They were in a standoff now, glaring at each other from
across the cramped space. "I
have my own business with him."
What business would an ex-dancing girl have with a bounty hunter? Especially
one as close to death as Boba
Fett was right now. Maybe, mused Dengar, she thinks she can get a discount
from him, since he's so messed up.
Though who would she want him to track down?
He glanced over to the doorway of the hiding place's other chamber. "What
condition is our guest in today?"
The taller medical droid tilted its head unit to study the display of vital
signs mounted on its own cylindrical body. "The patient's condition is
stable,"
announced SHS1-B. "The prognosis is unchanged from its previous trauma-scan
indices of point zero zero twelve."
"Which means?" "He's dying."
That was another question Why couldn't these fnarling droids just say what
they meant? He'd had to bang this one around until the solenoids had rattled
inside its carapace just to get it to speak this much of
a plain Basic.
"Wounds," added SHSl-B's shorter companion.
"Severity." le-XE gave a slow back-and-forth rotation of its top dome.
"Not-goodness."
"Whatever." Dengar was looking forward to being rid of this irritating pair.
That would come with either Boba
Fett's death-or his recovery. Which was looking increasingly less likely.
"If that's the case," said Neelah, "then you're wasting my time. I need to
talk to him right now."
"Well, that's sweet of you." Arms folded across his chest, Dengar nodded as he
regarded her. "You're not really concerned with whether some bounty hunter
pitches it or not. You just want to pump him for some kind of information.
Right?"
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She made no reply, but Dengar could tell that his words had struck home. The
look the female gave him was even more murderous than before. A lot had
changed since she'd been one of Jabba's fetching playthings; even in this
little time the harsh winds of Tatooine's Dune Sea had scoured her flesh
leaner and tauter, the heat of the double suns darkening her skin. What had
been soft, nubile flesh, revealed by gossamer silks, was now concealed by the
coarse, bloodstained trousers and sleeveless jacket that she must have
scavenged from the corpse of one of Jabba's bodyguards; a thick leather belt,
its attached holster empty, cinched the uniform tight to her waist and
hunger-carved belly.
Starving, thought Dengar. She had to be; the Dune Sea didn't exactly abound
with protein sources. "Here-"
Keeping an eye on her, Dengar reached into one of the crates and dug out a bar [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]