Hard Merchandise

6

"What's he doing?" The comm specialist leaned closer to the Vendetta's forward viewport, scanning the sector ahead. "It's amazing, Your Excellency—he must be still alive!"

Prince Xizor wasn't amazed. Standing at the bridge's controls, with one hand still resting upon the laser can-nons' target acquisition module, he watched as, in the star-filled distance, the ship known as Slave I fired up its remaining thruster engine and started to move. Another screen, smaller and mounted to the side of the viewport, showed the damage-assessment scan that had been run on the target: a complete schematic showed in glowing red the operational systems that had already shut down. There were only a few—the one engine, basic naviga-tional equipment, life support in the cockpit area—that still appeared in the green that indicated ongoing func-tions. Crippled, but slowly gathering speed, Boba Fett's ship had some of its own life left in it yet.

"He's hard to kill," said Xizor with a slow, admiring nod of his head. He liked that in a sentient creature; it made the final victory over one of them so much sweeter. Too many of the galaxy's denizens, on whatever remote systems they could be found or on the homeworlds in the Empire's center, gave up all too easily when they per-ceived the hand of the Black Sun about to set its grasp upon their throats. Deep within himself, Xizor possessed the characteristic Falleen disdain for those too weak to put up a struggle, even when facing certain death. For a Falleen, that was the moment when the struggle should be at its keenest, when there was no hope of extending one's life even by a single heartbeat. Xizor had suspected for a long time, from when he had first envisioned the scheme in which Boba Fett was now fatally enmeshed, that the bounty hunter would not disappoint him in this regard. "Hard to kill,"Xizor mused aloud once more. "A very worthy prey. But then ..." He turned his head and smiled at the comm specialist standing beside him.

"A true hunter would be."

The comm specialist appeared nervous, with a sheen of sweat upon his brow. As with the rest of the operations crew, arrayed at their posts in the Vendetta's bridge, he was understandably eager that his master's wishes, espe-cially in something as important as this, would not go unfulfilled. At the same time none of them had the same innate confidence in the outcome of the pursuit that Xi-zor himself did. Which is as it should be, thought Xizor with satisfaction. Keeps them on their toes.

"Excuse me, Your Excellency"—the comm specialist raised a hand and pointed toward the high, concave sur-face of the central viewport—"but Boba Fett's ship— Slave I—its velocity is increasing." He glanced over at the readout numbers on one of the tracking monitors. "Rather substantially, in fact. Perhaps it's time to finish him off. Otherwise ..." The tech's shoulders rose in a ticlike shrug. "He might actually get away."

"Calm yourself." The corner of Xizor's mouth twisted in a contemptuous sneer. "Your fears are groundless." That was one more emotional response that provoked scorn in a Falleen noble. "Where exactly do you think Boba Fett could run to? You can see for yourself that his ship no longer has the capability of making a jump into hyperspace." Xizor pointed to the damage-assessment screen. "Even if he could—were he foolish enough to try it—the stress would blow that poor wreck into atoms. No ..." Xizor gave another slow shake of his head. "There's nothing to worry about now. We may bring his futile struggle to an end at our leisure."

He could tell that the comm specialist was uncon-vinced, as well as the others surrounding him on the bridge. They did not possess the greatness of spirit to sa-vor a moment such as this. A legend dies, mused Xizor, and it means nothing to them.

For Boba Fett was precisely that, a dark legend. One whose exploits had been for so long a source of fear and envy—and all the other spirit-lessening emotions that sentient creatures could inflict upon themselves—in every shadowed corner of the galaxy. Even though Boba Fett's death had not been the primary aim of all of Xi-zor's plotting and scheming, it was still an undeniable benefit to become the author of his demise. In the unspo-ken rules of the great, deadly game played among hunters, no prize was more desirable than the blood of an oppo-nent upon one's hands.

Xizor looked past the image of Boba Fett's ship to the stars beyond. And someday—the thought burned within his breast—that blood will be from other opponents, even greater and more deadly than Boba Fett. The time would come when he would place his boot sole upon the neck of another helmeted figure, one who had long been the target of his hatred. If the web that Xizor spun had resulted in Boba Fett's destruction, that was only a by-product of the scheme meant to crush Lord Darth Vader. And when that vengeful goal had been accomplished ...

After vengeance came ambition. Which for Prince Xi-zor was just as limitless. It was something that withered old fool Emperor Palpatine would discover too late to save himself. The mystical Force, which Xizor had felt more than once squeeze the breath from his throat, would not be enough to forestall that day of triumph for Black Sun and its commander.

Some things, thought Xizor with a thin smile, are more powerful than any Force. And over those things— fear, vengeance, greed, and so much else—his command extended as well.

Even the most pleasant meditations had to end even-tually. Xizor brought his thoughts back from that future, glittering like light from a honed vibroblade, and re-turned it to those concerns over which his underlings fretted. "Let us proceed," said Xizor. He gestured to one of the weapons techs standing behind him. "Reaccess previous target and prepare to fire."

"Your Excellency ..." The comm specialist sounded even more nervous than before. "That... that might not be such a good idea ..."

Fearful insubordination angered Prince Xizor as thor-oughly as any other kind. His heavy cape swung out-ward from his shoulders as he whirled about to face the other man, already cringing before the onslaught of his wrath. The violet tinge of his eyes darkened to a color closer to that of spilled blood as he pinned the comm spe-cialist with his fiercely heated gaze. "You dare," said Xi-zor, the lowered tone of his voice more intimidating than any increase in volume could have been, "to question my orders?"

"No! Of course not, Your Excellency—" The comm specialist actually took a step backward, hands raised as though to fend off a blow. A look of controlled panic swept around the faces of the other staff on the bridge. "It's just thuh-that—" Stammering, the technician pointed with one hand to the viewport behind Xizor. "The situa-tion has changed somewhat... suh-since you last looked at it..."

Brow creased, Xizor turned back to the viewport. He saw immediately what the comm specialist was refer-ring to, even before the other man could manage an explanation.

"You see, Your Excellency . .. Boba Fett has maneu-vered his ship so that it's directly between ourselves and the web of Kud'ar Mub'at..."

The situation would have been obvious to any eye, let alone one as skilled in strategic matters as Prince Xizor's. Beyond the image of the ship Slave I in the viewport, the larger mass of the arachnoid assembler's drifting, self-constructed home and place of business could be seen, like a shabby, elongated artificial asteroid.

"To fire off any laser-cannon bolts now, Your Excel-lency, would be highly inadvisable." The comm special-ist had summoned up his last reserves of courage; his voice sounded a little less shaky. "Any evasive maneu-vers on Boba Fett's part might result in the bolts striking Kud'ar Mub'at's web instead." The comm specialist shrugged and spread his hands, palms upward. "Of course, that would be up to you to decide, as to whether to risk it or not. But given the ongoing business relations between Black Sun and the assembler—"

"Yes, yes; refrain from explanation." Xizor irritably waved off the underling. "You don't need to remind me about all that." Sending a few laser-cannon bolts through Kud'ar Mub'at itself, and not just the assembler's messily conglomerated web, would not have been any cause for grief; Xizor had already decided upon the elimination of this business associate, whose entangling concerns had grown so inconvenient. But to do so in this way, with all the repercussions that would follow from it becoming known throughout the galaxy that Black Sun had a short and fatal way with those that served them, would cripple Xizor's further plans. Beyond that, the new ally that Xi-zor had slated to replace Kud'ar Mub'at was also inside the assembler's web—Xizor had no intention of losing so potentially valuable a creature as Balancesheet, the crafty little accountant subnode that had declared its indepen-dence from it creator. "Hold your fire," Xizor instructed the weapons systems techs behind him.

The comm specialist had put one hand to his ear, lis-tening to a subaudible message being patched through the cochlear implant inside his skull. "Your Excellency—" he said, looking up at Xizor. "Kud'ar Mub'at has made direct contact with us. He wishes to have a word with you."

All I need, thought Xizor irritably. "Very well—put it through."

He listened to Kud'ar Mub'at's high-pitched, nerve-grating voice through the speaker mounted above the bridge's central control panel. "My so-esteemed Prince Xizor," came the assembler's voice. "Of course, as al-ways, boundless is my trust in your wisdom and abilities. Never would I doubt the propriety of any action that was initiated by your spotless hands—"

"Get on with it," growled Xizor. The panel micro-phone picked up his words and relayed them on a tight-beam connection to the web drifting in the distance, beyond Boba Fett's ship. "I've got more urgent things to take care of than listening to you." He kept an eye on the viewport and the image of Boba Fett's ship, still gather-ing speed.

"Very well," sniffed the assembler. Xizor could imag-ine it on its nest in the web, folding multiple jointed limbs more tightly around its pallid, wobbling abdomen. "Your display of temperament is perhaps understand-able, but it does not diminish the admiration I—"

"Either say what you want of me or be silent."

The tone of the assembler's voice turned sour and sulky. "As you wish, Xizor. How is this for bluntness: you must be an idiot to have begun firing upon Boba Fett in open space. Do Falleens have no capacity for discre-tion? This entire sector is under constant observation be-cause of the presence of my web here. Must I remind you that others are very likely watching? Some of those watchers are business associates of mine, or those with whom I might wish to do business at some time. I realize that your reputation would be enhanced by publicly eliminating the so-esteemed Boba Fett—but what about my reputation?" Kud'ar Mub'at's voice grew louder from the panel speaker. "I certainly would prefer to have crea-tures killed rather than pay the money I owe them—don't mistake me about that—but I would prefer if it didn't be-come widely known that this sort of thing happens to them. Pray tell, who's going to do business with me if they think they're going to wind up dead?"

"Don't worry about it," replied Prince Xizor. Only a portion of his attention was given to the conversation with the absent assembler. "You can tell anyone you want that Boba Fett's death had nothing to do with you."

"Oh, but of course." The voice coming from the speaker was tinged with sarcasm. "It just happened that he got blown to atoms while he was bringing a piece of hard merchandise to me, a piece for which I'd have to hand over a pretty sum of credits. Creatures will believe that, all right."

"Let them believe whatever they will. You've got more pressing concerns right now."

"What?" Kud'ar Mub'at sounded puzzled. "To what are you referring, Xizor?"

"Simple enough." His own admiration for Boba Fett had increased, now that he could see what the bounty hunter was up to. "Your 'business associate,' for whom you've expressed such concern—Boba Fert—he's headed right your way."

"Well, of course he is. He's got merchandise to deliver—"

"I'm afraid you don't understand." Bestowing bad news on another sentient creature was a minor diversion that paled next to murder and plunder, but it was one from which Xizor could still derive some pleasure. "Or perhaps more likely, you simply have no awareness of what condition his ship Slave I is in. But we've already done a complete damage assessment. So you can believe me, Kud'ar Mub'at, when I tell you—Boba Fett's not go-ing to be able to stop."

"But... but that's absurd!"

"No," said Xizor. "It's actually rather clever of him. He's burning up the last remaining thruster engine aboard his ship, and he's already achieved a considerable ve-locity. It's a tribute to his piloting skills that he's able to keep Slave I—what's left of it—on a steady course, at that speed. But what Boba Fett can't do now—no one would be able to—is bring Slave I to a halt before it crashes into your web. From our scanning of his ship, we know that all of his braking rockets are out of commis-sion. Which, of course, is something that he knows as well."

A wordless, panicked shriek came over the comm unit speaker. The image that came to Prince Xizor's inner eye was that of Kud'ar Mub'at almost literally flying out of his nest inside the drifting web, with his spidery legs thrashing around him.

"How—" The absent assembler managed to regain a measure of control, enough to sputter out a desperate question. "How much time do I have?"

"I'd say..." Xizor glanced over at the tracking moni-tor and the rapidly flickering numbers on the readouts below it. "You'd better brace yourself."

Before any more annoyingly high-pitched sounds could come over the speaker, Xizor reached over and broke the comm unit connection between the Vendetta and Kud'ar Mub'at's web. A monitor below the main viewport showed the view from a remote scout module stationed on the other side of the web; glancing at the screen, Xizor could see the flaring jet of Slave I's remaining thruster en-gine. From this angle it looked like a star going nova, all glaring flame, bright enough to sting one's eyes.

"Your Excellency." Standing beside Xizor, the comm specialist spoke up. "Do you have orders for the crew?"

Xizor remained silent for a moment longer, watching the bounty hunter's ship as it sped on its trajectory straight toward Kud'ar Mub'at's web. His cold admira-tion of Boba Fert—and his appreciation—went up an-other notch. The game of death had just been made more complicated—and much more interesting. There was no doubt about the eventual outcome; there never was when Xizor played at it. But however sweet the bounty hunter's death would have been before, the pleasure was enhanced far beyond that now.

"Track and pursuit," said Xizor at last. "There's go-ing to be some pieces to pick up. Interesting pieces..."

Boba Fett emerged from Slave I—he had to step back and kick the exterior hatchway door open; its opera-tional power had failed and a loosened section of hull plating had wedged into one corner—and stepped into absolute, screeching chaos.

He'd expected as much. This result had been a part of his plan, from the moment he'd conceived the notion of plowing his ship into Kud'ar Mub'at's space-drifting web. His long familiarity with the arachnoid assembler, their years of doing business together, had enabled him to scope out the web's nature and capabilities. Kud'ar Mub'at had designed and spun the web out of self-extruded fila-ments, both structural and neural, so that it could incor-porate bits and pieces of ships and other artifacts made by sentient creatures; both the web's inside and outside were studded with those segments of durasteel, like func-tioning wreckage mired in the irregular, scum-thick surf of a frozen sea. That physical incorporation of such items had been due to Kud'ar Mub'at's greed—its desire to magnify and glorify itself with trophies from those un-fortunates who'd found themselves enmeshed too deeply in its schemes to get out—and to a need to preserve the web itself. The web had no other defenses; its ability to quickly incorporate and seal itself around anything that penetrated it was the only way it could maintain a life-supporting environment inside its curved, matted, and tangled fibrous walls.

With one gloved hand grasping the side of the hatch-way, Boba Fett scanned the scene around him. The inte-rior of Kud'ar Mub'at's web was lit a shimmering blue-white by the phosphorescence of masses of illumi-nator subnodes. The simple creatures clung to the upper walls by their tiny, scuttlings legs and radiated the soft glow from the bioluminescent compounds in their translu-cent, distended abdomens, hardly more than the size of Boba Fett's doubled fists. All of the shrieking noise in the web came not from the living light sources, tethered by neural filaments to their own creator, but from their subnode cousins, the faster-moving emitters of the sticky, viscous fluid by which the web repaired itself and incorporated fragments of ships into the crudely shaped structure.

The emitters scuttled around the web's torn edges, where Slave I had broken through and mired itself. Be-fore crashing into the web, Boba Fett had reoriented the ship from it usual vertically oriented, tail-downward po-sition; that would have brought the rounded curve of the cockpit like a blunt hammer-blow against the web's exte-rior. At the last second, a quick burst of one of the navi-gational jets had brought the sharper, knifelike projection of the hull above the cockpit toward the rapidly ap-proaching web. Once Slave I had thrust its way into the web, thick fibers entangling around it, a final burst from the opposite jet had brought it upright again, so that the wider surface of the cockpit against the web's interior brought it to a halt. The smell of the fibers that had been scorched black by the jets' firing hung as an acrid mi-asma in the web's pallidly lit cavern.

More than the web's structure had been hurt in the ship's impact. The web, a living thing itself, reacted to the trauma in its own pain-filled way. The din of shriek-ing that sounded in Boba Fett's ears came from the other subnodes that had already been in this section of the web, rather than having scurried there to contain the damage. Most of them had been torn loose from the neural-fiber strands that had tethered them to their controlling par-ent Kud'ar Mub'at; some were mute, never having been given vocal abilities, but the others now gave idiot cries as they dropped from the rough domed ceiling of the space. The matted floor was thick with the scuttling forms, writhing in spasms of pain or scrabbling in tight little circles, their limited onboard cerebral functions com-pletely overloaded by the sudden disconnection from the assembler on his nest in another part of the web. Spidery, crablike subnodes, trailing their snapped connectors be-hind them, clambered over Boba Fett's boots as he stepped down from Slave I's hatchway. He kicked a few aside as though they were chitin-shelled rats; a few of the smaller ones were unavoidably crushed beneath his boot soles, their husks crackling like thin eggshells.

Fett looked up toward the prow of his ship and saw that the emitter subnodes had almost finished sealing the web around the hull; only a section around the main thruster nozzles still extended out into the vacuum of space. The various high-pitched whistling noises that the web's atmosphere had made, escaping through the torn structural fibers, slowly died out as the emitters went about their work, filling in the last of the gaps between the living biomass and the ship's curved durasteel hull. Around Boba Fett, the blue-lit space grew steadily qui-eter, as more and more of the disconnected subnodes lapsed into a quivering catatonic state, overturned on their backs like sea creatures stranded by some planet's receding tide. The silence that slowly overcame the previ-ous hectic din was that of a partial death: as the web was strung with living fibers spun out from Kud'ar Mub'at's own cortex and cerebrospinal system, to stand in an ex-cised section such as this was like standing in some crea-ture's grossly magnified brain after an equally gigantic surgeon's scalpel had cut away a wedge of grey matter.

"Let's go." Boba Fett reached back inside Slave I's hatchway and grabbed the front of Trhin Voss'on't's uni-form jacket, now hardly more than rags held together by its blood-tarnished metal fastenings. With a sharp pull, he got the former stormtrooper to his feet; another tug brought the other man stumbling out of the ship. "Time to get paid."

Voss'on't's eyes were two burning nicks in his bruised, oil-stained face. The hands tied behind his back thrust his shoulders forward. "If you're in such a hurry—" His voice was raw from both smoke inhalation and barely controlled rage. He nodded toward his boots and the segment of arrow-dart line that hobbled his ankles to-gether. "Then you'd better untie these. Never get there, otherwise."

"I've got a better idea," said Fett. With a swift hori-zontal arc of his forearm, he clouted Voss'on't across the face, sending him slamming back against the edge of Slave I, then sprawling among the twitching, dying sub-nodes that littered the space's floor. Blood streamed from Voss'on't's nose as Fett looked down at him. "Let's leave you tied up just the way you are, and you can forget about any more escape attempts." Reaching down, he grabbed the rags of Voss'on't's jacket and hauled him up-right again. "They're not going to do you any good now. And I've started to find them annoying."

"Yeah, I bet." Voss'on't sneered at him. His bound hands squeezed into white-knuckled fists, as though he were imagining them around Boba Fett's neck.

The stormtrooper had been on the losing end of every exchange with Fett, going right back to the distant colo-nial mining world where Fett and his temporary partner Bossk had tracked him down. Yet he still displayed a deeply ingrained will to fight. It won't do him much good, thought Boba Fett. There would be little difference in the outcome whether Voss'on't continued to struggle and scheme, or whether he finally gave up and accepted his fate. That being the case, Boba Fett didn't care which the stormtrooper wound up doing. It was just a matter of convenience.

A darker, more venomous expression settled across Voss'on't's face. "You might be able to get paid, bounty hunter. You managed to get your merchandise this far, so anything's possible. But what are you going to do when Prince Xizor shows up here?" Voss'on't had seen the im-age of Xizor's ship on Slave I's cockpit viewport, and had been able to identify it just as readily as Fett had. "And that's going to be any minute now."

"You don't need to worry about that. I'll deal with him then." A length of loose cord dangled from the knot around Voss'on't's wrists; Boba Fett used that to pull him along, twisted partway around and barely able to walk. As they progressed toward the interior tunnel that would lead them to Kud'ar Mub'at itself, Fett glanced over his shoulder at his captive.

"You didn't appear surprised by Xizor being in this sector of space, waiting for us. It seems a reasonable assumption that you knew he'd be here."

"Assume whatever you want." Voss'on't leaned back from the tug of the line around his wrists. "You'll find out what the deal is soon enough. And you want to know something? It's going to be a real surprise."

Boba Fett maintained his own silence. And kept a hand on the butt of the blaster pistol strapped at his side.

"Ah ... my inimitable associate . .. the esteemed ... Boba Fett ..." A halting voice, squeaking like rusted metal, greeted them as they emerged from the web's cen-tral tunnel. "How charmed ... I am ... to see you once more..."

Standing in the center of the web's main chamber, with the stormtrooper tethered a few steps behind him, Boba Fett gazed upon the arachnoid assembler. Or upon the crippled shell of what Kud'ar Mub'at had been; Slave I's crashing into the web had obviously had an effect for the worse upon its master as well.

"You're not looking too good, Kud'ar Mub'at." It was a statement of plain fact; Boba Fett felt no great sympathy for the assembler. I'd better get my credits, thought Fett, before it dies.

"How ... kind of you ... to show such concern ..." The pneumatic subnode that had formed Kud'ar Mub'at's cushioned throne was apparently dead, its deflated and flaccid membrane extending around the assembler like a grey, waxen puddle. Kud'ar Mub'at itself was hunched down in the thicket of its spidery black legs, the inverted triangular face lowered and tilted to one side. Most of the compound eyes studding its visage appeared lifeless, the sentient spark gone out behind them, as though a gust of wind had blown out the guttering flame inside a lantern. Only the two largest eyes at the front seemed able to focus upon the web's untimely visitors. "To be hon-est with you... there've been times... I've felt better..."

"Face it, " Boba Fett said bluntly. "You're dying."

"Oh, no ... not at all ..." The triangular head raised itself a bit, displaying a shakily lopsided imitation of a humanoid smile. "I'll survive this ... as I've survived other things ..." A twiglike forelimb lifted, its end claw twitching and pointing to Kud'ar Mub'at's head. "This is no more . . . than the results of ... a neural feedback surge . . . from the crash . . . that's all ..." The claw tapped against the black shell of the assembler's skull with a dry little clicking noise. "Your sudden entry . . . into my humble abode ... most unfortunate ..." Kud'ar Mub'at tried to raise itself a little higher in its deflated nest, but failed, collapsing once more into the broken tangle of its arms. "But you shall see ... all things can be mended ..." A crazed light shone in the largest of the as-sembler's eyes. "I've had so much practice . . . creating additions to myself . . . outside my body . . . that I can create a new cortex inside here ..." The raised claw tip dug harder at the skull behind the triangular face, as though already getting down to the repair job. "To replace the one .. . that the circumstances ... of your ar-rival ... damaged."

"Perhaps you can." Boba Fett shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me, though."

"And what... precisely ... does matter to you?"

"Getting paid."

"Ah..." The assembler's head twisted about, as though trying to force its visitor into focus. "You, at least .

. . have not changed ..." The raised claw tip shook as it pointed toward Boba Fett. "But you know the rules... to be paid... one must first deliver... the merchandise..."

Boba Fett stepped to one side, at the same time yanking the end of the cord tied around the renegade stormtrooper's wrists. Trhin Voss'on't fell forward, his head almost striking the soft edge of the assembler's thronelike nest. Before he could rise up onto his knees, Boba Fett put his boot between the man's shoulder blades and shoved him back down.

"There you go," said Fett. "Good enough?"

"How could ... I ever... have doubted you?" Kud'ar Mub'at's gaze rested upon the bounty hunter for a mo-ment, then lowered again to the merchandise sprawled in front of him. The one leg's clawed tip reached down and caught the point of Voss'on't's chin, raising the storm-trooper's bruised and scowling face toward it. "Seems ... very much . . . like the desired object ..." The claw tip pushed at one side of Voss'on't's face, displaying its profile. "Though of course... verification... will be needed..."

"Don't play games with me." With one hand, Boba Fett reached out and grabbed the end of Kud'ar Mub'at's raised forelimb. He pulled the assembler partway out of its nest, bringing the triangular face closer to the dark vi-sor of his helmet. "If I say this is Trhin Voss'on't—then that's all the verification you need." His gloved hand tossed the assembler back onto the deflated subnode. "I didn't go to all the trouble that I did just to bring back the wrong piece of merchandise."

"Of... course ... not..." Kud'ar Mub'at slowly dis-entangled itself from its own unresponsive limbs. The effort caused a tremor to run through the assembler's body, its globular abdomen pulsating visibly.

"Would I doubt you ... my esteemed Boba Fett?" The assembler's head slowly shook back and forth.

"My faculties are not so damaged... as for that... to be possible." The lopsided imitation smile showed once again. "But I am not... the one... who is paying... for this merchandise ..."

"You're supposed to be holding the credits."

"And so ... I am ... but there's another involved ... and he decides when you get paid ..." Kud'ar Mub'at's smile turned even uglier. "And if... you do..."

Those words were not to Boba Fett's liking. His pref-erence was always for straightforward business deals, delivery of merchandise followed by prompt payment of the bounty. This deal had become far more intricate than that—though he already had a notion about who was behind these complications. That's why Prince Xizor showed up, decided Boba Fett. Somehow, it must have been the Falleen's credits, rather than Emperor Palpa-tine's , that got put up for the return of Trhin Voss'on't. And Xizor would rather kill me than pay me.

"It looks like... you're starting ... to figure out a few things ..." The halting words were tinged with Kud'ar Mub'at's sly laughter. The assembler had a knack for knowing what another sentient creature was thinking, even if it had to read those thoughts through the dark vi-sor of a Mandalorian battle-armor helmet. "About. . . what kind of job ... you took on..."

Another possibility occurred to Boba Fett. Maybe, he thought, the Emperor did put up the bounty. Voss'on't had been, after all, a servant of the Empire; the betrayal of his stormtrooper's oath would have been more of an af-front to Palpatine than anyone else. But the bounty that Palpatine had put up for him might very well have tempted even a creature with the vast resources of the Black Sun criminal organization at his command—such as Xizor. Or else Xizor wasn't interested in the credits for bringing back Voss'on't, but was more concerned about currying favor with one of the few beings in the galaxy more pow-erful than he. If Xizor was able to claim that he had tracked down and captured the renegade stormtrooper, his prestige at the Imperial court on the planet of Corus-cant , and his influence with Palpatine, would overshadow that of Lord Vader. Boba Fett was more than aware of the stories of bad blood between Xizor and Vader; there was little possibility of two such rivals for the Emperor's favor being anything other than enemies.

Whether Prince Xizor was after the bounty that had been posted for Voss'on't, or something more intangible and more valuable, made little difference to Boba Fett. If he plans on taking something from me, then he's made a mistake. One he'll regret...

"All I know," said Boba Fett aloud, "is that I've done the job that was put up. I don't care whether it was Em-peror Palpatine or Prince Xizor who was really behind it. I only work for myself. And I just want the bounty that was promised me."

"You poor fool." Kud'ar Mub'at's scorn appeared to reinvigorate the damaged creature. "You have no idea ... for whom you've been working... all along..." The one claw tip extended toward Boba Fett.

"You've been part of Xizor's schemes... and mine... for a long time now..."

From underneath Boba Fett's boot, the stormtrooper Voss'on't turned a sneer upward at his captor.

"How does it feel, bounty hunter? You're not the winner in this game—you're the pawn."

A thrust of the boot flattened and silenced Voss'on't again. "What are you talking about, Kud'ar Mub'at?"

"Very .. . simple ..." The arachnoid assembler fum-bled its sticklike legs tighter around itself. "Our little scheme... yours and mine... to break up the old Bounty Hunters Guild ..." Kud'ar Mub'at shook its narrow head. "That was Prince Xizor's idea ... I only went along with it... because he made it worth my while... but he's the one who wanted to break up the Guild . . . and you did that for him..."

"Then you lied to me." Boba Fett's voice was as emo-tionless as always, but inside him there was a spark of anger.

"A mere matter ... of business . . . my dear Boba Fett." In its crippled fashion, Kud'ar Mub'at imitated a nonchalant humanoid shrug. "That's all..."

"What else did you lie to me about?"

"You'll find out... soon enough..." Kud'ar Mub'at's smile didn't diminish as it gazed at Boba Fett, then turned toward one of the smaller fibrous corridors that branched off the web's central space. Another of the assembler's subnodes, a fully functioning one, scuttled out of the cor-ridor and onto the tip of its parent's feebly extended fore-limb. "Tell me ... my dear little Balancesheet ..." Another forelimb tenderly stroked the subnode's head, a miniature version of Kud'ar Mub'at's own. "Has our other guest... arrived ..."

Boba Fett recognized the subnode creature as the one that had always taken care of the financial details from Kud'ar Mub'at's business dealings. More than once, the tiny scuttling Balancesheet had paid out the bounty that had been held in escrow by its creator. The sharp intelli-gence that had always been discernible in the subnode was still visible there, completely undiminished, as though it had been unaffected by the neural overload resulting from the crash of Slave I into the web. That was a mys-tery, but one that Boba Fett didn't have time to wonder about now.

"The Vendetta is just now docking with us." As though to confirm Balancesheet's statement, a shudder ran through the rough structure around them; some-where in the distance, the sleek mass of Prince Xizor's flagship was linking up with the larger subnodes that al-lowed visitors to transfer over. "I have been in communi-cation with Xizor," said Balancesheet, perched on Kud'ar Mub'at's raised forelimb. "He informs me that he is greatly looking forward to our meeting."

"I imagine ... he is ..." Kud'ar Mub'at's other limbs twitched and its lipless smile widened. "All creatures of business . . . relish the successful conclusion ... of a project..."

"Then he and I have something in common." Boba Fett gave a quick nod. "Let's get this over with." He took his boot from between Trhin Voss'on't's shoulder blades and strode over to the mouth of the corridor leading to the docking area. From its holster, he drew out his blaster pistol.

Head still tilted to one side, Kud'ar Mub'at looked at him with alarm. "What... are you doing ..." In front of the assembler, Voss'on't managed to scrabble into a silting position, also watching Boba Fett. "This is... not necessary..."

"I'll tell you what's necessary and what's not." Care-fully and slowly, Boba Fett pointed the blaster's muzzle at Kud'ar Mub'at and Voss'on't in turn. "If you both want to live a little longer, you'll stay quiet." He raised the blaster up by the side of his helmet. "And not spoil this little surprise for Prince Xizor."

The footsteps against the web's resilient tangle of fibers, from several creatures coming down the corridor, were already audible. Boba Fett flattened himself against the side of the opening, blaster at the ready.

"Watch out—"

He had known that Voss'on't would try to warn Xizor as soon as the Falleen prince appeared. A quick bolt from the blaster pistol, hitting Voss'on't in the shoulder and knocking him back against the base of Kud'ar Mub'at's nest, served both to silence him and distract Xizor's at-tention. That gave Boba Fett the microsecond he needed to get an arm around Xizor's throat and put the muzzle of the blaster against his head.

"Tell your men to back off." Boba Fett used Xizor as a shield, putting the Falleen between himself and the two Black Sun guards that had been just behind in the web's corridor. "I want their blasters on the floor—now."

Xizor seemed more amused than surprised by what had happened. "Very well," he said calmly. "Do as the bounty hunter says." The two scowling guards lowered the blaster pistols they had so quickly unholstered, then tossed them into the center of the space. "You know—" Xizor turned his head, looking back at Boba Fett. "The guards are only a formality. I could kill you in a second. And I'd hardly have to move at all."

"You don't have a second." Boba Fett kept the blaster aimed straight at the prince's skull. "If you want to test your speed against mine, go ahead. But right now you've got a lot more to lose than I do."

"True enough," replied Xizor almost cordially, but still maintaining his haughty nobility. "I regret having backed you into this corner, Boba Fett. Desperate crea-tures seek desperate remedies for their situations. Which is a shame in this case, as you and I have more interests in common than you might otherwise suspect."

The Falleen prince's smooth words didn't impress Fett. With a shove against Xizor's back, Boba Fett pushed him toward Kud'ar Mub'at and the stormtrooper still bound hand and foot on the central space's floor. Boba Fett took a step backward, to where his blaster pistol had an angle on the others, including the two Black Sun guards at the mouth of the corridor.

"There's no need for that." Prince Xizor's cold half smile almost made it seem as if he were somehow in charge of the situation. "We can discuss these business dealings like civilized creatures. Here—" He gestured in command toward the two guards. "Return to the Ven-detta. Your presence is no longer necessary here."

"But—" one of the guards protested.

"Your presence was hardly of any value before; why should it be now?" Xizor repeated the gesture.

"Go. Leave us." As the Black Sun guards turned and disap-peared down the corridor, Xizor spread his empty hands apart. "You see, Fett? I intend you no harm. Quite the contrary, in fact. You are a valuable entity to me."

"Difficult to believe. "Boba Fett didn't lower the blaster pistol in his hand. "Given that you were so recently trying to blast me into atoms with your ship's laser cannons."

"A misunderstanding," said Xizor soothingly. "These things sometimes happen in the course of business. Just as it sometimes happens that a person such as myself might change his mind about what needs to be done. And who needs to be eliminated."

"Glad to hear it," said Fett. "But I don't buy it."

"You have a right to be skeptical. I'm sure our mutual friend and associate here has been telling you some inter-esting things. Information that might not reflect too well upon me ..."

"My most esteemed ... Prince Xizor ..." The arach-noid assembler's forelimbs quivered. "You mistake .

. . my intentions..." Kud'ar Mub'at's words stumbled out, as though the Falleen were holding the blaster on him. "I would never..."

"Don't waste our time," Xizor said coldly. "There are matters that you need to be informed of as well, Kud'ar Mub'at." The edge of anger in Prince Xizor's voice made his attitude of command even more apparent. "You de-ceive yourself if you assume that I have any continued need for your services."

"But..."

"Silence!"

Boba Fett broke into the exchange between the two other creatures. "I'll say when anybody should talk or not." He aimed the blaster pistol straight toward Xizor. "All right?"

Xizor gave a thin smile and a nod. "As you wish. For now."

"The assembler said you were behind the plot to break up the old Bounty Hunters Guild. Is that true?"

"Does it matter?" Xizor looked at him almost pity-ingly. "If there was something that I wished to achieve through destroying the Guild—and I'll admit there was— that doesn't negate its value for you. Let's face it: many times, in its own crude, bumbling way, the Bounty Hunt-ers Guild got in your way. As an organization it was a ri-val for those very same pieces of hard merchandise that you wished to procure for their bounties. Now the Guild is no more, and you face any other bounty hunter as an individual, on his own, without anyone to back him up. Thus your work is made that much easier and more profitable." Xizor's cruelly smiling gaze seemed to penetrate the visor of Boba Fett's helmet. "So what is there for you to complain of?"

"Being taken for a fool. That's what." Boba Fett used the blaster pistol in his hand to point toward Kud'ar Mub'at. "If there was something you wanted done—by me—then that's who you should've come to. Instead of bringing in a go-between like this."

"Perhaps you're right." Xizor gave a judicious nod. "Perhaps I underestimated you, bounty hunter. There might be even more in common between us than I at first suspected. I'll remember that—for our future business dealings."

"Assuming you have a future." The blaster pistol swung back toward the Falleen. "I haven't decided about that," said Boba Fett. "If I wasn't in the loop on this little scheme of yours, there must've been a reason. The same reason that you had your ship's laser cannons fire on Slave I as soon as I came out of hyperspace. You didn't want me to still be alive after all your plotting and scheming was finished." Fett raised the blaster higher, sighting down the length of its barrel toward Xizor. "Why is that?"

"Do you want the truth?" Xizor shrugged. "You're a dangerous individual, bounty hunter. You have a habit of coming out on top, no matter what kind of situation you find yourself in. That can be inconvenient for other creatures. And very inconvenient for Black Sun. We're engaged in our own war with the Empire, regardless of whether that fool Palpatine knows who is on his side and who isn't. But I intend to win that war, bounty hunter, no matter what." The Falleen's voice hardened. "The situation has already been complicated by this doomed Rebellion, even though it's to Black Sun's advantage that the Emperor's attention is diverted by it." Xizor slowly shook his head. "But there can only be one win-ner at this game, however many players are sitting at the board."

"And you thought it would be better for you—and for Black Sun—if there was one less."

"Precisely," said Xizor. "I admire the precision of your analysis. And you can believe this, if nothing else that I tell you. If I had continued to want you dead, now that you've accomplished the job I had for you—the real one, that of smashing the Bounty Hunters Guild—then all your vaunted survival skills would have done you no good at all. Crashing into the web here was a clever move, but it was the only one left to you. How much time do you think it would have bought you if I hadn't changed my mind about the desirability of your death?" The cor-ner of Xizor's mouth curled into a sneer. "The life of some scheming assembler and his assortment of scuttling little subnodes wouldn't have stopped me from turning my laser cannons on this web and blowing it into tat-tered shreds drifting in space."

"Wuh-what..." Xizor's words brought a startled re-action from Kud'ar Mub'at. Even in its crippled condi-tion, it managed to draw itself up higher in the flaccid nest. "You can't. . . mean that..." Then the assembler visibly relaxed, even managing a smile of relief. "Of course ... you're only joking, my dear Xizor ... if that were true . . . then you would have gone ahead . . . and destroyed my humble ... abode..." The narrow trian-gular head shook back and forth. "But... you didn't..."

"I didn't refrain from blowing away this floating garbage pile because of any concern for you." Xizor turned his head to give the assembler a cold merciless gaze. "Your value to me has long been marginal, Kud'ar Mub'at. And now it's zero."

A hissing shriek sounded from the assembler; its fore-limbs flailed in rage. "You think so... do you, Xizor..." Rage was enough to bring the larger compound eyes into focus. "After all ... I've done for you ..." Kud'ar Mub'at's head shook back and forth. "And all ... I con-tinue to do ... for you and Black Sun ..." One claw tip trembled as it pointed at Xizor. "You survive ... only as long ... as your affairs remain secret..." With the same claw, the assembler pointed at itself. "I am the one . . . who keeps those secrets for you ... I am the one ... who acts as your go-between... everywhere in the galaxy..." The narrow face contorted with withering anger. "How will you keep Palpatine in the dark ... without me ... to do your dirty work for you ..."

"Simple enough," replied Xizor evenly. "I have an-other business associate who will take your place. One who has all your contacts, all your connections; one who knows your business better than you do."

"Impossible!" All of Kud'ar Mub'at's spidery limbs thrashed the stale air in the chamber. The accountant subnode called Balancesheet had already scurried onto the nearest wall for safety. "There is .... no such crea ture ..." The assembler's reedy voice spiraled into a high-pitched, fragmented scream. "Anywhere ... in the galaxy..."

With the blaster pistol still covering the others before him, Boba Fett watched the small drama play out be-tween the Falleen prince and the arachnoid assembler. He already had an idea what the final act was going to be.

One of Prince Xizor's hands reached out, languid and graceful, yet possessed of untrembling power. He held his open palm upward, and the subnode Balancesheet scuttled onto it. The miniature version of its parent turned around in the small space and set its multilensed gaze upon Kud'ar Mub'at.

"You old fool."

The subnode's words were no longer spoken in the tone, both efficient and obsequious, that it had always used before. Now its voice was both deeper and touched with a newly won authority. To Boba Fett's eyes, the subnode even appeared slightly larger than before, as though it were already literally expanding into its new role in life. Perched on Xizor's hand, Balancesheet raised its own forelimbs in a expansive gesture.

"Things will be very different now," said Balance-sheet. Its brilliant glittering eyes glanced over at Boba Fett. "For many of us. And yet, in certain ways, things will remain exactly the same. There will be a member of our unique species, an arachnoid assembler, at the center of a vast, invisible web spanning the galaxy." The little subnode's voice rose in volume and pitch. "Arranging delicate matters, pulling strings, putting one creature in contact with another—all those delicate items of busi-ness that one of our breed is capable of doing so well. But there can only be one web like that, and only one assem-bler listening to and making those little tugs upon its strands. And that assembler's name will no longer be Kud'ar Mub'at. You've had a long time at the center, time in which you've grown old and fat and stupid. But that time is done now."

At the base of Kud'ar Mub'at's nest, the stormtrooper Voss'on't looked up at the small creature perched on the Falleen's hand. The grimace on Voss'on't's face spelled both repugnance and incomprehension. It was obvious that he wasn't sure what was going on, but had figured out that it wasn't going to do him any good.

"An excellent demonstration, don't you think?" Prince Xizor smiled cruelly as he held his new business associate up at his own eye level. "That a powerful entity may be housed within an unimposing physical form. It should serve as a reminder to all of us that appearances can be deceiving."

Boba Fett watched as the larger assembler twitched and shook uncontrollably in its nest. The revelation had struck Kud'ar Mub'at dumbfounded. Its lipless mouth hung open, gaping at its own creation, now completely independent—and triumphant.

"Such a thing . . . cannot be ..." The trembling in Kud'ar Mub'at's limbs grew even more pronounced and erratic, as though it were trying to reassert its will over the mutinous Balancesheet. "I ... I made you!"

"And if you had not been so blind," replied Balance-sheet, "and besotted with your own cleverness, you would have been able to detect that I was no longer merely an extention of your own neurosystem." In one of its fore-limb claws, Balancesheet held up the thin, pallid strand that had once linked it to the living web around it. The broken end dangled from the former subnode's grip, a few centimeters from the palm that held Balancesheet aloft. "I was free from you even before Boba Fett's ship crashed into the web."

Like a broken thing, Kud'ar Mub'at shrank back down into its nest. "I... had... no idea ..." The spidery limbs folded around its abdomen, as though trying to preserve the fading warmth of life. "I trusted you ... I needed you..."

"That was your mistake," said Balancesheet coldly. "And your last one."

Prince Xizor extended his hand toward the chamber's curved wall; Balancesheet scuttled from his palm and onto the densely tangled structural fibers. "I'm afraid," said Xizor, "that the business relationship between us is over now, Kud'ar Mub'at." The edges of Xizor's cape swung forward as he folded his massive arms across his chest. "While Black Sun still has need of a go-between for certain delicate matters where we wish to keep our own participation as secret as possible, what we don't need is an associate who has grown either too compla-cent or too senile to notice this small rebellion taking place under its own nose. You've already lost a war, Kud'ar Mub'at, that you didn't even know was being fought. Black Sun can't afford to be sentimental about what you've done for us in the past; we have to go with the winner."

Kud'ar Mub'at's voice wavered with fear. "What. . . what are you going... to do?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

"Nobody's finding out anything," said Boba Fett. He had listened to the exchange between the Falleen prince and the arachnoid assembler with mounting impatience. The blaster pistol rose in his hand once more, reasserting its hold on the others' attention. "That is," he continued, "until my business is taken care of."

"Of course." Xizor gave a nod of acknowledgment. "But you see, bounty hunter—this is your business. My new associate Balancesheet was the one who convinced me that you should be allowed to go on living. And that was after I had already decided that you should be killed." An indulgent though still cruel smile showed on Xizor's face. "You're a fortunate creature. Many in Black Sun will testify that it's a rare occasion when I change my mind."

"Then why did you?"

From its perch on the chamber wall, Balancesheet an-swered. "My analysis was that you're worth more to me alive than dead, Boba Fett. With the old Bounty Hunters Guild now dismantled, there's no one in your chosen profession with your resources and skills. Black Sun—as well as the other clients whose accounts I've inheritedwill still have need of an effective bounty hunter such as yourself. The consideration that had prompted Prince Xizor's previous decision to kill you was based upon see-ing the need to reduce the number of creatures who were aware—or who might become aware—that he and Black Sun had been behind the anti-Guild operation from the beginning." The former subnode spoke as matter-of-factly as if it had been adding up a long column of num-bers in its head. "But as I pointed out to Xizor—we were having our discussion via comm unit the whole time you were talking here—getting rid of Kud'ar Mub'at accom-plishes the same thing, and more. Not only do we elimi-nate the weakest link in the chain—after all, an assembler buys and sells information all the time—but we also leave a more valuable business associate alive. One that would owe us a favor as well."

Boba Fett shook his head. "If you're expecting grati-tude, then I'm in short supply. And you're the ones who owe me, remember? For him." He pointed with the blaster toward Voss'on't. "Nobody leaves here, dead or alive, until the bounty gets paid out."

"That's right!" Kud'ar Mub'at unfolded his fore-limbs, stretching their sticklike lengths out toward Fett.

"Don't... trust them," the assembler cried in agitation. "They're . . . they're trying to cheat you." A pleading tone filtered into the high-pitched voice. "I'm . . . the only one... who's on your side ..."

"Shut up." Boba Fett knocked the assembler's claws away with a swipe of the blaster pistol. "If there's any-body on my side, I haven't found them yet." He turned his visor-shielded gaze, and the blaster, toward Prince Xi-zor. "So how about it?"

"The bounty? Very well." Xizor gave a slight nod, then turned and gestured with one hand toward Balance-sheet. "Transfer the funds being held in escrow on Cor-uscant to the main operating and receipt account of the bounty hunter Boba Fett." He glanced back at Boba Fett and smiled. "You didn't really think all those credits were being kept here, did you?"

"Doesn't matter where they were." Boba Fett kept the blaster pistol raised. "As long as they wind up in the right place."

"The credits are already there," said Balancesheet. "I signaled for the transfer to be made before I had my own discussion with Prince Xizor." This time a trace of self-satisfaction sounded in the former subnode's voice. Its small compound eyes looked toward the Falleen. "I was confident that we would wind up in agreement on this matter."

Xizor's eyes narrowed to slits. His courtly manner of just a few seconds before seemed to have evaporated. "Assumptions such as that might cause difficulties be-tween us in the future."

"Perhaps." The tiny creature didn't appear intimi-dated. "We'll deal with that when the time comes."

Through his own comlink mounted inside his helmet, Boba Fett accessed the remote communications func-tions aboard Slave I. It took only a few seconds to verify the sum that had been in the now-empty escrow account, and that a transfer had gone through into his own ac-count. The bounty for Trhin Voss'on't was his now.

"Fine," said Boba Fett. The blaster pistol stayed raised in his hand. "You two can sort out your business affairs any way you want. They don't concern me. The only other item on my agenda is making sure that I get out of here alive. All those credits don't mean much if I'm too dead to spend them."

"I'll guarantee you safe passage." Prince Xizor pointed down the web's central corridor, back toward Slave I mired in the fibrous structure. "You've got your bounty now. I'd suggest you return to your ship. You've deliv-ered your hard merchandise, and we don't have anything more to discuss. And frankly"Xizor glanced around the chamber with distaste—"I've spent enough time here already."

"That's one thing we agree on, then." Boba Fett re-garded the Falleen over the barrel of the blaster pistol. "But for the rest—I have my doubts. How much do you think I trust you, Xizor? You could be lying to me now, the same way Kud'ar Mub'at was when I got involved in this whole business." Fett slowly shook his head. "You know that my ship is barely capable of traveling; I can nurse it along to the nearest planet with an operating re-pair yard if I take it slow. But I'm not going to sit out there and be a sitting duck for you to fire off your laser cannons at again."

"You should weigh your words a little more carefully, bounty hunter." The cruel smile had long vanished from Xizor's harshly chiseled features. His violet-tinged eyes narrowed into slits that might have been cut with the point of a vibroblade. One hand shot out and grabbed the barrel of the blaster pistol being held on him. His fist squeezed tighter on the weapon, but made no move to push it away; it remained aimed directly at his chest. "I gave you the word of a Falleen noble; that should be enough to remove any doubts concerning your fate. If not, think on what my associate Balancesheet has told you: we have determined that you are worth more to us as a living bounty hunter than a dead one. Don't tempt me to change my mind once more on that point."

"There's something I haven't decided, though." The blaster remained locked between Boba Fett and Xizor, with the bounty hunter's finger tight against the trigger. "I don't know," continued Fett, "if you're worth more to me alive or dead."

"Don't be a fool," said Xizor coldly. "I've humored you long enough, allowing you to keep this thing pointed at me. If it pleased you to talk business while waving a blaster around, then so be it. But if you're planning on firing it, you'd better try doing it soon. I've just about run out of patience."

"So have I."

"Believe me, bounty hunter—you'll run out of luck just as quickly. You kill me, and what do you think would happen next? Even if my guards didn't find out within minutes, where do you think you'd run to in your crippled ship? I can assure you, Black Sun would not take well to the loss of its leader—and the life of that as-sassin would be a very brief proposition." Xizor's hard gaze drilled through the visor of the Mandalorian battle-armor helmet and into Boba Fett's own. "It's not a mat-ter of sentiment, bounty hunter; just business, pure and simple." He took his hand away from the barrel of the blaster pistol. "Now you have to decide."

Boba Fett weighed the other creature's words. A few seconds of silence ticked away, then Fett nodded.

"I ap-pear to have no choice," he said. "Except to trust your word." He lowered the blaster and slipped it back into its holster. "Whether I want to or not."

"That's smart enough." The chill half smile reap-peared on Xizor's face. "You don't have to figure out everything in this galaxy; just enough to survive will do." He turned his gaze around to the former subnode Bal-ancesheet, still perched on the chamber's wall near him. "Send for my guards," he ordered. "And have them bring the others—the cleanup crew—with them. It's time to bring this show to an end."

The renegade stormtrooper had silently watched the tense exchange between the bounty hunter and the Fall-een noble. Now, as Boba Fett turned away, Voss'on't called after him, "Take care of yourself." The words were filled with mocking venom. "I want you all in one piece, Boba Fett. For the next time we meet up."

Boba Fett glanced over his shoulder at the other man. "I don't think there's going to be a next time. It doesn't matter who wanted you returned to them, or who put up the bounty for you." He slowly shook his head. "It doesn't even matter if you were part of the scheme to break up the old Bounty Hunters Guild." Boba Fett turned and walked back toward Voss'on't, then grabbed the rags of his jacket front and pulled him partway up from the chamber's matted floor. "Did you really think I hadn't figured that part out?" A rare tinge of anger sounded in Boba Fett's carefully emotionless voice. "The bounty for your return was far too much for a stormtrooper's life, no matter what he might have stolen. Emperor Palpatine doesn't buy his vengeance at that high a price. There's al-ways something else he wants, some other grand scheme involved. But I'm happy to take the credits, no matter the ultimate reason they were paid out."

"All right—" Voss'on't's expression had gone from a sneer to burning anger as he had listened to Boba Fett. "So you're further ahead of the game than I thought. You must feel clever, huh?"

"Clever enough," said Fett. "Now let's see how clever you are." He let go of Voss'on't, dropping him back to the chamber floor. "Didn't you hear what Balancesheet and Prince Xizor said just now? They don't want any more creatures around than necessary who know the truth behind this scheme to break up the Bounty Hunters Guild. They've already decided to get rid of Kud'ar Mub'at. What makes you so confident that they'll want to leave you still alive?"

Voss'on't was taken aback by Boba Fett's words; it took him a moment to sputter out his reply. "You're ... you're wrong! You don't know anything about that! Everything I did... I did it in the service of the Emperor!" Voss'on't's eyes went wide, the tone of his voice growing more desperate. "The Emperor wouldn't let anything happen to me now . . . not after all the risks I went through ..." He snapped his beseeching gaze toward Xizor. "It wouldn't be right... it wouldn't be fair..."

"You're going to discover," said Boba Fett quietly, "that Palpatine is the one who decides what's fair and what's not." He turned away and strode toward the chamber's exit.

"Wait! Don't..."

Another voice, a higher-pitched shriek, sounded after Boba Fett. At the mouth of the web's corridor, he found himself suddenly encumbered by the sticklike limbs of the arachnoid assembler Kud'ar Mub'at. It had managed to scramble off its flaccid nest and lunge after him. Boba Fett looked down and saw the assembler's triangular face below, the compound eyes peering futilely for some sign of sympathy behind the helmet's dark visor.

"Take me with you," pleaded Kud'ar Mub'at. "You'll see ... I can still be of some ... use to you ..."

Boba Fett peeled the creature's limbs away from him-self. "I don't think so," he said. "Business partners al-ways wind up getting in my way. Then I have to do something about them." He shoved the assembler back toward the center of the main chamber. "You're just as well off with your other business associates."

Before he turned and walked away, Fett caught a glimpse of Prince Xizor's guards; they had returned and had pulled Trhin Voss'on't up between them. The look of panic on the stormtrooper's face was the last he saw be-fore he continued heading back to Slave I.

The web started to die before he even reached the ship.

A shudder ran through the walls around Boba Fett, as though the heavy structural fibers had suddenly con-tracted in upon themselves. The smaller, entangled fibers that formed the shell of the web scraped across each other, like rough woven fabric being pulled apart by in-visible giant hands. A sudden wind came close to knock-ing Boba Fett off balance as the atmospheric pressure inside the web fell. The rush of oxygen to the surround-ing vacuum tore the tattered rents in the web open wider; Boba Fett felt the chill of space seep through his Man-dalorian battle armor as he clamped his teeth on the hel-met's breathing tube, drawing in its last store of oxygen. As the tangled floor buckled beneath his feet, he fought his way toward Slave I.

He knew that in the distance behind him, the assem-bler Kud'ar Mub'at was facing the Black Sun cleanup crew. An operation such as that would be as thorough, and final, as Prince Xizor's commands would dictate. When they were done, there would no longer be a Kud'ar Mub'at, or the web that had once formed the assembler's private little world.

The web's death throes intensified as the interwoven neural fibers reacted to their creator's agony. On all sides of the central corridor and above Boba Fett's head, the tethered subnodes thrashed and convulsed, stirred from their torpor by the inputs of pain overloading their own systems. A thicket of spidery limbs rose up in front of Boba Fett, like animated twigs and the heavier, thicker branches of a leafless forest caught in a winter planet's flesh-stripping tornado. Sets of compound eyes gazed upon him with uncomprehending fear as the subnodes' claw tips fastened upon his battle armor, the larger ones seizing his arms and legs like chitinous hunting traps.

One of the immense docking subnodes, its bulk ex-tending twice the length of Boba Fett's own height, reared up beneath him, toppling him onto one shoulder. A swarm of hand-sized subnodes scurried in panic across the visor of his helmet; they clung to his fist as he unholstered his blaster pistol and fired at the docking subnode crashing down toward him. The subnode's shell burst apart, the blaster-charred fragments swirling like black snow in the vortices of the web's atmosphere rushing through the disintegrating structure. On his back, Boba Fett kept his outstretched fists locked together on the blaster; the con-tinuous volley of white-hot bolts scorched through the docking subnode's revealed soft tissues, dividing them into smoldering gobbets falling on either side of him.

In the thinned remainder of the web's air, the docking subnode's hollowed exoskeleton collapsed silently, the translucent broken pieces thrust aside by Boba Fett's forearm. He got to his feet, kicking aside the feeble claws of the smaller subnodes, just as a pulsing red dot at the side of his vision signaled the exhaustion of the helmet's store of compressed oxygen. With lungs already begin-ning to ache, he sprinted for Slave 7's entry hatchway.

Boba Fett collapsed in the pilot's chair as the ship's cockpit sealed tight around him. The dizzying constella-tion of dark spots, the forerunner of unconsciousness that had swelled in his vision as he'd climbed the ladder up from the main cargo hold, now faded as he breathed in the flow of air from the ship's minimized life-support systems. A moment later he leaned forward in the chair, eyes raised to the viewport as his right hand reached for the controls of the few navigational rockets still func-tioning on the ship.

It wasn't necessary to fire the rockets to get away from the web. As Boba Fett watched, the last of the heavy structural fibers broke free from one another, the inter-woven fabric unraveling into loose strands. Where Kud'ar Mub'at's abode and place of business had blotted out the stars behind, the light-specked black of empty space now stood.

In the distance, Prince Xizor's flagship awaited the ap-proach of the transfer shuttle bearing the Falleen noble, his guards and the Black Sun cleanup crew, and whatever might be left of the Imperial stormtrooper Trhin Voss'on't. It was of no concern to Fett whether the hard merchan-dise he had worked so hard to deliver in living condition might still be breathing; once payment had been made, his interest ceased.

A swarm of dead subnodes, the creations and servants of the arachnoid assembler, bumped against the convex transparisteel of the cockpit's viewport. The crablike ones were ensnared in the same pale strands of disconnected neural tissue that tangled around the empty claws of the larger varieties. Atmospheric decompression had burst open the shells of some of them, spreading apart their contents like grey constellations of soft matter; others were still intact enough to appear as if they were merely asleep, awaiting some synapse-borne message from their parent and master.

Boba Fett applied a burst of rotational force to Slave I. The hull-mounted navigational jet rolled the ship on its central axis, letting the loose, ragged net of subnodes slip past. A visual field clear of everything but cold stars showed in the viewport.

At the edge of the viewport a brighter light glared, as though one of the stars had gone nova. Fett could see that it was Prince Xizor's flagship, maneuvering out of the sector and preparing for a jump into hyperspace. Whatever business the Falleen noble was about, it was likely far from this desolate area of the galaxy; it might very well be back at the Emperor's court on Coruscant. I imagine, thought Boba Fett, that I'll encounter him again, before too long. The course of events in the Em-pire was accelerating ever faster, spurred by both Palpa-tine's ambitions and the Rebellion's mounting challenge. Xizor would have to move fast if he was to have any chance of bringing Black Sun to victory on that rapidly shifting gameboard.

It didn't matter to Boba Fett who won. His business would stay the same.

Before he looked down to the control panel's gauges to assess what kind of condition Slave I was in, another pallid strand traced its way across the curved exterior of the viewport. The rope of silent neural fiber was linked only to the arachnoid assembler Kud'ar Mub'at, or what remained of it after the work of Xizor's cleanup crew. The once-glittering compound eyes were empty and grey now, like small round windows to the hollows of the corpse that drifted slowly past. Around the assembler's globular abdomen, split open like a leathery egg, the spidery legs were drawn up tight, forming the last self-contained nest for the once-proud, now-vanquished creature.

Careful...

Boba Fett indulged himself for a moment, imagining a warning from the dead. The expressionless face turned slowly past the viewport.

Beware of everyone. If Kud'ar Mub'at's empty husk could speak, that was what it would have said. In this universe, there are no friends . . . only enemies. The assembler's gaping mouth was a small black vacuum, surrounded by the greater one of interstellar space. No trust... only betrayal...

He didn't require advice such as that, even from one whose withered corpse testified to the truth of the silent words. Boba Fett knew all those things already. That was why he was alive, and the assembler was dead.

All his remaining concerns—for the moment—were technical ones. Boba Fett turned toward the cockpit's navicomputer. He began accessing and inputting Slave I's astrogational coordinates, at the same time scrolling through the onboard computer's database of the sur-rounding systems and planets. What he needed now was an advanced-technology shipyard, one without too many entanglements with either the Empire or the Rebel Alliance, or scruples about working for payments made under the table, as it were. Some of the weapons and tracking modules aboard Slave I were technically re-stricted; a good deal of his profits from past jobs had gone into the bribery or commissioned theft necessary for getting top-secret beta-development tech out of the Imperial Navy's hidden research-and-development labs. Only a shipyard remote from the galaxy's center, and away from the prying scrutiny of Palpatine's spy agents, would have enough nerve—and greed—to do the kind of work that ordinarily had the death penalty attached to it.

A list of possibilities appeared on the computer's read-out screen. He was already familiar with most of the shipyards; his line of work was hard on his tools, from personal weapons to navigable craft. Not those, Fett de-cided, eliminating with a few strokes of his fingertip all of the planet-based yards. In its present fragile condition, Slave I wouldn't survive a hard-gravity landing.

The remoter possibilities, those on the other side of the galaxy, were similarly eliminated. Even if Boba Fett tried to make it that far—and if a hyperspace jump didn't wind up disintegrating Slave I—the longer he took to reach his destination, the greater the chances of attract-ing the attention of any number of his enemies. They'd be able to pick him off without much of a struggle. He had already decided that speed of service was as impor-tant a consideration as the quality. I need to get up and running, thought Boba Fett as he studied the remaining short list on the computer's readout screen. And fast.

Before he could finish his calculations, a voice came over the comm unit.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you." The voice of the distant Balancesheet was not quite as obsequiously formal as its parent Kud'ar Mub'at's had been. "We'll do it again."

The control panel's proximity monitors registered the presence of another ship in the sector; from the ID pro-file, Boba Fett could see that it wasn't Prince Xizor's Vendetta. He scanned the viewport and spotted it, near the drifting wreckage of Kud'ar Mub'at's web. Hitting the viewport's long-range mag function brought up a clear image of a standard bulk freighter. Its registration was clear, but showed former ownership by one of Xizor's— and Black Sun's—holding companies.

Boba Fett thumbed his own comm unit's transmit button. "I thought you were going independent, Balance-sheet."

"I am," replied the voice from the comm unit speaker. "This freighter, however humble, is mine alone. But then, my needs are not elaborate. And Prince Xizor did give me a good deal on it—virtually free."

"Nothing's free with him. You'll pay for it, eventually."

"I suspect you're correct in that." Balancesheet did not sound overly concerned. "But in the meantime, it gives me a base of operations that is many degrees more suitable than Kud'ar Mub'at's shabby old web. A ship such as this already has the required operational systems built in; I won't have to create and extrude as many subnodes as my parent did in order to make it serve my needs. Thus the chances of a mutiny, such as the one by which I came to power, are greatly lessened."

"Smart." Boba Fett made a mental note that dealings with this new go-between assembler were likely to be more dangerous than they had been with its predecessor.

"It is, however, little more than a large empty space, with a set of thruster engines attached to an autonomic navigational system. I suspect that it was used for some of Black Sun's simpler smuggling operations, out in the edge systems, and it's become too outmoded and slow for the organization's current needs." The voice of the small assembler creature, alone in the vacated freighter, seemed to echo off the bulkheads around it. "I'll have to spend a considerable amount to equip it the way I wish."

"Save up your credits, then." Boba Fett looked back down to the list of shipyard possibilities on the computer readout. "That kind of work doesn't come cheap."

"Oh, I've got the credits already." Balancesheet's voice turned subtly smug. "More than enough."

Something about the way the assembler's words had been spoken piqued Boba Fett's interest. "What are you talking about?"

"You might want to check the status of your transfer accounts on Coruscant." The smile in Balancesheet's voice was almost audible. "You forget that I do a lot more financial business than you do; that's what I was created to do. And I inherited, so to speak, all of my cre-ator's old friends and associates—especially the ones will-ing to be bribed in exchange for certain small favors."

" 'Favors'... what kind of favors?"

"Merely the kind that involves splitting a transfer of credits from an escrow account, and very quietly divert-ing one half into my receipt account rather than yours." Balancesheet's voice turned pitying. "You really should have checked your own accounts after seeing that the transfer had been made; if you had, you would have seen that you wound up with half the bounty that had been posted for Voss'on't."

Boba Fett pushed himself back from the control panel. His gaze locked upon the empty freighter visible in the distance. "That was a mistake," he said grimly. Without even checking further, he knew that what the assembler had said was true. It wasn't the kind of thing a sentient creature would joke about; not with him. "A big mis-take, on your part."

"I don't think so." No apprehension sounded in the voice coming from the speaker. "The way I see it, you owed me at least that much. If it hadn't been for me, Prince Xizor would have gone ahead and eliminated you. Permanently. You might not care to show any gratitude for that—I don't expect it, either. So let's just call this an-other little business deal."

"Let's call it theft." Boba Fett rasped out the words. "I'm the wrong creature to steal from."

"Perhaps so," replied Balancesheet. "But it's in your interest for my go-between business to be up and run-ning. There's a lot of potential clients out in the galaxy, who will only deal with someone like you at an arm's-length basis. You need me, Boba Fett. So you can go on hunting down more hard merchandise and collecting the bounties for it. Without a go-between to hold the credits, a lot of this business breaks down; it doesn't work anymore."

The analysis didn't sway Boba Fett. "I can take care of my own business."

"Good for you. But I'm still keeping half the Voss'on't bounty. I've got expenses as well."

"You don't have to worry about meeting them. You won't live that long. Nobody does who steals from me."

"Get serious, Fett." The assembler's mocking words slid out of the comm unit speaker; Balancesheet had given up any semblance of maintaining the formalities and sly fawning in which Kud'ar Mub'at had indulged. "What are you going to do about it? The condition your ship is in, you're not able to blow away a midge-fly. Not without blowing yourself up. And as slow as this freighter might be, it's still faster than you at the moment."

"I'll catch up with you," promised Boba Fett. "Sooner or later."

"And when you do, you'll have either figured out how much you do need me, or I'll be under the protection of Prince Xizor—Black Sun also needs a go-between. Or I'll have some other surprise waiting for you. It doesn't mat-ter; I'm not exactly worried."

"Get worried." The thought of the stolen credits burned deep within Boba Fett's breast. "Get real worried."

"Until the next time," said Balancesheet. "I'll be wait-ing, bounty hunter."

The comm unit connection with the freighter broke off, and silence filled Slave I's cockpit once more. Boba Fett watched as the other ship's thruster engines flared into life, then dwindled into fading, starlike points.

For a moment longer, he gazed out at empty space, his own thoughts as dark and brooding. Then he turned again to the calculations of the slow journey ahead of him...