Chapter 9

Owen piloted the Whitesuns' V-35 Courier out into the wastes of Mos Eisley, the trashy Kerner district that tended to spoil the reputation of the otherwise average port city. Such a pity that the violent scum of a few blocks worth of establishments had to scare the wealthy tourists and tradesmen away to Mos Espa, and doom all that lay eastward to the more unscrupulous types.

The lot in back of the seedy-looking Chalmun's held in it a variety of custom speeders that put the boxy V-35 to shame. Strange characters eyed Owen with interest as he parked, and the farmer couldn't help but feel that there was a target painted on his back for all the pickpockets and con-men to hone in on. He slammed the door to the speeder and walked into the cantina, passing a pair of many-limbed aliens copulating upon the hood of their vehicle.

It was fortunate Owen had more than one glass of brandy in him, because in the morning all of this was going to seem dangerous and stupid.

"What can I get for you?" said the bar tender as Owen approached the counter. He was a bit surprised to see she was a fairly attractive-looking female human near his own age. She seemed horribly out of place in this rough and gritty cantina. Owen felt a stupid urge, tinged with masculine bravado, to whisk her away to a place more befitting, but then it was gone.

"Boba Fett. Where can I find him?" Owen asked, feigning a toughness, attempting to recall those days in his late teens when he'd bought and sold spice at establishments such as these. He needed that confidence again. The barmaid gave a small sigh and then began to scan the customers. Her eyes lingered for a moment on a booth in the back and she gave a nod toward it. A number of guests were situated around a sabaac table, the bounty hunter in question among them.

Owen ordered a drink, and prepared to wait for the game's end.

.o.o.o.o.o.

From his seat facing the cantina's entrance, Boba was made aware of every entry and exit into the building. It was his paranoia, developed over years of sitting in these rank spaceport bars, that caused him to like to see just who was coming and going at all times, especially if he planned on becoming intoxicated, and especially if he was to have his attention split by something like sabaac.

It must have happened during one of those moments when he'd looked down at his cards, for he was three games in and five thousand credits in the hole by the time he discovered that he was being watched from across the cantina by someone who's entrance he'd failed to notice.

A chill crawled up his spine when he zeroed in on the farmer. That same damn farmer with his mysteries and his Jedi connections that had never been far from Boba's musings since their first, peculiar interaction. That he was here, and intently focused upon this sabaac game, could mean no good thing. The silent chase was over. The prey had realized that he was being stalked.

So why did Boba, in this instance, not feel very hunter-like? Why did it give him the urge to shudder when he felt those eyes on him? Why did his palms begin to sweat? Why was a simple farmer suddenly cause for alarm?

Because he knew. And he knew that Boba knew.

A quarter hour later, Greedo was sweeping his winnings toward himself.

"You should join us at the sabaac table more often, Fett," he spoke in singsong Huttese, now neatly stacking his pile of chips.

"Keep those warm for me. I'll be wanting them back," Boba answered in Basic, somewhat more subdued than normal. He couldn't bring himself to care about the outcome of the game when there was a hole being burned into the back of his head by a pair of shrewd eyes. The other players stood and left in quick succession, and Boba was last to return to the counter to exchange his greatly dwindled amount of chips.

He felt the farmer behind him long before he turned to look at him. The way he stood, with his legs apart and hand placed casually in the folds of his cloak, was all the tip-off Boba needed to realize that the man had actually brought a blaster with him. Simply ignoring him could quickly turn lethal, especially if Lars' taste in pistols was as disgustingly excessive as his taste in riffles. Many a fight had been decided by luck and superior firepower, skill made irrelevant. And this farmer was damned lucky.

"We've got to stop meeting like this, farmer," the hunter said lightly, before the other could speak. By Jabba's fat arse, Boba vowed he would keep the upper hand in this trade.

"Why don't you join me at my table, bounty hunter? I think we have things to discuss," the farmer replied. Boba Fett closed his eyes, now knowing for certain that there was no good way to avoid this confrontation. He followed the farmer back to the other side of the bar, where a sheltered booth just off to the side of the door awaited them. They slid into it easily as if they were about to talk business.

"You don't mind if I smoke, do you?" Lars began, and Boba's ire grew. He didn't reply, for it would have felt like a capitulation, no matter how small. Besides, his stony silences often made a great intimidation tool. Lars slowly worked a colored stick free of its package and took a long moment to light it, as if he had all the time in the world and Boba had nothing better to do than wait on his pleasure. Finally, he spoke again, "Personally, I hate having to dance around the issue, so I'll be blunt. What's your game?"

"No game," Boba replied vaguely, "only a passing curiosity."

"I ain't a goddamn simpleton, Mr. Fett. That's your name right? Understand here, when I find that a character such as yourself has taken an interest in my humble affairs, it don't sit well with me."

"You ought to be grateful I think," Boba said, not taking kindly to Lars' insinuation of his 'character'. "I've kept Vader off your back this long, and spared you from the Inquisition besides. In fact, you may as well assume that your life from this point on depends entirely on my own good will. It would be a shame to offend me." Lars blinked, surprised maybe that Boba had been so forthcoming. Slowly the farmer drew the stick away from his mouth and for a second, everything between them was obscured by a cloud of smoke.

"How much do you know?"

"Everything, naturally," the hunter answered shortly.

"Oh I very much doubt that," Lars returned with narrowed eyes. The farmer studied him for a long while, assessing and calculating. How could he remain so calm in this situation? The hunter wondered, not for the first time, if the man before him really was just a farmer. Perhaps he was some sort of rebel agent or a wanted criminal in deep cover.

"What do you want from me?" the farmer continued, finally displaying a hint of vulnerability. Boba knew he could seize upon this chance. He could demand money for his continued silence. He could demand that the Jedi child be turned over to him so that he could claim any rewards for himself.

Strangely, both of those options left a bad taste in his mouth. The farmer had nothing. Boba himself had watched all that he'd owned go up in flames, and as for this child that everything seemed to revolve around, there was no thrill for Boba in soft targets.

"Go back to your farm and live out your simple life. It would be better for all of us." This ought to have been the end of the conversation. Boba ought to have gotten up then and left the farmer to finish his lonely spice stick in the fragile peace of Chalmun's, yet they both remained seated.

"I'd like to hire you, hunter," the farmer said after a long drag. Boba was momentarily stunned. Of all the things he'd expected the man to say next, a job offer had not been among them.

"You have no money and I don't work for free," Boba felt he needed to point out the obvious.

"You're so sure of that?" Lars replied, and he fished a datapad from his tunic. It displayed the credit balance of an account, presumably the man's own. The figure was twenty thousand. Boba knew immediately that this was not the farmer's money, baring the chance that a relative had recently died and left it to him, he had most likely taken a loan from one of Jabba's sharks. It was a terribly risky thing for a man in Lars' position to do, as he could have no other collateral but his own life. Whatever job he wanted done, it was quite serious. Deadly serious, in fact.

"I'm listening," Boba said after a fashion. It seemed this man would continue to surprise him.

"I need a message delivered."

"Then you need a mail service, not a bounty hunter. It is much cheaper," Boba quipped with a pointed glance at the balance on the datapad.

"How bout you hear me out? Then you can make all the wise-cracks you want," the farmer was not amused. "I need a message delivered. I can't go though official channels. It's too sensitive to put in text or on paper, the type of thing that could get a man killed."

Boba had leaned in casually, eager to hear more, though trying not to show it. He knew already he would take the job, but he couldn't let the client know he was so very interested.

"Who is the recipient?"

"Darth Vader."

Again, Boba was shocked into momentary silence. It was puzzling to think that after all the effort this farmer had gone through to keep the Empire away from his farm, he now wished to contact the man who, arguably, was the reason he had to hide the Jedi boy in the first place. Only one explanation made sense. Was Lars so desperate that he'd sell the child to Vader for a pretty few credits? This was Tatooine, after all...

I have no interest in the moisture farmer. Leave him to his pitiful existence.

"What makes you think Vader will want to hear anything you have to say?" Boba asked. The other man scowled deeply, as if the idea of Lord Vader, heir to the Empire, not taking a message from an outer rim farmer seriously was some grievous offense. He flicked the spice stick and a few, glowing cinders fell onto the drink-stained surface of the table.

"If he doesn't want to hear my message, then that will be an answer in itself. But I reckon he'll hear it, and then I reckon he'll come to Tatooine to hear more," the farmer growled. "Now, will you take the job, bounty hunter, or not?"

The man was utterly mad, Boba decided, but who was he to judge? He, who couldn't seem to pull his hand from the flame, who couldn't seem to stop picking this scab even though he knew he was only making it worse. There was a triangle in his mind now. Lars at one corner, Vader at another, and top and center was the late Jedi, Skywalker. Somehow all three men had become entangled, and Boba was dying to figure out the how and why. He relaxed back into his seat and tapped Lars' datapad thoughtfully.

"Twenty thousand will get you a com frequency. If you wanted me to do the talking, you'd have to double the amount."

"I could buy such a com frequency off the black market for a fraction of what I'm offering you," Lars scoffed. "What proof would I have that it would work or that any old nerf off the street might not listen in? I don't mind doing the talking, bounty hunter, so long as you can get me a secure channel. NMX encryption. None of the CiVoice bantha shit."

Truly top secret. Ah but he drove a hard bargain. A backwater planet like Tatooine surely only used the older systems. He would have to allow the farmer to make his call from Slave I in order to comply with these demands. But all else aside, if he refused this and then found out Dengar or Greedo had made a quick twenty thousand credits on a com to Vader, he'd have to slap himself.

This farmer belonged to Boba in the most bizarre of ways; he was a part of this hunt, and Boba could not in good faith give him up to another, lesser hunter. No, he must follow this story to its conclusion, which was looking now to have an ending with a signature Vader asphyxiation.

He'd trained himself nearly his whole life never to have sympathy for either client or target. They were jobs, they were money, and the moment he allowed such things to become personal, he could no longer call himself a bounty hunter.

It was indeed a pity- that poor, Jedi kid. Such a shame to be condemned just because of his blood. Boba could relate, in a way. But this was business, and he needed to eat...

...at the finest restaurants. He needed to upgrade Slave I's laser cannons. And he needed to visit that whore on Zolan again. The good life wasn't cheap.

He fixed the farmer under his helmeted gaze, watching as the other man sat back in the booth and ground the end of his spice stick into the tabletop, where dozens of other guests had done the same, judging from the various, circular burns in the duraplast.

"You've got yourself a deal, farmer. Tomorrow at dusk. Meet me in docking bay 32."

.o.o.o.o.o.