The way of the Jedi

Chapter 1: The hunt

Pain – a searing, untameable pain raged through his body. His armour burned and battered, his senses scrambled, he had only one instinct, the instinct to survive. For, he knew that if he fell, if the grappling hook he had deployed a mere nano-second before his plunge had failed, he would have died a rare and terrible death. He breathed, the air was fetid and it made him cough. He looked up, the sky was a deep blue, the twin suns having dipped below their horizon, the clamour of battle long since silent. Mentally he calculated, trying to work out how long he had been suspended, unconscious above the Sarlakpit. With a jolt of realisation he realised that he had been therefore half a day. He bulked, realising that for that long, Tatooine's suns had blazed over him. He smiled beneath his mask, silently thanking the armour he wore; for without it he would be dead. Not only had it stopped the lightsaber, it had prevented his skin from being reduced to a boiling ness.

The night winds howled, he hung, his body swaying. He could vaguely hear the muffled sound of screams from far below him as people were slowly being digested by the Sarlak, a revolting, tentacled beast that lurked somewhere in the shadows below him. The thought of one of those tentacles reaching out and plucking him down into its stomach galvanised Boba Fett, as with an effort of will he dismissed the phantoms of his past that moved inside his delirious thoughts. His father Jango, the clones, and his father's downfall. For a moment, lost in reverie he considered how far he had come; from orphan to bounty hunter, the best of them all, hired by Vader himself. That name triggered a memory. Yes, that was it, Solo, carbonite, Jabba. There was something else though, another command that the tall, dark, menacing figure had given him on Cloud city. A tag, a device… that was it, Vader had purchased a custom built tracking device that Fett had attached to… to what? His head hurt, his body ached and the thirst was agony. But, he realised that if he could catch this thought, if he could understand this memory his mission could continue. Fett didn't fail, he hunted mercilessly. True, most of the mission had gone to plan, he had delivered the frozen Solo to the Hutt, and now he must…. Yes, it came to him in a flash. Vader had told him to track the ship, to follow it to whatever system it flew to. The ship, Fett remember, was an X-Wing class fighter that had landed in Cloud city. Fett, forever scheming and always logical thought it more beneficial to attach the micro-tracker to the droid rather than the ship. Ships could, after all be changed, refitted, damaged. Droids, especially the astromech units, were treated like pet dogs and not machines. So, Fett decided, at last finding the strength to haul himself up the cable, it was time to track the droid.

The landing platform was no more than a patch of smooth, packed sand with navigational beacons placed around it. Surprisingly there were very few jawas scavenging for scraps of machinery. Fett noticed a solitary, weeping man, one of Jabbas henchman. Although Fett hated small talk he sidled up to the man, his head hairless, nodules, lumps and tentacles hanging from his forehead to fall upon his chest like pale snakes. The man, Bib Fortuna, Jabba's chamberlain told Fett that the Hutt was dead, and that accounted for the general chaos that Fett had noticed when he observed the palace. Fett experienced no grief at the news, in fact the Hutt was no more than a dirty, slimy smuggler, but he always paid well, and Fett respected that.

Fett shrugged and prepared to enter his ship when he noticed a restraining bolt on the ground. He kicked at it idly, he had seen dozens of these attached to the palace droids. Absent mindedly he picked it up and then remembered something. The restraining bolt, he recalled, could be broken, but Jabba, forever obsessive about his property always inserted a tracker magnifier – a tiny device that gave extra range to the more common trackers. Fett nodded, appreciating the Hutt's foresight, and realised that it gave him a far better chance to track his prey, the range having almost doubled.

Slowly, his body aching, Fett entered the cool and welcoming interior of his ship. A ship that he loved nearly as much as his armoured suit. With practised speed he performed the pre-flight checks, searched for any detonation or sabotage devices, and then prepared to leave the bleak hostility of the desert planet.

Slave-1 roared into the upper atmosphere, her pilot tuning the onboard scanners to the frequency of the tracking device. Casually, decades of experience making him totally comfortable in the air, Fett guided the ship out of the heavily ionised upper atmosphere and into the smooth transition into deep space. He sat back, feet crossed at the ankles, resting on the control console, his suit on his lap, a medi-kit on the floor next to him. He yawned, raided his supplies and ate and drank, replenishing his energy. Then, with the care and dexterity of a surgeon he treated his wounds –burns and cuts before he gazed at his suit. "Bastard," he croaked. The suit was damaged beyond repair. The propulsion unit was destroyed, the armour buckled, and the weaponry fried. The only thin undamaged was the helmet and visor. Angrily he got up, the suit falling to the deck. It was precious to him, a piece of master engineering, and as close to a replica to his father's as modern design and materials would allow. He remembered marvelling at his father's suit. The way it looked, the complete mastery Jango had of it. Every component at peak performance, from the audio intensifiers, to the advanced HUD to the grappling hooks and rocket propulsion unit. But, Boba reflected bitterly, he still got himself killed.

Fed and watered, his injured body healing quickly – his physiology having ultra fast tissue regeneration, his nervous system and infection resistance high. A side-affect of the clones genetic retrieval process his father underwent. Now was the time boredom set in. For Boba was a man of action; whether he was standing at a crowded bar, searching for his mark, or negotiating a price for a contract. Fett enjoyed the chase the most. The breathless, intoxicating thrill of knowing his target was close, that buzz of adrenalin as he caught up with him and delivered the deadly blow or shot. Secretly Fett hated to be called a bounty hunter. He considered himself to be a true professional, an assassin, a seeker. But in truth he realised that at heart he was a hunter, a hunter who hunted throughout the galaxy and worked for the highest bidder, the one who could give him enough credits.

He lounged back in his flight chair, the stars flitting past the view-screen. Slave-1 was set to a search flight plan, the ship travelling in ever increasing circles in an attempt to pick up the signal from the tracking device. Fett didn't hold up much hope, his mark was probably long gone and the galaxy was a big place. But, he knew that the carbon freeze on Solo had been a success, and, Vader had told him that it was meant for Skywalker, so that he would be delivered to the emperor in pristine condition. He knew that if the track on the droid worked, and if by chance the droid was anywhere near Skywalker, Fett would become a very rich man indeed. But, riches didn't interest him – the hunt interested him, and this was the hunt for a Jedi – or so the rumours suggested. True the boy could wave a lightsaber about, but he wasn't exactly big or aggressive; on the contrary the battle aboard the barge had been swift and controlled. He recalled all those years ago when his father battled a Jedi – what was his name… Kenobi? That was a good fight, and even then Boba had loved every stomach churning, heart pounding second. He had even got a few shots in himself with the ship's blasters. Oh how he would love to find Skywalker, to even the score. He had not only ruined Fett's precious armour, but he had made him look foolish. If it wasn't for Fett's speed he would be inside the stomach of the Sarlak, what a pointless, drawn-out death that would be, totally devoid of glory.

There was nothing left to do but sleep. And sleep, Boba Fett did. He reclined his flight-chair and closed his eyes, hoping he would dream of…. The alarm sounded shrill and loud. He glanced at the view screen where a tiny prick of light was visible. He aligned the receiver and the alarm stopped. There it was, a positive lock. He routed flight control to the receiver and allow Slave-1 to automatically follow the slowly intensifying signal. But to where? He stared at his star charts and mentally calculated his speed and direction. "The Degoba system," he growled. "Never heard of it, must be a malfunction." He ran a diagnostic and found out that it was not. Shrugging, he once again tried to repair his suit, hoping that a bodge-job would do just until he could get…. Home? Where was home? He shook his head. "Just as soon as I get to Phalak 4." He said to himself. Phalak 4 was the home planet of a race of armour building experts. What those people could do with a schematic and a laser grinder was sheer poetry. Checking his chronometer Fett realised that this system was still a long way away. "I'll design a new suit," he whispered to himself. "Pass the time." He took a pad and tablet from a locker and went to work.

Gazing at his design he realised that the neet, methodical template was much like his father's armoured suit. However, Boba Fett had made a few customisations. The personal energy shield was stronger, operating on a multi-channel bandwidth, the rocket propulsion unit had improved thrust, acceleration and distance, and the hyper pulse rifle had an improved range and targeting subroutine. This pleased Fett the most as disintegration was his preferred method of assassination it left no DNA or no traceable wave signature. With a sigh he checked his credit balance with his personal transact or. More than 950000IC, by any one's standards he was rich. Rich enough to refit his ship and upgrade his suit. He glanced around Slave-1 - despite appearances it was a great ship and Boba was attached to it. Not only because it could out fly most vessels, but because it belonged to his father. A strange sense of isolation krept ober Boba - for, despite Jango's shortcomings as a father, Boba had never met anyone who could out pilot, out shoot or out think his father. He patted the side of the flight-chair in proprietary pride.

A vague, dim pixel illuminated on the extreme edge of the view screen. Boba diverted secondary systems to the engines, kicking Slave-1 into a hyperspacial thrust. He smiled as the dim prick of light got larger. He surveyed his charts and noted that it represented the major planet in the system, a world called Deggobah. He shrugged, almost dismissing it, for his charts provided scant intelligence. With a scowl he thought of the prize, a chance at a Jedi, a chance to prove himself against Skywalker. And, allied to that was the prize money. Vader would make him obscenely ich, rich enough for Fett to buy a moon. "A moon!" he laughed to himself. "Path!" material things didn't interest Boba. He relished the challenge, the stalk, the hunt, the kill. He walked in shadows, he identified his prey and he struck, hard and fast. Then he got away, melting away with the night. He recalled a job he had on Sellus 9, an ambassador had to be "dealt with." Fett had watched him, had observed his movements. He knew to the second what time the ambassador walked in the atrium, sat in his offices or ate lunch. Fett had hid in a tree, his sights trained on the ambassador. It was a difficult shot, but Fett had made it. The dart had entered the man's carf and delivered its drug. Fett had hastily picked up the man, commandeered the ambassador's own transport and bundled him onto Slave-1. By the time the alarms were raised Fett was half way to the rendezvous. And then there was that incident on Correl – Fett smiled to himself. That was genius. The guards didn't see him, the droids didn't see him, if it wasn't for that dog it would have been perfect. Still, it had provided Boba with ample gunnery practice as he left, pursued by a squadron of fighters who were scrambled for sub-atmospheric engagement. And now, his body nearly healed, he sat where he had sat for most of his life, in the cockpit of his ship. But this time it was different, this time he hunted the last of the Jedi.

The alarm jerked Boba out of his reverie. A tiny blinking spec appeared on his screen. Hastily he punched in the co-ordinates into the navigational console. It seemed as though the object, under extreme magnification and sensor acuity, was orbiting Deggobah. A sense of excitement galvanised Boba and he felt alive and vital again. Without a thought he re-routed the life support and back-up systems to the engines, willing his ship to close. With a distinct lurch the ship accelerated and Boba silently willed the sensors to identify the blip.

"Come on, come on, give me an ident," Fett whispered, foot tapping the deck in frustration. At last the ghostly image, a green, pre-rendered schematic of an X-Wing class ship. "Yes!" Fett exclaimed, thudding his fist into his palm. Hastily he donned his repaired suit.

Fett prided himself on his preparation. He intensely, to the point of mania, researched every job, every target, every mark. The fact that Skywalker had managed to best him on Tatooine was a source of unending frustration, anger and self condemnation for Boba. "Not again," he said to himself, silently looking at a schematic of a lightsaber. "Only good at close quarters." Fett concluded, puching in a command to show a detailed schematic of an X-wing. In silence he observed every fact, his photographic memory meticulously remembering every inch of the small fighter. He was looking for an advantage, a weak point. He found two. Although the S-wing was a good ship, Slave-1 was faster and had better weaponry.

"It's time," Boba said to himself. "Battle stations." Slave-1 hurtled through space towards a distant green planet. Between Slave-1 and the planet a solitary X-wing fighter flew – a fighter piloted by a young Jedi called Luke Skywalker and co-piloted by a droid with the designation R2-D2. Little did they know that Boba Fett, vengeful and dangerous was in pursuit.