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  Fett ignored him for a moment. With a few adjust­ ments from the still-functioning navigational rockets, he had brought Slave I around to where he could at last see the other ship that had fired upon them. Even from this distance, where the visible details of his enemy were little more distinct than the stars behind it, he could recognize the vessel whose laser cannons had brought his own to the brink of destruction.

  He knew as well whose vessel it was, and who had given the orders to fire.

  It's Xizor. Another adjustment to the controls brought the viewport's optical magnification into the circuit. The outlines of the Falleen prince's flagship were unmistak­ able—and intimidating. The ship was known to be one of the deadliest and most thoroughly armored in the galaxy, the equivalent of anything matching its gross tonnage in Emperor Palpatine's war fleet. If Slave I had gotten into a full-pitched battle with it, there wouldn't even have been this much of Boba Fett's ship left hanging together.

  The mystery of why the Vendetta hadn't moved in for the kill was easy enough to determine. He's holding back, decided Fett. Just waiting to see if there's any sign of life. Prince Xizor was known to be something of a tro­phy collector; it would be entirely consistent for him to want the hard physical evidence—the corpses—of those he had set out to kill rather than just blowing them into disconnected atoms drifting in space.

  The greater mystery was why Xizor had lain in wait and fired upon Slave I in the first place. Fett had been aware of no connection between Xizor and this high-stakes job of rounding up the renegade stormtrooper for which Palpatine had posted such an astronomical price.

  But there had to be some link—it was too much to be­ lieve that it was mere coincidence or just random malice on Xizor's part. The Falleen prince's mind was too coldly rational—similar to Boba Fett's own in that manner— for anything like that to be the case.

  Boba Fett lowered his gaze from the viewport and be­ gan punching in new commands on the control panel.

  "What..." Voss'on't's voice was a harsh croak. "Tell me..."

  There was neither time nor need to explain to the mer­ chandise lying on the floor of the cockpit. "I'm doing," said Boba Fett, "the same thing I've been doing all along. Saving both our lives—whether you like it or not."

  With a final jab of his forefinger, he hit the button to fire up the one main engine that was still functioning. Slave I shuddered, its hull threatened to tear loose from the battered structural frame beneath, as the engine's convulsive thrust blurred the stars in the viewport.

  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 can­nons' 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 Xi­zor 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 uncon­vinced, 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 Xi­zor'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 oppo­nent 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 even­tually. 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 Xi­zor, 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 Excel­lency, 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 maneu­vers 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 understand­able, 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 go­ing 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 sta
tioned 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.