"Not as simple as that," said Boba Fett's voice, both near-right inside Bossk's head-and distant. The other bounty hunter was currently located somewhere far from this ratty watering hole; Fett might
still be aboard Slave I, out past this backwater world's atmosphere, for all Bossk knew." Do you really think our target doesn't have some kind of defenses in place? He's not a complete fool, you know."
A snarl of glowering impatience settled on Bossk's face. He resisted the urge to scratch with his heavy claws at the implanted device itching inside his head, like some kind of burrowing parasite above the hinge of his jaw. He didn't want to do anything that might give him away, even though this dump was so poorly lit as to seem like some underground cavern. The slit pupils of Bossk's eyes were dilated as wide as possible, and there were still shadowy figures, hunched over their drinks at other wobbly tables, whose features his normally sharp eyesight couldn't make out at all.
Trhin Voss'on't, though, he'd been able to spot right off, as soon as he'd descended the worn stone steps into the watering hole. The renegade Imperial stormtrooper-ex-stormtrooper, Bossk reminded himself-was right where Boba Fett's information sources had said he'd be. Bossk had to admit that when it came to tracking down hard merchandise anywhere in the galaxy, Fett had a network of contacts second to none. It was no wonder that Boba Fett had always been able to get a jump on any of the members of the old Bounty Hunters Guild, for scooping up a prize bit of merchandise and delivering it before most of the others in the business had any idea of what was going on. And when Fett had put the word out to his virtual eyes and ears, stationed on every inhabited planet, that he was looking for this former stormtrooper, it hadn't been very many Standard Time Parts before the necessary info had come back to him.
"What's our target doing?"
"Drinking," growled Bossk." What else is there to do in a dive like this?" He was able to keep his muttered responses down low enough that the miniaturized throat mike could pick them up, yet not be overheard by any of the other patrons of the establishment. And Trandoshan faces were not so expressive that anyone glancing his way, in these shadows, would be able to detect the speech motions of his scaly muzzle. He would have preferred the auditory cover of a jizz-wailer band like Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes, back at the Mos Eisley spaceport on Tatooine-that combo created such a racket, you could blow somebody away in one of the cantina booths with hardly anyone noticing. This world's hangouts were entirely too quiet for Bossk's tastes.
"I'd be drinking, too," said Bossk," if I could stomach their well hooch."
A burst of solar flare static rasped inside Bossk's head, like a swarm of Nimgorrhean saber-wasps, and loud enough that he couldn't stop himself from pressing the butt of his palm against his ear opening. That didn't do any good; Bossk winced and ground his fangs together until the noise from the implanted device faded away. It proved at least that Boba Fett and his Slave I ship were off-planet. This unattractive and remote world-Bossk had already forgotten its name-had an unstable sun, with emission bands wide enough to play havoc with all sorts of comm systems, even the expensive narrow-beam equipment that Boba Fett could afford to use. The two of them would have a hard time coordinating this operation if another flare broke the link between them at some crucial point.
". . . stay low." Boba Fett's unnaturally calm voice faded back in." Try not to draw any attention to yourself."
"I'm already doing that," snarled Bossk. Those
were the same instructions that Boba Fett had given him when he'd told him of this new plan, before he'd stuffed himself into a one-way, single-passenger drop ship and had piloted away from Fett's Slave I. The drop ship was now out in the wastelands beyond the encircling slag heaps of what had once been an Imperial mining-and-refinery colony; the fact that the mines had been abandoned as worthless didn't surprise Bossk. As he had made his way on foot, past enormous, scavenger-ready drill units, gross tonnage excavators, up-ended conveyor lines, and surrounding slag heaps, then into the midst of the shabby plastoid buildings that had become by default the planet's only inhabited zone, it had struck him that even the dirt and rocks here were of an inferior quality." So when are we going to make our move?"
"Soon enough," replied Fett." There's still a few things that have to be checked out." The voice of the distant bounty hunter spoke with infuriating patience and logic." We can't allow ourselves any mistakes. We're only going to get one shot at this guy. If we spook him and he dives into whatever escape route he's got lined up-and he's sure to have one-we won't be able to track him down again. We'll have lost him."
That possibility made Bossk's blood run even colder than its normal homeostatic temperature level. He had everything riding on this job, on bringing in Trhin Voss'on't and delivering the renegade storm-trooper to Emperor Palpatine. Whatever would happen to Voss'on't at that point, it was no concern of Bossk's; he imagined it wouldn't be pretty. The Emperor wasn't known for looking kindly upon mere failure among his ranks; actual treachery was sure to merit treatment way beyond harshness. A shudder
moved across the scales of Bossk's shoulders and spine. As ruthless, and inured to ruthlessness, as all Trandoshans were, he had nevertheless made a personal vow-long ago, at the beginning of his career as a bounty hunter-never to cross the Emperor. That way, Bossk reminded himself, lies a serious amount of grief. Let those high-minded Rebels take the beating that was so surely coming to them.
And let me, thought Bossk, collect the bounty for this piece of hard merchandise. All his plans, for freezing out the True Guild faction and re-forming the old Bounty Hunters Guild, with himself at its head, depended upon raking in that mountain of credits that Palpatine had put up for Trhin Voss'on't's hide-and the return of the codes that Voss'on't had absconded with. From long experience, and from looking inside his own reptilian heart, Bossk knew how bounty hunters' minds worked. That amount of credits could buy a lot of loyalty. There was no point in being a bounty hunter unless your nobler instincts were up for sale to the highest bidder.
Though, of course, there were high bidders. . . and then even higher bidders. Bossk took another sip of the acrid fluid in the mug before him, not even tasting the stuff as he mulled over his weighty concerns. Depends on just how many credits you have. He nodded slowly to himself. You can never have too many. Even with the enormous bounty on Trhin Voss'on't's head, there was no denying that a half share of those credits wasn't the same as getting all of it. From the beginning of this job, it had struck him as a shame that Boba Fett-who didn't have anywhere close to the need for the credits that Bossk did-was going to get such a hefty slice of the bounty. A real shame, thought Bossk. Especially considering that he was down here doing all the work and taking all the risks, within spitting distance of a dangerous ex-stormtrooper, while Boba Fett wasn't even on the planet's surface, but out beyond its atmosphere somewhere.
The contents of the mug had ignited a wet, smoldering fire in his gut; he ignored it. He had a lot to think about.
Bossk let those interwoven thoughts stew at the back of his mind, while he kept a surreptitious eye on Trhin Voss'on't. Whatever else could be said about Boba Fett, the man was right about one thing: the renegade stormtrooper must have some kind of defenses in place. It would be suicidal otherwise for Voss'on't to be sitting out here in the open like this. Bossk imagined he could feel the sloping, crudely plastered walls and the low, smoke-darkened ceiling of the watering hole pressing in on him, as though they were the disguised machinery of some Trandoshan-sized trap.