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

The water-breathing creature, known now as the thief Sòon Mit'alay, grinned within the Slave I's holding cage as it slowly counted to itself. The merchandise raised its mouth and hearing organs above the level of the water just before the metallic thump echoed through the confines of the ship. The creature known as Mit'alay was willing to bet—had bet, in fact, his life, on it—was willing to bet that he'd be getting double the pay already promised him for killing Fett if he brought him back alive and subdued—in his own holding cages and ship, no less. His employer would like that. He could probably talk even more than double out of him. He would have to work on that…

……………………….

Fett forced his eyes open. He tried to rise only to find that he could not. Forcing, as if against some invisible hold, he managed to move his eyes, slowly and jerkily dragging his unfocused gaze around the area he lay motionless in. He realized that he was lying, face down, on the deckplates of the Slave I at the foot of the ladder to his cockpit. He had apparently fallen when he blacked out. Was his spine broken? That would explain the immobility of his limbs. But he had not landed on his back—a lucky thing; the sharper edges of his arsenal would have almost certainly shattered his vertebrae…but he did not usually wear them when within his ship. He was lying helmet-down; perhaps his neck was broken.

Fett suddenly felt himself stand, and noted a flash of pain in his left arm. Broken when he landed on it in the fall. Yet…he had not chosen to rise, not done so of his own power—nor to walk, unsteadily and jerkily, to the holding area, but that was what he was doing… Then he noted the gurgling voice calling to him form the cages.

Nerve toxin, he thought grimly. Like the Mandalorian command darts in my gauntlets. But not them. Fett had once had the…opportunity to experience, first hand, what it was like to be drugged with the darts he carried. An attempt at capturing the misbegotten Solo with them had backfired when a new party, Calrissian, had suddenly taken an interest in the man and saved him. The two had struck Fett with his own dart, commanded him to disarm, and sent him off on his ship.

Fett had taken precautions against such ambushes in the future—and not just by watching any creature nearby for an attack in stead of just the quarry's allies. No; he had taken precautions against the toxin itself…

Boba Fett bent his will towards the task. Even if he hadn't been—nearly—helpless under the drug, he would have ignored the sweat that started to drip down his face and pool in the armor.

Fett found himself stopping in front of the merchandise and cycling the cell open. He reached in for the creature but it spoke, stopping him:

"Don't." And he didn't. A watery, bubble-filled chuckle. "Now, Boba Fett, you are under my control. Find me a water-breather." Another chuckle; it rubbed its flippery hands together and an expression that could be called sadistic spread across its face. Fett, under the drug's control and the merchandise's, did as he was ordered. The creature reached for the breather but Fett's durasteel grip on it did not loosen. He could not choose to hold it, but neither could he choose to let it go, so he was holding it in his customary relentless grip.

"Let go," the merchandise glared at him. Fett did so—he had to—and the merchandise had to dive to the floor of the hold to catch it. Fett might have smiled at that. However it wasn't the nerve toxin that prevented him.

The creature secured the water breather on its face and picked up the water container. "To the cockpit," it ordered in a watery voice. Fett turned and, without either of them speaking another word, stalked in the same rough, jerky manner, to the ladder. His disjointed, weaving process up it was something that he doubted he would be able to duplicate when undrugged. The creature scrambled after him, but as Fett stopped as soon as stepping off the ladder it had to shout for him to move before it could join him.

But Fett was ready. And the indefinite command—"move"—was all the opportunity he needed. Slashing out and back with a gauntleted arm, Fett caught the merchandise with a harsh blow to its throat. It gagged and stumbled backwards.

But there was nowhere for it to stumble to.

The blow had been a sorry one, at a bad angle, but it had served its purpose nonetheless. The merchandise let out a squawk and tried to shout something, flailing its arms wildly. Used to living in an aquatic environment, it instinctively tried to stop its fall by swimming through the air instead of bracing and rolling for the imminent impact with the floor of the ship. That would probably have saved it from death, or even from sever injuries, unless it landed at a bad angle. Fett had fallen down that length many times, and been practically unscathed for most of them.

Pulse, breathing, blinking, and other involuntary functions had not been impaired by the toxin, Fett had noticed. Sweating was another function that one did not actively control. And sweating occurred from exertion—like trying to fight against a nerve toxin. And sweating would move the toxin through his bloodstream faster. Fett had calculated the toxin's effectiveness, and found that it had not been as complete as the one he used on his quarries. Nor had he likely ingested a large amount of it, having worn his helmet and filters for most of the time, discounting that which had been spent unconscious earlier. Thus, it had not taken as much time or effort for enough of it to be diluted and excreted as his own would have.

Fett forced his eyes over to the control board of the Slave. He would be emerging from hyperspace soon and he needed to check on the merchandise. It might be alive, but the crunch and wet sound to the thump it had made when it impacted on the floor of his ship made that unlikely. He also did not want to drop out of hyperspace when he was unable to react to a situation. He forced himself to walk over to his cockpit chair, stiff-legged and wavering. He collapsed into it just before the trembling started. He managed to breath shallowly, mostly from air already in his helmet and filtered by it as it wore off, then forced his body to still. He spoke then, to the ship. There were only a few things in the Slave I that had been keyed to voice control. The command could be issued by voice, by uplink from his armor, or from the controls in the cockpit. He had anticipated that if he needed to use it, the situation would be grave.

After his command, he stopped breathing, holding his lungs empty. The Slave I then vented all air in the main hold and cockpit. If there was anyone still living in the holding area, they stood a good chance of being asphyxiated unless they could hold their breath. After what this merchandise had managed, Fett would not have been concerned if the wind that resulted from the command tore the breather away from its respiratory organs. Fett would rather it died if it had not already. Saved him the trouble of eliminating it. A breeze blew past Fett and he hung onto the arms of the pilot chair as all the air in the ship was sucked out.

Just as black was beginning to steal his vision, air returned to the cockpit. Slowly, the rest of the ship received it as well—filtered now, through special modifications to the life support systems of his Slave I. He began breathing again; clean, safe air, unpolluted by the merchandise. He also flipped the air quality monitors back on. He determined to do something to eliminate the laxity in their operations that had resulted in this difficulty.

Behind the dark, T-shaped visor, Fett's razor-sharp mind clicked away on the issue. This had been no "merchandise" he had gone after. The creature lying in his ship had been sent to kill him. Sent by Black Sun.

Xixor.