He did not worry about his weapons systems, nor his deflectors; they
were either ready, or sabotaged probably ready. Planting a beacon was
one thing, and impressive enough; fooling the ship's on-board
diagnostics quite another.
So deep in a planet's gravity well, calculating a new hyperspace jump
took time, even for a computer as bright as the one Fett had running the
Slave 1. Even so, it had nearly completed the calculations when the
subject became moot: A needle of a ship came up over Tatooine's horizon.
The IG-2000. It was instantly recognizable, and it told Fettjust how
very bad the problem was. The ship belonged to the assassin droid
IG-88, the second-best bounty hunter in the galaxy, and studying hard to
be number one. Fett's fingers danced across the controls and the Slave
1 braked savagely, dropping into a lower orbit. Fett focused and fired
his fore blasters as the two ships closed.
The IG-2000 exploded instantly, went up in a burst of superheated metal
and expanding plasma.
tantly, Bad decoy. That assassin droid would never make a mistake
like-The Slave's sensors went wild. A ship was leaving hyperspace only
a few klicks away--and then the Slave 1 shuddered all about Fett as
blaster fire struck it aft.
The aft holocams showed it all clearly. The IG-2000, the real one, no
decoy, breaking out of hyperspace with blasters lit, coming up above and
behind Fett, pinning the Slave 1 between the IG-2000 and Tatooine.
It was a brilliant maneuver that only the assassin droid, with its
droid's reflexes, could have planned and carried out.
The Slave 1 dove for atmosphere, the IG-2000 following at high speed, as
the comm unit came alive.
IG-88's voice lacked intonation: "Surrender your prisoner and you have a
thirty-percent probability of surviving this encounter."
Fett ignored the droid, fingers flying across his control panel.
The droid said something else then, that Boba Fett never heard. He
routed what power he could spare to the rear deflectors, sent another
round of blaster fire aft to keep IG-88 occupied, and then ruined his
own ship.
He turned the inertial damper on.
For most of a second the Slave 1 went dark as the inertial damper drew
current, shields dropping, weapons going dead for that second, when a
single blaster bolt would have destroyed the entire ship-and then the
inertial damper came online.
Dual explosions came from below deck, the inertial damper destroying
itself as it did its job, and probably taking the hyperdrive with it.
Half the indicators on the main board went red, the ship's
superstructure screamed with the sound of tearing metal, as the ship
lost ninety percent of its velocity in the quantum instant it took an
electron to descend from one atomic orbital shell to another.
Power returned to what was left of the Slave 1 as the IG-2000 hurtled
past Fett at high speed. Fett calmly did all the obvious things, using
the ion cannon to destroy the IG-2000's rear deflector array before
IG-88
could bring it online, followed by taking out the fore deflector array.
He clamped a tractor beam onto the IG-2000 long enough to keep it from
fleeing, and sent a missile down to finish the business off.
Inside the Sarlacc, Fett said aloud, "Shouldn't have named it that."
The voice said politely, Indeed?
"The Slave 1. It was a mistake, that. It gave away information, told
people I owned more . . ." Fett's voice trailed off. He hung against
a wall, in darkness, his extremities numbed. He could not feel his
hands or his feet, and his skin was burning, and worst of all he was not
aboard the Slave 1, not at all-He whispered, "How did you do that to
me?"
He had the brief impression of amusement. It was easy. No--you were
easy. You live strongly.
A chill descended upon Fett, and he shivered fiercely, there in the
A fair enough question, it said, and the dark amusement was unmistakable
this time. As you are my past, Boba Fett . . . I am your destiny.
"The grimace is quite wonderful," said the Hutt. "We are impressed with
your efforts, and we are pleased to pay seventy-five thousand credits
for the person of Han Solo."
Fett shook his head. "Jabba"--and he heard the stir that went through
the room at the familiarity--"we're not dealing here with the person of
Captain Solo--who I recall had a bounty on him of one hundred thousand
credits."
Jabba's tail twitched and his voice deepened into a dangerous
near-growl. "This is not Solo?"
"This?" said Fett, as courteously as he was able--it was not his strong
suit. He had not been raised speaking Basic, and his voice and diction
tended toward a certain harshness when he used it. "This finely
rendered carbonite sculpture, the person of Han Solo?
No. What I brought you today is art. Art created by the Dark Lord that
happened to use Han Solo as material, like another artist might shape
clay." He shrugged. "I tell you what, I've gotten attached to it
during my journey here. It has a presence to it, don't you think?"
The Hutt said slowly, "The grimace is . . . quite wonderful."
"And the hands," said Fett, pushing it. "Let's us two admire the hands
together. I like them, they show the quality of the Dark Lord's work-"
"Rather," the Hutt murmured in a bass rumble, "rather. One sees Solo's
final moments of fear in them." He examined Boba Fett, standing beside
the carbonite-encased Han Solo; both Fett and the piece of art under
discussion were well back from the trap-door before Jabba's throne.
"There is news," Jabba continued, "that Vader failed to capture
Skywalker, that Organa and Calrissian escaped him as well . .
.
and that Chewbacca is likewise free. Their combined bounties are . . .
impressive." Heavy-lidded eyes examined Fett. "Impressive."
And Chewbacca, at the very least, will be coming for Solo. Fett nodded.
"We might discuss my staying," he conceded.
"As to the art, an original piece from the hand of the Dark Lord---"
Fett could feel himself warming to the subject; the faintest breath of
disappointment touched him when Jabba interrupted, with something so
close to enthusiasm that Fett found it notable.
"There is further work here, for a brave bounty hunter." The Hutt's
tongue flicked out to lick his lips and he leaned forward. "A hundred
thousand credits for the capture and delivery of a krayt dragon to do
battle with my rancor."
Fett said dryly, "That seems a lot. As much for the delivery of a krayt
dragon as for Solo?"
The Hutt waved a negligent hand in dismissal. "We will find a fair
price for Solo. For the art. But now--" Fett raised his head slightly.
"A quarter million."
A hush fell over the watching crowd. Those nearest Fett edged slowly
backward.
Jabba leaned forward. His voice emerged from his chest as a rumbling
threat. "So . . . that seems quite a lot. Even for Vader's art."
Fett shrugged. And waited.
Jabba's lips twitched. Fett did not mistake it for anything approaching
amusement. "So, a quarter million credits for . . . the art." His
eyes narrowed to slits.
"And we will enjoy your efforts toward acquisition of a krayt, and we
will enjoy your company among us. For some time."
"A quarter million." Boba Fett actually bowed slightly. "For some
time."
Very expressive . . . yes.
Fett shook his head to clear it. Jabba's throne room faded into
nothingness; he hung on the wall himself, deep inside the Sarlacc, the
air around him growing dank. A foul taste had begun to develop in his
mouth; he sipped at the water tube in his helmet before replying.
"Don't do that to me again."
There was a pause. I won't, the voice said finally, if you keep me
amused.
"Who the blazes are you?"
I am the inferno, you are quite accurate. I am the Sarlacc.
I am the distilled essence of-"You're not the Sarlacc," Fett said
grimly. "Sarlacci aren't intelligent, they don't have a brain worthy of
the name--" The voice chuckled and said softly, I amSusejo. The Wall
Fett hung on shivered. An emotion that could have been delight emanated
from the creature. It's been a long time since I had one like you, all
bright and sharp around the edges. You are nearly a work of art, Fett;
there is a clarity to you that is-chuckle--quite wonderful.
A purity to your intent.
Fett fought back the useless rage that threatened to overwhelm him; it
was something he'd had practice at. "I'm a hunter. I bring those who
do evil to justice, and there is little room to be unclear on the
subject."
You remind me of someone--ah. I have it: You remind me of the Jedi.
Keeping his voice expressionless was an accomplishment.
"The Jedi."
Yes. A Jedi we ate a few thousand years ago. We've kept her; would you
like to meet her?
"No." Fett closed his eyes and floated senselessly in the darkness. A
Jedi we ate, it had said. "No. Keep your Jedi to yourself."
Impression of a shrug. As you wish. You'll look forward to a break in
the tedium . . . soon enough.
Fett opened his eyes and stared ahead into the emptiness, listening to
the silence. The screams he had heard at first, those of the men who
had fallen into the Great Pit with him, had ceased. He had not heard
even one in some time. The fury built in Fett, self-contained, black
and bone-deep. Another crack nearby, sounding very like a whip; Fett
took a shuddering breath and when he spoke his voice shook slightly. "I
don't understand this. I don't understand this at all. Why is this
being prolonged? Is there a purpose? The Sarlacc can eat me when I'm
dead, can't it? I've killed, I've killed virtually everything that
moves, one time or another, a hundred different species, sentient and
dumb; if it breathes I've probably killed it or something like it. But
I've killed clean. I've killed without stretching it out. Where's the
grace in a death like this?"
Fett had the impression that his question was being considered.
For you ? Why, I suppose there is none. But your life and death belong
to me now, not you; and they serve my purpose. Recognize and understand
your place in things, Boba Fett, for you are not even a real thing;
merely a collection of thoughts that has deluded itself into a belief in
its own existence.
"You're saying that I'm not real, that nothing's real?" Fett's lips
twisted in a snarl. "The air stinks too badly for me to believe that."
You, and I, and everything else--we are merely a process, Boba Fett. A
process that has named itself "I." Surely the Real exists, and we are
an expression of it. But are you and I real? No. We are processes
that have grown arrogant and broken apart from the Real. In time we
shall be rejoined to it. The voice pausedYou want to know why this is
taking so long? You've barely been down here a day, Boba Fett.
There are sentients who've been kept alive for hundreds of years while
the Sarlacc digested them. After a long pause it added, with a sense of
weariness so profound Fett believed it would have killed him to
experience it, Thousands of years, in some cases.
Fett did not know what made him so certain, the weariness; he said, "You
. . . you lie. You're not the Sarlacc--you're down here, with me."
I'm not the Sarlacc? Considering, thinking: Don't be so sure of that. !
am Susejo of Choi, or I was, and I have been here for a very, very long
time. Longer than you can imagine but who knows? Perhaps you will not
have to imagine it. Perhaps you will survive. You entertain me, and
that which entertains me entertains the Sarlacc.
When I am happy, it is happy. I expect you will be with us for some
time.
Let me activate even one weapon system Fett fought the thought down,
pushed it back hard, and said aloud, "You are cruel."
There's a joke, said the voice, that my Jedi told me. A sentient visits
a nearby. farm and sees a barve in the front yardwandering around on
five legs--one leg has been amputated. The sentient in question, JoJo,
asks the owner why the barve has had a leg amputated.
"Well," says the owner, "let me tell you something about that barve.
That's the smartest barve you've ever seen in your life, JoJo.
That barve talks, he can fly a speeder, and he's great with the kids,
keeps an eye on 'em when I;m out in the field-why, just a few weeks ago
he rescued my youngest one from drowning.
"And JoJo says, "That's amazing! But what happened to the amputated
leg?" The owner stares at JoJo. "Well, man, you don't eat a barve like
that all at once!"
Susejo laughed silently in the darkness, and the wall behind Fett
rippled again.
Boba Fett thought to himself, I wish I had a thermal detonator.
I'd take you with me.
You are eternally the Real, Boba Fett . . . and there is nothing to
desire.
The chrono that glowed in the lower right-hand corner of Boba Fett's
helmet visor told him when dawn came. It had been dark already when he
awakened; when dawn arrived, the tunnel off to Fett's left lightened
noticeably. At noon, when the sun was directly overhead, enough light
filtered down through the yawning mouth of the Sarlacc that Fett could
see his surroundings clearly.
The walls of the small tunnel in which the Sarlacc had stored him were
grayish-green; they looked damp, though Fett's gloves prevented him from
being certain.
Small tendrils grew along the edges of the ridging in the walls; along
the floor the tendrils were larger, proper tentacles, a mat of several
hundred tentacles, four to six centimeters wide, three and four meters
long. They lay motionless most of the time; when the tentacles did move
they whipped around at such speed that the tentacle tips broke the sound
barrier, very like the tip of a whip. It was the source of the cracking
noises Fett had been hearing since he'd awakened . . .
and once he knew what it was he shivered. The crackin
g was a steady
background sound, yet the tentacles around him did not move often. It
made Fett wonder just how large the Sarlacc's interior was and how far
from the surface he might be--how many of those tentacles he would have
to fight his way through to get out again.
Oh, but you're not going to get out again, Boba Fett. No one ever has,
and you won't be the first. Listen: The Sarlacc ate my left leg first,
love. I hadn't been able to move either my arms or my legs for . . .
months, I suppose, a very long time. They didn't hurt anymore, though
my skin burned, and never has stopped burning the entire time I've been
in this blasted pit.
She has me hanging up in the main chamber while she digests me. I
suppose that's something; a thing to be grateful for in the grand scheme
of things. Mica and I came down together when our speeder got shot
down, and Mica got hustled back into one of those little openings along
the edge, down into the Sarlacc's guts. This is a bad way to die, but
that'd be worse, that'd be a lot worse. I'm blind in one of my eyes
now, but I can still see the sunlight striking down into the main pit,
through the other, and I tell you, it keeps me going. Never thought I'd
see the day when a brief glimpse of Tatooine's pale blue sky would be a
reason to keep living.