Chapter II
Then, shortly before the events of A New Hope…

Boba Fett half-dragged half-pushed the half-conscious merchandise onto his ship. It had put up a rather good fight, but had just about keeled over there at the end. It would have been a shame if it had died. The credits really weren't even worth it for a corpse. He shut the airlock and waited while the ship's systems pumped the water half-out, then stopped it. The liquid breather he'd carried for the merchandise had been damaged and it wouldn't do to asphyxiate it now. Fett dropped his burden unceremoniously beneath the water in the airlock and took several deep breaths, blinking away the black spots dancing before his vision. His oxygen supply had run out moments ago. He hadn't counted on the bounty getting a lucky shot and rupturing the small tank he carried in addition to the supply to his helmet. It had leaked, but slowly enough that he'd managed to get to the merchandise and get nearly back to the ship before it gave out entirely. He pulled a small airtight bag from on of his armor's pouches and filled it with water, then secured it around the creature's neck gills. That would be good enough for him to get to the cell that he kept creatures that didn't breathe oxygen in.

Something was odd about this merchandise , he thought. Probably just the fact that I nearly asphyxiated myself. Not thinking quite clearly yet. Review things in a few minutes. He pumped the rest of the water back into the oceans of Mon Calamari and slung the merchandise over his shoulder. He dumped the merchandise in the tank and removed the plastic bag over its head. After checking its vital signs and finding them all steady and high—enough—he shut the tank and returned to the cockpit. He powered up his engines the rest of the way—he'd had them on standby—and clicked from repulsor lifts over to full power. The Slave leapt from hovering above the rocky seas into the atmosphere. He added in the last datum to the pre-calculation for the jump to hyperspace and flicked the lever. Around the viewport, the stars streaked out and blurred together into hyperspace.

Fett shook his head, annoyed that he hadn't moved quite as fast as normal. He hadn't thought he'd been without oxygen long enough to throw his reactions off like this, but apparently he'd misjudged. He breathed slowly, trying to clear his head. He also blinked rapidly. Blinked…? Fett's head snapped upright as he struggled to overcome the…whatever-it-was's affects. He sealed the cockpit and ventilated the air, snatching his helmet—the air inside had to be contaminated as much as the air outside it—and tossing it to the floor. He could hardly force his stinging eyes to open enough for him to see. He stumbled over to the bulkhead and fumbled with a hidden pressure catch. With a small hiss of air, a crack appeared in the smooth wall. He knocked the door aside and staggered in. He ripped his glove off and dropped it haphazardly to the floor. He awkwardly pulled the cover off of a small depression. The sophisticated analyzer slid out with agonizing slowness—he'd have to fix that…if he survived this poison long enough to do so… Fett could hardly think as he clumsily punched the buttons on the control panel of the small unit…

……………………

The merchandise smiled to itself, awake within its confining tank as it heard a thump from the direction of the cockpit like that of an armored body sliding to the floor…

……………………

Alone within his throne room, Prince Xixor stared out at the setting sun of Coruscant. Sometime soon, or perhaps already, the bounty hunter should have been dosed with the poison. He smiled coldly as he imagined the growing confusion Fett would feel, then the drowsiness, and then he would slip into sleep. A sleep that he would never wake up from. The Falleen's eyes narrowed in pleasure as he saw the death agony of Boba Fett…If only he could have figured out a way to get a recording…ah, well. Not even he could have everything…

……………………

The world came, slowly and painful, back to life. At first all he could see was a fuzzy blackness. His breath rasped painfully in his throat and he could hardly see. The concealing blackness slowly faded away to reveal the blurry confines of his ship, the clean, cold, sterile bulkheads of his Slave. He gasped painfully, struggling to a sitting position one handed. His other arm was restrained by still being in the toxic suppressant device. He lifted his free hand to his piercing head. It felt like someone had drilled a lightsaber inside his skull and triggered the blade. He ran his hand through his dark, sweaty hair.

Hair? He jerked back into alertness and scanned the room. No, it was all right. His helmet was lying against the doorframe where he'd dropped it…in his hurry to…do something…ah, he had it: to get to the device his hand was still in. He gave the screen a cursory glance. He'd check and see what kind of substance had been used later. Right now, knowing that he'd mostly recovered was good enough. He didn't know how long he'd been out and what might have happened during that time; his chrono was in the helmet on the other side of the room. He touched a button and the needles withdrew, enabling him to remove his hand. He had to use the bulkhead to steady himself against when he tried to stand and wavered when he got to his feet, which annoyed him. He slowly and carefully picked his way over to where the helmet was laying. He almost found himself landing on the floor of the ship when he bent over. He picked the helmet up and carefully wavered back to his feet. He almost fell again when he tried to put the helmet on, but kept his feet by hanging on the doorjamb. He looked around, noticing that his glove was also missing. He must still be suffering some effects of the poison. Either they'd wear off on their own, or he'd fix it with another dose of whatever antidote the computer had synthesized for him. He gently staggered back to where the battle glove was lying and bent to pick that up, too. He balanced himself on the wall this time, and managed to stand without pitching himself into it.

He checked the cockpit; luckily, the hyperspace trip he was on was a long one. He didn't think his reflexes were up to dealing with unaccustomed trouble at the moment. He should have about a standard time part before he had to return to the cockpit. Good; enough time to check on his merchandise and review the facts on whatever it was it had managed to dose him with. And figure out how it had managed that. His red-rimmed eyes narrowed behind the visor. That was something he would have to figure out. With dangerous and able killers gunning for you, it wasn't something you wanted to let slip by.

He climbed weakly down the ladder, refusing to allow himself to succumb to vertigo. He stumbled slightly when he stepped off the ladder, but recovered himself by grasping the rungs and leaning against them. He allowed himself one moment of leaning, helmeted head on the durasteel tubes, eyes shut and concentrating to still the room and stop the spinning. It was most aggravating. He must have ingested a fair amount of the toxin. If this did not end shortly, he would have to have the antitoxin device synthesize more antidote for him before he exited hyperspace. His dark eyes narrowed. The merchandise had some questions to answer. And if he did not like them—well, there was little specified about conditions on this merchandise, so long as it were living and relatively well-maintained.

A low chime sounded in his helmet. Fett blinked beneath the black visor. That poison must have been more debilitating than he had thought at first. There were only a few minutes before the Slave exited hyperspace. And at the speeds he was moving now, he would need extra time to return to the antitoxin and climb the ladder. Were he given to displays of emotion, he would have cursed or cried, or both. But Fett had been ten the last time he had cried, on the barren grounds of Geonosis. He had not since, and he would not again. Certainly not over something as paltry as this.

Fett walked slowly to the area where the hard merchandise was waiting in its cell. Summoning his durasteel strong will, he managed to hide any effect of the toxin from the merchandise, and the slowness of his walk and very palpable anger that was emanating from him were enough to make the already dangerous hunter look more threatening than he usually did.

The merchandise cowered, shock filling it's face, tentacled mouth gaping open in shock. It stared at him, wordlessly mouthing some exclamation of surprise. Through the slight distortion of the water, the utter and complete horror on its face made Boba Fett smile grimly beneath his helmet. He found that he could think faster, closer to his usual whip-like reactions.

"You failed," he said coldly, emotionlessly, to the silent question of the merchandise, pressing the intercom button that would transmit his words through the container. Fett trusted that his voice would be unshaken and strong despite the drugs; to think otherwise would have invited the option of it being so. Fett refused to doubt himself; that would open up a weakness. And weaknesses got you killed. While Fett did not fear death, he also was in no hurry to die. When he did, he would, but it would not be without a violent fight. And there was no sense in making it any easier for his numerous enemies. "And you are going to tell me how. Immediately."

……………………

Xixor's pale green lips curled into a feral smile, cold eyes narrowed in delight and anticipation. He wondered how long the news would take to reach him…

The Falleen heard the door behind him swish open almost soundlessly as Guri entered. His smile widened as he waited for her news.

"My lord."

Though she was a droid, and capable of controlling any "emotions" better than even he, Xixor noticed something in her voice.

"It failed."

"Yes, my lord. The bounty hunter lives."

Xixor's eyes narrowed to dark slits of hatred. After a moment, he hissed, "no matter. I planned for this. While he may have been able to avoid that…the second stage of the plan should work admirably.

"And Guri. I want to know exactly how he managed to survive this…as soon as possible."

"Right away, my lord," she replied calmly and bowed, leaving the Prince alone to his dark contemplation of the fate that was certain to befall his enemy shortly…

……………………

Boba Fett narrowed his eyes behind his helmet, glaring at the captive. Even through the black, opaque visor, his anger could be felt as much as seen by the merchandise. "Talk," he commanded in a voice like death itself.

The merchandise, encased within its water-filled prison, shook its head mutely. Fett hadn't had time to bandage its wounds, so it must be in some pain. The water had a few dark gray droplets—its blood—floating in it, but Fett calculated that it hadn't lost enough to be dangerous to its survival yet. And he was in no mood to be kind to it. Not at all.

Without saying another word, Fett touched a button on the container and the water temperature began to rise. The merchandise didn't notice at first, but then its optical organs shrunk in fear, a membrane nictitating quickly across them. The water temperature was soon beyond uncomfortable for the creature, but it still refused to speak. Fett would have sighed, had he been given to displays of emotion like that.

He touched another button and a mild electrical shock traveled through the container. The creature screamed and writhed in pain. Fett cut the current off. "Now. Talk."

"It…was a gas…that's all…I don't breath air so it didn't affect me…"

"And you dosed me with it how?"

"In…the airlock. I…had it on me. I'd…shot your air tank…so you'd suffocate…or at least…breathe it. But your ship…pumped it out. But it still…should have been…lethal…You're supposed…to be dead…now…"

"I got better." Fett spun on his heel and returned to the cockpit of the Slave I, leaving the merchandise to its pain and injuries. And leaving himself to his dark calculations…

……………………

Boba Fett relaxed in the cockpit of the Slave I. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, checking to see that it was normal. He did the same with his pulse, laying the Mandalorian battle glove on the cockpit console next to the gauntlet that had to be removed to do so.

Fett had decided that he would do another short hyperspace hop before arriving at his destination with the merchandise for payment. He had emerged from hyperspace a few parsecs early and immediately spun the ship around and re-jumped. He wanted more time to assess his situation and return to nominal operating capacity. The fact that Fett was using such coldly precise logic—almost like a droid, completely without emotional attachment—in regard to his own life did not unnerve him. It was true.

Fett glanced at the small chrono. He did not need to, but his calculations would be more precise—by a few seconds—with it. He nodded slowly, once. Good. The affects of the toxin had worn off, at least enough that he was back to his traditional state of readiness. Breathing and pulse both normal. He lifted his gauntlet and started to replace it on his forearm. That was when he became aware of the slight, crawling shiver that ran over the flesh of his hand and seemed to tingle its way up his arm. He jammed the gauntlet on. Shoving his hand into the glove and twitching it on, Fett reached out with his other hand and slapped a button on the Slave's console. He noticed the small alarm that he had disabled at the beginning of this mission, due to the high concentration of bacteria and small sea-born particles on Mon Cal that would have triggered a minor alert. The poison had distracted him and he had forgotten to reengage it. Yet he knew that it would have been flashing a priority message at him right now had he done so. He reached for a few more controls, intending to correct the problem on the air-quality monitor quickly.

Then everything went blank.

……………………

Prince Xixor glanced at a chrono set in the wall of his throne room. His reptilian lips curled into a slimy smile…