Part of a series, 'The Edge of Infamy': tales of Boba Fett's early adventures building his name and making his bones in the trade.
Death Dealers Choice: Part II
Slave I ripped into hyperspace, going from crazy motion to blessed stillness.
Eris unbuckled the safety webbing and stood on shaky legs, trying to get her bearings. Space flight sucked. No two ways about it. And space flight sucked more with Boba Fett as your pilot. She took a tentative step and the lower cargo bay along with her guts did a wild swing. She sat down hard on the durasteel bench and put her head between her legs, breathing slow until the vertigo passed. It wasn't just the crazy driving that did her in. She'd taken a few solid hits back on the Nebula during the hand to hand portion of the pirate raid. She was pretty sure her blood loss did help her situation any. There were a few dicey moments back on the station, following Fett through the maze of winding access corridors she didn't think she'd make it on her own two feet. But she was smart enough to know that if she didn't keep going, the Nebula would be her tomb. Fett certainly wouldn't carry her out. And showing weakness was never an option.
She drew in a deep breath and summoned enough focus to pull out a small emergency med pack she'd taken from the bar of the Paradise Lounge. Her own ability to heal had helped slow the effects wounds, but there was the risk of infection, and the need to replace vital fluid and energy. The stimshot wouldn't help with her blood loss, but it would get her through what ever ordeal awaited her with Fett. If the last round of negotiations with the unpredictable mercenary were any indication of what was coming her way, she needed every shred of strength and cunning she could stitch together. He was a bit of a hot head on top of being deadly and devious, and, he wasn't a gracious looser.
She popped the pack, and went for the stimshot. The combination of healing agents and adrenaline would give her enough boost to keep going so she could patch herself up after their 'negotiations'. Providing she didn't end up a floater in deep space.
She removed an ornate gauntlet from her left arm, rolled up her sleeve, then paused as the vertigo struck again. When her world was right again, or as right as it could be under the circumstances, she pulled the top of the stimshot off with her teeth, and looked for a vein. The drug could be administered intramuscularly, but it would work faster and better with direct entry to the bloodstream. Her arm was clear where the gauntlet protected flesh, but the rest of her was a freaking mess. Her vision blurred, then dimmed, as she hit the activation button on the shot cylinder. Three potent meds mixed as one. She made a fist, located a vein, and sent the payload into her system.
She heard a loud buzzing in her ears, and felt her body go light, as if gravity and all its tedious laws no longer applied to her. She thought she heard footsteps, metal on metal, a grating, harsh sound. Her vision blackened, then cleared in a rapid, heated rush. She looked up into a nightmare, and swallowed hard. Boba Fett towered over her, legs braced wide, arms crossed, head and helm titled just the barest bit down, as if in disapproval. The outfit and the pose were both designed to cause fear. If his reputation kept going in the current direction, the combination would be lethal. Lucky for her, fear wasn't part of her make up anymore. Still, she was smart enough to recognize a tight spot and the need for caution.
Woozy from the stimshot, she was in no condition to stand, let alone face him off toe to toe with bluster. Considering he'd seemed pleased with his coup back on the Nebula, that avenue of attack wouldn't do her much good anyway. She resorted to the calm that seemed to get so far underneath his skin the last time they conducted business face to face.
She forced her body to relax, leaned back in a lazy manner against the bulkhead, and ignored the screaming pain the position caused. She noted the imperceptible tightening of his posture, the only visible sign of displeasure, or confusion. It was hard to figure where his gaze was in order to meet it, but she tipped her head back and up, estimating a point of intersect, picked a place to direct her stare. Then very slowly, she smiled. Let the games begin.
Boba Fett surveyed the wounds he could see on his latest acquisition. She had several serious injuries, and was covered in gore. He couldn't tell which blood belonged to her, and which to the pirates she killed. Her grey eyes were dilated from the stimshot she'd just administered, her black pupils unnaturally wide. She'd paled considerably since he first saw her. Her bioscan readouts showed elevated pulse and dropping arteriovenous pressure. He looked on the bulkhead and saw red smears. More wounds. If she died now, he would loose. If he helped her too soon, he'd tip his hand. "You're a mess."
The smile faltered. "And you look just wonderful. I particularly like the dried brain matter on the helm. It's a bold fashion statement, but it fits you."
Her voice was ice, and he suspected the same ran through her veins. "The maps to the underground are the first part of our negotiation."
"Renegotiation," she corrected.
"I want you to do background, and current time information on a series of beings. And I want you to keep up the watch, until I say otherwise." He pulled a small datapad from his cargo pocket, and handed it to her. "I want to know them as well as I know myself."
Her hand shook slightly as she took the pad. She set it down on her lap, then had a go at the list. There was no way for him to read her expression. Her pressure was dangerously low at the moment. She had an active bleed somewhere. If it was internal, they were both in trouble. There were no med stations nearby. He had to get fluids into her, and find the source of the blood loss.
She put the pad down on the seat beside her, and furrowed her brow. Her lips were tinged with blue. "I can do this, but it will take considerable time and resources. It's going to cost you a healthy amount of credits. More than what I wanted for the maps." She stopped to catch her breath. "That's more than you have."
He nodded. Everything she said was true. One day he'd be a major player, but right now, he was climbing out of obscurity. She'd provided him with information when he could afford it, but as he'd learned, she'd also connected him with several lucrative assignments, taking a substantial finders fee from the clients. Like a fast ship, or a ready weapon, information was vital to his survival, and to his success. His father held several information specialists on retainer, he planned to do the same. Starting with Eris. "You've become wealthy selling my services to your clients."
"You're a reliable product in that you get the job done, and you don't try to double cross anyone. A rare combination."
"I could say the same of you."
She narrowed her eyes. "You didn't pull me off the Nebula to compliment my work. Last time we got together, you were less than charitable."
"I've learned a bit since then. About you. About me. About this business in general."
Her breathing grew more labored. "The list. It's most of the heavies in the industry. You want the jump on the competition."
He nodded. "And you're going to help me. At a significantly reduced rate."
"I don't cut breaks. Sets a bad precedent."
"This isn't about breaks, Eris. We're going into a limited partnership. I want information, you will provide it. In addition, you will spread mis-information at my direction."
She laughed softly. "Wow. And I thought I was the one on the drugs. Why, Boba Fett? Why would I do this for you? Just because you pulled me off a space station under attack doesn't mean I owe you my life."
At the rate she was going, she would owe him her life, but he had learned from the last negotiation: some things were better left unsaid. She'd called him a hot head, and she was right. He needed better control, the lethal kind his father seemed to possess, the kind that could withstand any attack, the kind that could look in the face of death and spit in its eye. "I know what you're really up to Eristriel. I've put the pieces together of your fragmented life, and I know your endgame. You're not going to get there. You're good. Very good. But you're no hunter. I am. And I can help you reach your goal. If you help me reach mine."
She stilled, shut her eyes, drew in a ragged breath. Her hands curled into fists, and when she opened her eyes again, he saw a blinding flash of anger and pain melt the ice to liquid silver. Then, in the next instant it was gone. She was as always: cool, distant, unreadable. He smiled to himself. He'd won. In that one brief moment when her control snapped, he'd seen what he knew lurked beneath that placid façade. That primal anger required satisfaction, the pain needed relief.
He could understand this need of hers, the ache for justice twisted by the insatiable hunger for revenge. He could understand it, he could use it, he could satisfy it. There was no way she'd refuse when he offered her the one thing in the galaxy she wanted. There was no way she'd refuse, because she knew what he was and what he could accomplish. It was a good day, he decided. The first of many to come. "It's a sound offer. But limited time only. Your choice."
"My choice? No, I'm playing against the house right now, and the game is dealer's choice. That means you win." She picked up the datapad, and handed it to him. Then she leaned back again and looked off across the cargo hold, staring at nothing, seeing the internal landscape of past and future rolled into one. "You're shy about seven key beings on your list. They're in deep, the power behind some of the thrones. One of them is also keeping tabs on you, and not with the intention to invite you to tea. As to planting false information, that's my specialty. What do you have in mind?"
"Obscure my origin, to start."
She nodded. "Anything else?"
Yes. Stay alive long enough to bring this about. "I'm exclusive in my employ. Your loyalty is with me. Breach our agreement, you sign your death warrant."
"Exclusivity works against the nature of the information racket. But I'm inventive. I can pull it off. Long enough for you to get what you want, at least."
"And for you to get what you want."
"We can work out the details later." She shut her eyes again. Her skin was grey, her body temperature dropping. "Right now I'd like to sleep for a while."
She didn't sleep. She passed out. Fett scooped her up, carried her to one of the roomier cells, and set to work patching her up. He cleaned and treated wounds, administered synthblood, metabolites, and enough painkillers and sedatives to keep her down long enough to let the healing process take hold.
Once complete, he sat back, observed his work and considered his victory. Eris was younger than him by a handful of standard years, and an otherwise strong and healthy human female. The damage was extensive, but with his aid, and her own resiliency, she'd rally. She was no use to him dead, but alive, she was one more tool in his growing arsenal. Once he had the maps, he'd set off to secure the next tool: the sensor jamming array.
He considered his own situation. It was a either irony, or, destiny. He could be anything, anyone, except he could not. He was Jango Fett's son, his clone, his replacement in the galaxy. He was Boba Fett, and one day the scum that ran wild in the space lanes would know that name, and know a bone chilling, soul numbing fear. He looked down at himself, dressed the garb of the Mandalore, like Jango, but different. Blood covered his gloves, his armor, his jumpsuit. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. He was Jango's replacement, but he would become more than his father's clone. He would surpass Jango, and the name Fett would live beyond them both in legend and infamy.
Disclaimer: the author has no rights or claims whatsoever to any of the SW universe characters or ideas, nor makes any claims or assertions as such.