Chapter Two

So far, Dooku thought, the war was going according to plan.

He himself had been amazed when Lord Sidious had been able to maneuver both the Republic and the Jedi and the Separatists into a neatly designed trap.

And no one had seen it coming…not even the cursed Jedi.

Smiling, he thought back, three years ago, to the events that had led up to the war. The Lord's web was so wide-reaching and transparent that even Yoda could barely begin to grasp at it's extent.

Even then, his master had recognized that manipulations and subtlety could only carry him so far. Eventually, imposing his will by force would become necessary. When that time came, he would need an army at his disposal.

The only problem was, he would have to make it's creation seem justified and legitimate; otherwise, it would be seen as a blatant power-grab. That was where Dooku came in.

Traveling from system to system, he convinced thousands of planets to switch allegiances, and join a Separatist movement. He amassed a huge droid army, so that when the clones, which Sidious had quietly been creating on the side, were revealed, he would be able to put them in the Republic's employ.

While he had played a crucial part in the ploy, he did not for a minute think himself indispensable. Sidious' attempts to cultivate a new, more malleable apprentice in Anakin had not gone unnoticed.

Eventually, Dooku knew, it would be in his best interest to make a move against Sidious. Even with Sith techniques to combat aging, he wouldn't live forever. If he wanted to rule, it would have to be soon.

Soon…but not too soon, Dooku thought, frowning.

Sidious, he knew, was a skilled at reading people as he was at manipulating them. If any kind of deceit were to be planned, it would be spotted, and dealt with, quickly enough.

Slowly, carefully, he began to formulate a plan. He was not ready for a direct confrontation with hi master, at least not yet. To that end, he would immediately begin preparing for their inevitable duel. It would be a wonderful one, he knew; a challenge that would push him to – and perhaps past – the limits of his skills. But if he could succeed…he'd have power beyond imagination. If he failed, of course, he'd be killed…but failure just wasn't a concept Dooku understood.

As he sat there, plotting his little insurrection, Dooku realized he was one step closer to freedom.

*     *     *

Boba Fett hated meetings.

It all started with his search for a challenge. Despite being only 14, he was easily the best bounty hunter in the galaxy. So good was he that often, anyone with a bounty on their head would give up and simply turn themselves into him. While this did provide an easy method of obtaining credits, it let him somewhat at odds. His rigorous training program made it unlikely that any of his skills would diminish, but Fett wasn't in the habit of taking chances. He needed to test himself against the best.

Thus, when a man by the name of Sidious had contacted him, offering him a near limitless supply of valuable, and, more importantly, challenging, prey, he had jumped at the opportunity. It was almost too perfect. In addition to being paid a substantial amount, he would have the chance to hone his skills against the best in the galaxy: the Jedi.

The Jedi. Fett smiled. It was a difficult thing, trying to catch a Jedi. With the Force, they could sense a trap long before it was sprung, and plan accordingly. Even if you could sneak on one, they were still extremely capable fighters. To attack one, for most people, was suicide.

But then, Boba Fett wasn't most people.

The Jedi had indeed proved a challenge, but he had been more than up to it. The first and most important breakthrough had been the discovery of the planet Myrkr. A fairly small, unimportant planet, it was home to smugglers, thieves and other useless dregs of the galaxy, for one simple reason: both the Jedi and the Republic treated the place as if it had a hive virus.

Curious as to why the righteous and law-abiding Republic had chosen to ignore this festering pit of lawlessness, he had gone to investigate. The answer had turned out to be far more interesting than he had imagined, and far more profitable. The problem, it turned out, stemmed from wildlife. More specifically, one species of wildlife: ysalamari.

Ysalamari were small, furry snake-like creatures, sessile and entirely unremarkable except for one extraordinary trait: They pushed back the Force. Through some strange evolutionary twist, these creatures had the unique ability to create a bubble of about ten meters where the Force simply didn't exist. Naturally, the Jedi didn't appreciate being left powerless, and had done their best to pretend both the planet and the creatures themselves didn't exist.

Which worked well for Fett. In feigning ignorance, the Jedi left themselves vulnerable to anyone who discovered the secret of Myrkr.

So far, he had caught seven Jedi unaware with the ysalamari, and delivered them to Sidious. He neither knew nor cared what had happened to them; after leaving his custody, Fett's concern for his prisoners dropped to zero.

That was one lesson his father had drummed into him often enough: don't get involved. The mark of a truly good bounty hunter, he had said, was complete and utter detachment. To a professional, people weren't people, they were profits and opportunities. It was not for a bounty hunter to decide whether a person deserved to be caught or not; all they had to do was catch them.

Of course,  even if he had wanted to know what Sidious was up to, he doubted he could have found out. The man plays his sabacc cards so close to his chest, they're probably imprinted there.

He smiled. Sidious was a master strategist, he would give him that. Fett couldn't fathom why he did half the things he did.

Case in point, he thought, this mission.

When he'd been contacted by Sidious, two standard weeks ago, he'd expected the usual mission. Sidious would stipulate the Jedi he wanted, the deadline, and payment. This time, however, it was not a Jedi he wanted. It was an alien.

The alien, it turned out, was a gungan, by the name of Jar Jar Binks. He'd been a General during the war of Naboo, and later, served as an aide for Senator Padme Amidala. There was also some indication that he had been banished from his society. Probably due to stupidity.

Other than these distinctions, his life had been entirely unremarkable, as far as Fett could tell. Still, he was probably the most famous gungan in the galaxy.

Fett snorted. That wasn't saying much.

The gungan had irked him from the very moment he had started trailing him. The only way to earn respect from Boba Fett as to have success in evading him. The longer it took to catch someone, in his mind, the more worthy of respect they were. He hated easy prey.

And Jar Jar was just about as easy as they came.

He snorted, the memory of how he had tricked the gungan coming back to him. It had been almost painfully easy.

He had contacted Jar Jar on Coruscant, pretending to be a representative of GASU, Galactic Aquatic Species United. He went on to say that since Jar Jar was undoubtedly the most well known member of any aquatic species, he would be the perfect choice for a motivational speaker.

Fat chance, thought Fett. The idiot can barely string two words together.

Jar Jar hadn't even bothered to hide his enthusiasm, another trait that had earned him Fett's contempt. Emotions were things to be largely ignored, and in any case, shouldn't be worn on the face.

A date and place were set, which left Fett to wait.

Which brought him back to meetings.

He hated meetings.

For one thing, no matter who it was you were meeting, an employer, or a partner, or even a target, you could never be sure that you weren't walking into a trap. People, he had learned, couldn't be trusted.

Second, if you had to stay in one spot for long, you had already surrendered much of your advantage. A bounty hunter survived by being quick, versatile, and adaptable. If someone knew the exact time and location of your meeting, they'd invariably try to come and take you down.

For him, all meetings seemed to end with only one of the participants walking away. Granted, so far, he had always been that participant, but the idea that someday, he might lose one of those confrontations pestered him.

Not that he expected any resistance from an incompetent gungan, but it was never good to get overconfident.

For the rendezvous, he had chosen the world of Mon Calamari, which was, appropriately enough, a water world. One of the larger spaceports had provided a perfect meeting place: A small, out of the way bar, with low enough lighting, and high enough booths to prevent any eavesdropping.

Briefly, he wondered if the gungan would be suspicious that the leader of a respected organization had chosen such a seedy place as this. Unlikely, he decided. It probably wouldn't have noticed if I'd held it on Tatooine.

Looking around, there were eight or nine other occupants of the bar, two of whom, he saw, were the gungan's cover. He had immediately noted that they from Naboo, based on their gait and accent, and from their mannerisms it was painfully clear that they were bodyguards, and bad ones, at that.

Working back from there, it was easy. Naboo was not known for it's bodyguards, so logically, the only person who would hire someone from Naboo, would be someone from Naboo themselves, or someone too stupid to hire better ones.

Either way, it meant Jar Jar.

Still, his appreciation for the gungan went up a notch. By hiring bodyguards, even ones as bad as these, his target had shown a foresight he'd not have thought possible.

This opened up many new possibilities. If his target was smarter than he had previously thought, there was the chance that he had more preparations than just the guards. There was even the chance, however remote, that he was walking into a trap.

Fett tensed, and the tension in the surrounding atmosphere seemed to grow.

Slowly, with an effort, he calmed himself. He had gone over the bar with a fine tooth comb. He had studied his target thoroughly. There was virtually zero chance of an ambush.

He frowned. These bouts of unprofessional panic would have to stop, if he was to keep his hold on the bounty hunting profession.

Sweating, more from the oppressive humidity that the owner, a quarren, kept the place in than his nervousness, he almost reached for a his drink, before realizing how foolish that was. His armor prevented him from drinking; he had bought the ale only to appease the bartender.

Like his father, he had chosen to wear the armor of a Mandalorian warrior. While it didn't permit him to drink, his armor had saved his life on numerous occasions, and, he had no doubts, would continue to do so in the future. It was one of the most useful tools he had as a bounty hunter.

The armor itself was made of Mandalorian iron, and was strong enough to deflect or at least abate a blaster bolt, depending on the strength and angle. Besides protecting him, though, it also allowed him to conceal numerous weapons on his person. From wrist darts to a military-grade flamethrower, Fett suspected he was more heavily armed than a squad of clonetroopers.

His helmet, however, was probably the most useful piece of the suit. With it, he could switch to infrared or x-ray vision, scan people for concealed blasters, or communicate with his ship through a comm unit. It even contained a small air supply, so he could survive a few minutes in a vacuum.

If I need any of those things today, Fett told himself, things have gone horribly wrong.

This was supposed to be a nice, easy mission. The target would come, he'd eliminate the target, he'd send a recording to Sidious, and he'd get paid. Quick, clean, and simple.

Somehow, Fett knew it wouldn't turn out that way.

It was another hour before his target finally arrived. Fett looked over at the two men he had pinpointed, and saw that his read had been correct. Their small, almost imperceptible reaction to Binks' entry gave them away.

The gungan walked over to the furthest booth from the door, just as Gava Eptarn had instructed him to. When Fett had contacted the gungan, he knew he couldn't appear as himself. Thus, he came up with GASU, and a false identity, Gava Eptarn. For the actual transmission, he had used a sophisticated computer program. It mapped the users facial features, and applied them to that of another species. Thus, when Fett spoke, he appeared as a Mon Calamari, with Mon Calamari facial expressions, and voice. In addition, he had sliced into the Republic central computer, so that when his target tried to check if Fett's claims were legitimate, he would find both GASU and Gava Eptarn. All in all, it was a well-planned, well-executed net. Fett was sure some of the best would have fallen for it, and Jar Jar was far from the best.

Fett got up, and slid into the seat opposite the gungan.

"Whosa, are yousa?" his target asked, in the garbled basic Fett remembered all to well from the transmission.

Surprised, Fett didn't know how to react. He had expected fear, or a call to his guards. Obviously, the gungan didn't even know who he was dealing with, which once again lowered his opinion on the alien.

Pulling out a blaster, he said in a low tone, "Sorry, Eptarn couldn't make it. The name's Fett. You're coming with me." Even his helmet's voice distortion unit couldn't keep the menace from his voice.

Stupid or not, even a gungan could understand a blaster. His eyes widened in fear, and small gulp escaped from his lips.

Hearing a whisper of movement behind him, Fett spun and fired off two quick bursts from his blaster.

As the man who had been sneaking up on him fell to the ground, with two blackened holes in his chest, Fett swung his gun to point at his companion.

Putting an edge on his voice, he said, "Don't even think about it."

The man, obviously scared for his life, dropped his weapon immediately.

Fett shot the man anyway, and then turned back to the cowering gungan. He motioned with his gun, and the alien started walking towards the door.

Then, with no warning, one of the walls blew in.

The gungan was knocked to his feet, but then was helped up quickly by two men who entered through the gaping hole in the wall. They dragged the shocked alien back out, and made a hasty retreat to their ship, and freedom.

Or so they thought.

Fett had been thrown against the opposite wall, which, unfortunately for him, was home to hundreds of bottles of ale, liquor, and other exotic mixtures. A normal man would have been sliced to pieces.

As it was, Fett got up calmly, and, brushing off the shards of glass imbedded in his suit, turned to the bartender.

As unemotional as ever, he spoke. "Sorry about the mess," he said, handing the quarren a substantial amount of credits.

When outside, however, he swore under his breath. His target had obviously been more prepare than he thought.

In retrospect, it was obvious. The gungan had with it a hidden panic device. When far enough from the wall, he could surreptitiously press it, and the two guards would come in and bring him to safety.

Fett smiled. They thought they had escaped, when really, they were only delaying the inevitable. Still, maybe there's more to this gungan than meets the eye.

He ran to his ship, Slave I, and began the startup sequence. It was now a race.

A race that I will win, Fett thought a moment later, as he was shooting off towards his target. The gap between the gungan ship and his was down to kilometer, and closing fast. Slave I was the most powerful ship of it's class, and he knew it was only a matter of time now.

When he got within range, he started firing immediately. After all, no need to draw this out.

His comm unit squawked. "Wait! Wesa can make yousa a deal!"

No deal, Fett thought, as he fired off a concussion missile.

There was one more yell that he didn't quite catch, and then static. He looked up to see an orange ball of fire blossoming spectacularly.

Suddenly, compelled by some unknown urge, he played back the last transmission.

Curiously enough, the Gungan's last words had been, "Ouch time!"

Shrugging, Fett turned back to piloting, and began searching for new targets, and new opportunities for credits.

----- Author's Notes -----

Whew! Chapter two is done, with traitorous plotting, bounty hunting, and the first death all incorporated. I haven't started Ch. 3 yet, but for my lone (so far) reviewer, it shouldn't take too long. Again, if you're reading this, please take the time to write a short review. Anyway, rejoice! Jar Jar's dead!