Star Wars_ Tales of the Bounty Hunters - Kevin J. Anderson [124]
Fett was amazed to hear himself laugh. “That Jedi superstition? Gentlelady Organa, if the Force exists I have seen no proof of it, and I doubt it does.”
Now she did look at him. “You remind me of Han Solo, a little. He didn’t believe—”
Fett heard his voice rise dangerously. “I am nothing like Solo and don’t you compare me to him.”
Leia took a slow, deep breath. “Okay. Why does that offend you so?”
Fett leaned forward again. “Do you know what that man has done in his life? Never mind the loyal citizens of the Empire that he, and you, have killed during your Rebellion; war is war and perhaps you, at least, think you are fighting for Justice. But Solo? He’s a brave man, yes; he’s also a mercenary who’s never done a decent thing in his life, who’s never done a difficult thing that somebody wasn’t paying him for. He’s smuggled banned substances—”
“He ran spice!”
Fett found himself on his feet and yelling. “Spice is illegal! It’s a euphoric, it alters moods, and the use of it leads to the use of worse substances, and a man who will run spice,” he snarled, “will run anything!” He stood tense and motionless, holding his rifle in a quivering grip, staring down at Leia. “And if I had been using spice tonight, Leia Organa, perhaps you would not be safe with me in this room.”
“Han has smuggled spice,” Leia said steadily, “which is illegal and does not please me; and he’s smuggled alcohol too, which is legal but the tariffs are high enough to make it worth smuggling in various worlds. No, he’s not perfect and he’s broken laws you’ve never even heard of. But I know Han Solo, and I’ve seen him take risks for things he believes in, risks that I doubt you would have the courage to take—and what are you doing working for Jabba the Hutt anyway?”
Fett exhaled, loosened his grip on the rifle. He forced himself down to the ground once more, ignoring the spikes of pain that flared in his knees. “He’s paying me. A lot. Once Skywalker comes, I will take him to Vader, and then I will spend no more time here.”
“That’s not what I mean. Jabba the Hutt has sold mountains of spice, and of far worse than that—”
“Necessity makes allies. Once the Rebellion is over, I expect the Empire will deal with Jabba. But he is less a threat than the Rebels.” Fett reversed the assault rifle, touched the butt against the pad that controlled the lights. His macrobinoculars compensated almost immediately as darkness fell on them; she sprang into his vision by the light of her body heat. “I’m going to sleep. My throat is sore.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Luke Skywalker,” Leia said out of the darkness, “is going to come and kill you.”
“Everyone dies,” Fett agreed. “But since nobody’s paid me to kill you … sleep well.”
He slept with his eyes open, inside the helmet.
The Jedi, if he was one, came a day later. Luke Skywalker was his name, and he killed Jabba’s Rancor; and Jabba put him down in the dungeon, in a cell near Solo and Chewbacca.
The following morning dawned bright and clear and hot, and Boba Fett was in a vile mood.
It was Tatooine, of course. All the mornings were bright and clear and hot.
But the Hutt was going to kill Skywalker. And Solo, and Chewbacca, though that was hardly the point.
Skywalker. That was the source of Fett’s vile mood. He’d tried to talk Jabba out of killing Skywalker—not that he cared whether Skywalker lived or died; Fett expected the galaxy would be a better place with that fool subtracted from it. He’d seen a lot of remarkably stupid things in his day, but the spectacle of a beardless young man trying to face down Jabba the Hutt in his own throne room was near the top of the list.
But, though Fett had argued with him more than was perhaps wise,