As was Gleed Otondon. That scum, brooded Bossk. Otondon had been one of old Cradossk's chief advisors, a power on the ruling council of the Bounty Hunters Guild. Then he had become the head negotiator for the True Guild splinter group. For all Bossk knew, Otondon might well have been the absolute leader of the True Guild all along, the one that the other old-timers had looked to for their marching orders. If so, Otondon had pulled a fast one on them as welclass="underline" Bossk knew the whereabouts of all the bounty hunters still alive, the young ones and the old-timers who hadn't yet managed to kill one another off, and none of them showed any signs of having that kind of credits on them. They were all scrabbling to survive, now that the Guild and its off-shoots were no more. The only one that couldn't be lo-cated, either alive or in his grave, was Gleed Otondon. He had conveniently vanished—conveniently for him-self, that was; if Bossk had been able to get his hands on him, he would have torn out Otondon's throat and most of his internal organs in pursuit of the stolen Guild treasury.
The kind of disappearance that Otondon had under gone took credits, a lot of them; the galaxy was stuffed with informants and squealers, and none of them had a clue as to Otondon's whereabouts. Bossk didn't even bother asking Eobbim Figh sitting across from him whether there had been any word in these parts about the missing bounty hunter; that kind of news would only reach Tatooine long after it was common knowledge everywhere else.
"No talk Gleed Otondon? All those credits?" Figh made a show of feigning sympathy for Bossk. "Can under-stand. More bad luck for you, eh?" He gave a slow shake of his head. "Silence preferred, no surprise."
"I'll take care of Gleed Otondon when the time comes," said Bossk. "He'll have his turn. But not right now. I've got other things on my agenda."
"No—one thing." Figh smiled. "Boba Fett."
The Mhingxin had read that much right, as though Bossk's anger had written the other bounty hunter's name on his scale-covered brow. The image of Fett's narrow-visored helmet, battered and dented, but still as awesomely functional as when it had shielded some long-ago Mandalorian warrior, filled Bossk's gaze when he squeezed his eyelids shut. He had never seen Boba Fett's actual face—very few creatures had, and lived to tell about it—but Bossk could still vividly imagine how the blood would seep from beneath that helmet's hard gaze as he crushed the other's neck in his bare hands. Right now, here in the Mos Eisley cantina, his fists clenched tighter, talons digging into his palms, as he yearned to make the vision of Boba Fett's death a reality. That vision, that death, was all that Bossk could think of; the thirst for revenge, like burning acid poured down his throat, seeped through every fiber of his being. As much as he hated and despised the vanished Gleed Otondon for having stolen from him, that was a matter of mere credits. For a Trandoshan, wealth meant nothing com-pared to honor. And that was what Boba Fett had stolen from him.
"My reputation," said Bossk, ominous and quiet. "That's what he took. Over and over and over..."
"Reputation? Yours?" Another gale of squealing laugh-ter came from Figh. "Such doesn't exist. Not anymore. Zero on any scale, what creatures think of you."
A galling realization broke over Bossk. He's not afraid of me —he looked across the table at the Mhingxin with something like horror. That was how much his own reputation had diminished; that was the ultimate conse-quence of his continuing series of defeats at the hands of Boba Fett. A scurrying sentient rodent such as Eobbim Figh could laugh at him, without apparent fear. The humiliation of that fact was like a flood of ice water dumped on the fires of his anger. And more than humilia-tion: if fear hadn't shown itself in the creature sitting across from him in the booth, its dark flower now rose inside himself.
How can I survive? For a moment, that thought blot-ted out all others in Bossk's mind. He had his own list, one that he had never before paid much attention to, of creatures in the galaxy that had reason to hold a grudge against him. In his own bounty hunter career, back when the Guild had still been in existence, he had bought his personal triumphs at the cost of stepping on a lot of other hunters' toes, stealing hard merchandise out from under their noses and handing out other humiliations, just as if none of the others would ever have a chance of retribution at him. That list was probably as long as Boba Fett's—perhaps longer, considering that more of them were still alive. Creatures who wound up running afoul of Boba Fett also had a way of winding up dead, their grievances buried with them.
The other difference, between his list of enemies and Boba Fett's, was that only a few, and those the most foolhardy ones, would take a shot at getting satisfaction from Fett. Better to sit on one's grudges rather than give Boba Fett any more reasons for eliminating someone else from the universe of the living. If Bossk had still been in any way rational on the subject of the long-hated Boba Fett, that would have been the advice he'd have given to himself. The same kind of warning no longer held for any of Bossk's own enemies, especially now that it had been demonstrated to the entire galaxy, over and over, that he could be bested in a confronta-tion. Any other bounty hunter who might have previ-ously had second thoughts about settling accounts with Bossk would now be having third thoughts about the matter—and deciding to act on them. If Bossk hadn't had a good reason for keeping a low profile before, that one would do for now.
"When creatures think zero," continued Figh, "chances of death high. For you."
One corner of Bossk's muzzle lifted in a snarl. "Tell me something I don't know."
Figh stroked the stiff whiskers of his pointed snout. "So not matter of mere emotion, your grudge against Boba Fett. More important. Squatting aquatic avian, un-til proved that killer stuff in you. Somebody get, sooner, later. Too bad. Only way to get respect of others back, plus keep skin intact, take down Boba Fett. Nothing else do."
He knew Eobbim Figh was right about that. There was a lot more at stake than just his honor and repu-tation. Once word got out that he was stuck here on Tatooine—and it would, no matter how many gos-sipy street beggars he killed—then he'd be a target for all those other bounty hunters. Some of them might even have conceived the notion that he, rather than Gleed Otondon, was sitting on the treasury from the old Bounty Hunters Guild. That would add a financial motive—always an effective one for bounty hunters— to their personal ones, for seeking him out, murder in mind.
"Wait a minute." Bossk peered suspiciously at Figh. "How do you know Boba Fett's still live?"
"Simple." Figh mimed a shrug. "Open data, one like you. Can see through all way. Brooding on failures, humiliations—very unlike. Heard about, before your ar-rival here, even. To get under scales that bad, only possible for Boba Fett. Your long-standing rivalry well known, everywhere. If Fett really dead, you a happy Trandoshan. Happy as Trandoshans can get. Brood, sulk, you know that Fett alive. What you know, I know. Or can guess." Figh's imitation smile showed. "Guess proved right, just now."
Bossk nodded. "You're pretty smart," he said. "For a Mhingxin."
The comment got the reaction he expected—and wanted. Figh's coarse, spiky fur bristled across his neck and shoulders. "Smarter than you," spat Figh. "Not waiting to get killed, sitting around. Like you."