Darth Vader And The Other Eight Assassins
by Carycomic.

A STAR WARS Legends pastiche loosely based on the 2013 Dark Horse story arc entitled "Darth Vader And The Ninth Assassin" (and inspired by the now cult-classic movie SMOKIN' ACES). Almost needless to say, I don't profit from this in any way/shape/form.

Summary: the title says it all.

Chapter 1.

A LONG TIME AGO, IN A GALAXY FAR, FAR AWAY. . .

The chief bodyguard, a black human mercenary from Naboo, looked at his employer.

"Are you sure this is a wise course of action, sir?"

The much older man (whose hair and moustache were twice as white as his skin) nodded, wearily.

"My son must be avenged. And, working together or separately, one of them is _bound_ to get close enough to Vader to rid this galaxy of him, forever!"

* * * * *

CORUSCANT (a.k.a. Imperial City)
18 BBY (Before the Battle of Yavin)

Bleedo quietly followed his quarry through the shadows. His stealth enhanced by the traditional stalker armor of the Tetsu Clan.

He had first learned of the contract on Vader's life through the same being who had taught him his accented Basic: Blotto. A bail-bonding Toydarian who normally moonlighted as a "free-lance labor recruiter" for the Slaver Syndicate. On certain occasions, however, the Toydarian liked to triple his income by secretly sub-contracting work for House Paramexor of the Bounty Hunters' Guild. The branch that specialized in escaped murderers!

And, when it came to the ambitious young Rodian, he knew just which emotional buttons to push.

"You do this job, successfully? And maybe even House Salaktori come begging you to join them!"

Since then, Blotto had contacted Bleedo, only once. To warn him about the presence of certain would-be rivals on Coruscant. One of them, a thrill-seeking Wroonian, usually worked for House Neuvalis. And his success rate was such that never once had the latter have to live up to their motto: "Double your credits back if contract not fulfilled within a year."

Like most of his people, Justin Papanoida had an innate fondness for gambling and other adrenaline rushes. But, every good gambler knew it was time to start hedging one's bets when the chances for victory started to slim down. And the person he was on his way to meet was the one person in the entire _galaxy_ who might be able to help him win this particular gamble.

A dehorned Koorivar named Passel Atrubble.

Atrubble had served in the Clone Wars as a military policeman with the Corporate Alliance Fusiliers. One of the few military units, on the Separatist side, that had been composed entirely of organic soldiers. Since the Mustafar Massacre, however, he had been traveling the galaxy as a member of that band of Jedi-killing mercenaries called "the Crimson Novas." For Passel had amputated his own cranial horn as part of a vow to kill the man responsible for that massacre: Darth Vader! And what better way could there be, to ultimately accomplish that goal, than by gaining practical experience through the killing of other Force users?

Such as fugitive Jedi Knights.

Meanwhile, two other bounty hunters were having a clandestine rendezvous of their own. One of them- -surprisingly enough- -was a medical droid! 21-B-19; who had been stolen right off the assembly line (and reprogrammed to act like a Malkite Poisoner) by Wurrrdafookwee. A one-eyed Wookiee graduate of the Skine Bounty Hunter College.

This naturally aroused the curiosity of the Heinsnake cultist waiting for them. Because, when they had first met, the Wookiee had two good eyes!

"What happened to you?" he bluntly asked.

"Roowwwwwwwwwwwr! Rowr-rowr-rowr-rowr-rowr!"

The droid instantly translated: "He says he sacrificed his left eye to a vornskr in order that we could uphold our end of the bargain. It is now time to uphold yours. . .before we hand over the merchandise."

The cultist nodded and lifted a datapad with a built-in holoemitter. 21-B-19 had an exact duplicate of that device and activated it at the same time as the other one. Consequently, a pair of three-dimensional images appeared in mid-air. Each one bearing an eight-digit set of numbers. The hologram above the cultist's datapad began to show those numbers decreasing with eye-blurring speed. While the numbers above the droid's datapad simultaneously increased!

Finally, the numbers stopped changing, altogether.

"Transmission complete, sir," remarked the droid: "Data flow genuine."

Wurrrdafookwee nodded and handed over the relatively small box he had been carrying in his left hand. The droid grabbed it with his right and relayed it to the cultist, who smilingly nodded his thanks. Whereupon, the Wookiee uttered a second round of barks and snarls that sounded slightly more interrogative than the first.

"Do you wish us to run you through the process once more?" 21-B-19 now translated.

The cultist shook his head: "That will not be necessary. I assure you that the creature's life-support system will be linked to the timer in the proper sequence. And, when my people's plans come to fruition, in two weeks time, your names will be foremost in our prayers of gratitude!"

The droid translated his owner's barked reply: "Prayers are equally unnecessary. Being able to afford a state-of-the-art prosthetic optic has been thanks enough."

Following which, the decidedly odd couple melted back into the shadows with surprisingly silent ease.

"Begging your pardon, sir. But, what do we do, now?"

"Rowwwwwwwwr! Rowr-rowr-rowr-rowr!"

"Yes, sir, I quite agree. Laying low for the day _is_ very prudent! But, what about the others?"

The ensuing barks and snarls were instantly translated by his cranial CPU as:

"They're not stupid enough to try anything in broad daylight. Our mutual target is therefore safe. . .for the next twenty-four hours, at least."

* * * * *

"The others" that 21-B-19 had been referring to were a Mon Cal/Quarren duo, from Dac, who were occasionally arch-rivals of his owner!

Skon Jeely, the Quarren, came from a long line of spear-fishing Deep Hunters. So, he was not quite as used to spacefaring as his Mon Calamari partner, Kroob Tuort. The latter was an ex-Sector Ranger who was now mentoring the Quarren, only because it was a mandatory custom of all bounty hunters employed by the Ragnar Syndicate.

"It would be so easy," muttered Skon, half-aloud, as he peered through the sniperscope of his custom-modified speargun: "One less bounty potentially lost to that walking carpet."

"And have that droid stalking us, for the rest of our days, through some pre-programmed notion of a life-debt?!" Kroob exclaimed: "Uh-uh! We stick with the plan. Hole up for the day; scout out the palace, tonight."

"I got a better idea," replied a new (and decidedly female) voice.

Kroob immediately went for his blaster. Yet, he had not even half-drawn it out, before the business end of a K'ahren sword went straight through his chest and out his back!

At the same time, the sword's wielder spun about, one hundred eighty degrees, counter-clockwise. As she did so, she pressed the firing stud on a Stokli spray stick in her left hand. The stream of mist that issued forth, in an ever-widening cloud, quickly solidified into a net-like configuration of electrochemical adhesive! With Skon unable to dodge out of its way, in time.

Consequently, when he fell to the ground, everywhere there was exposed skin, the strands of the net completed a neuro-electric circuit. Thereby literally shocking him into paralysis. That, in turn, meant he could only stare in helpless horror. . .

. . .as the severed head of his partner dropped to the ground in front of him.

"Two down," a black human female pointedly quipped: "Half a dozen to go."

To be continued?