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“Do you know what they’re going to do to me?”

“They will feed you, still alive, to a pack of starved quarra.” Fett paused. “Domesticated hunting animals—this practice is one of the things that’s kept Devaron out of the New Republic, I’ve heard.”

Malloc nodded a little convulsively and took another drink. “It’s a bad way to die. I saw it done once, when I was a boy. You were right, Fett, we Devaronians don’t die easy. The quarra go at the belly first, the soft flesh. But the condemned doesn’t die of that. They may nibble on your ears, or your eyes or horns, but that won’t kill you, either. If you’re lucky the quarra tear your throat out quickly. You arch your head back and expose your throat, and if you’re lucky—”

“The time you saw it done,” said Fett curiously, “What had the condemned done?”

Malloc stared at the golden liquid in his free hand, and took another quick drink. “I don’t think there’s a word for it, exactly, in Basic. He went hunting, during famine, and caught his prey—and fed himself, and his quarra. He didn’t bring it back to the tribe.” He looked up at Fett. “Do you know what I did?”

Fett glanced over at his instruments. Several minutes left until breakout; best let him talk. He looked back at Malloc. “Yes.”

“I was a good servant to the Empire,” the Butcher said. “My own people rose in rebellion. They sent my command out to Hunt them down. And I did it, Fett. I Hunted them across the northlands, and I caught them in the city of Montellian Serat. We shelled them until they surrendered—”

Fett nodded. “And after taking their surrender, you executed them. Seven hundred of them.”

“The Empire ordered us to move on. To reinforce loyal troops, fighting just south of us. We were not to leave any troops behind as guards for the prisoners … and certainly we were not to leave any of them living.”

“They didn’t tell you to execute the prisoners.”

“They didn’t have to.” Malloc drank again, a huge belt, lowering the level of the bottle noticeably. “It took almost five minutes, Fett. We put them in a holding pen and started shooting at them. They screamed and screamed and screamed. We just kept shooting until the screaming had stopped.” He said almost pleadingly, “I was following orders.”

“I know.”

“They say you were Darth Vader’s favorite bounty hunter.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you have any loyalty to what you were?” A touch of real anger glittered through Malloc’s despair. “I did the Empire’s work, man! Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Fett thought about it. “I wish,” he said finally, “that the Empire had not fallen.” He nodded, remembering, and then said softly, “Yes. I used to enjoy my work more.”

Hopelessness settled on the Butcher—he sagged, looking as though someone had just doubled the artificial gravity in the Slave IV. They always thought they could bargain, or plead, right up to the last moment. Malloc hadn’t had a chance to ask the next question; he asked it now. Virtually all of Fett’s bounties, given the chance, did—

“How did you catch me?”

A minute left to breakout. Fett nodded toward the bottle Malloc held. “I traced sales of Merenzane Gold across the entire sector Tatooine is in. They said, at the bar you frequented on Tatooine, that it was your favorite drink.”

Malloc stared at him. “That crap I drank on Tatooine? That wasn’t Merenzane Gold, you idiot, they don’t serve Merenzane Gold in bars like that, they just pour it out of bottles that once, eons ago, were looked at hard by a man who heard of Merenzane! Don’t you know anything about liquor?” he asked in despair. “Haven’t you a single civilized vice?”

Fett shook his head. “No. I do not drink, nor indulge in other drugs. They are an insult to the flesh.”

“So you Hunted me down because you thought I was drinking Merenzane Gold, all those years on Tatooine. Fett, I had one glass of real Gold the entire time I was on that miserable excuse for a world.” Malloc shook his head in disbelief, took another swig from the bottle. “By the Cold. I can’t believe I got caught by a nerf herder like