Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina Read online

  STAR WARS

  TALES FROM THE MOS EISLEY CANTINA

  Edited by Kevin J. Anderson

  Scan/OCR/Spellcheck - Demilich ([email protected])

  We Don't Do Weddings The Band's Tale

  By Kathy Tyers

  Jabba the Hutt's cavernous, smoky Presence Room stank of

  spilled intoxicants and sweaty body armor. Guards and henchmen,

  dancers and bounty hunters, humans and Jawas and Weequays and

  Arcona lay where they'd toppled, crumpled under arches or piled in

  semiprivate cubicles or sprawled in the open. The inner portcullis

  yawned open. Just another all-nighter at Jabba's palace.

  That portcullis bothers me-what if we want to leave in a

  hurry?-but it keeps out the worst of the riffraff.

  Let me rephrase that. The worst of the riffraff, Jabba himself,

  paid us well. Crime lord, connoisseur, critic; his hairless,

  blotchy tail twitched in rhythm when we played. Not our rhythm.

  His.

  We are Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes, members in good

  standing of the Intergalactic Federation of Musicians, and we

  are-or were-Jabba's full-time resident entertainers. I've never

  spotted his ears, but Jabba appreciates a good swing band. He also

  likes controlling credit and inflicting pain, and he finds either

  more therapeutic than our music.

  Huddled on the back of the stage, we put away our horns while

  Jabba's guests snored. My Fizzz-you symphonic ridgebrows would

  call it a Dorenian Beshniquel, but this is jizz-slips into a thin

  case in less time than it takes to roll an Imperial inspector and

  check his pockets for credit vouchers.

  We are Bith. Our high hairless craniums manifest a superior

  evolutionary level, and our mouth folds pucker into a splendid

  embouchure for wind instruments. We perceive sounds as precisely

  as other species perceive color.

  Our band leader, Figrin Da'n, was wearily swabbing his Kloo

  Horn (there's a joke there, but you'd have to speak Bithian to get

  it). It's a longer double-reed than my Fizzz, richer in pastel

  harmonics but not so sweet. Tedn and Ickabel were arguing over

  their Fanfar cases. Nalan had started disconnecting the horn bells

  from his Bandfill, and Tech-we look alike to non-Bith, but you

  might've picked out Tech by the glazed gleam in his eyes-sat

  slumped over his Ommni Box. Plaster chips from a midnight blaster

  skirmish littered the Ommni's reception dish. (The Ommni clips our

  peaks, attenuates the lows, reverbs and amps the total sound.

  Playing it takes even a Bith's full genius. Tech hates Figrin.

  Figrin won the Ommni last season in a sabacc game.)

  "Hey, Doikk." Figrin's head glistened. It was going to be a

  typical Tatooine scorcher, and Jabba's temp exchanger needed

  repair.

  I cinched down my Fizzz. My Fizzz. "What?" I had a shot "lip,"

  as humans call it. I was in no mood for foolishness.

  "Time for a friendly hand of sabacc?"

  "I don't gamble, Figrin."

  Figrin brushed the sheen off his head with one knobby hand.

  "You're thermal, Doikk."

  And you're compulsive. "All musicians are thermal."

  "You're thermal for a musician. Who ever heard of a bander that

  didn't gamble?"

  I'm the band's inside outsider, the straight man. I've carried

  that sweet little Fizzz through six systems. I peg it when it

  cracks and lube it when the keys click. I carve my own reeds. I

  wasn't betting it on any sabacc match. Not even to placate Fiery

  Figrin Da'n, a bandleader who criticizes every missed note, owns

  everybody (else)'s instruments, and isn't shy about giving orders.

  "I don't gamble, Figrin. You know th-"

  A smoky silhouette rolled in through the main arch. "Figrin," I

  mouthed, "turn around. Slowly."

  The droid's wasp waist, huge shoulders, and squared-off head

  had scalded my memory shortly after Jabba gave us our exclusive

  contract his vintage E522 Assassin. Eefive-tootoo had saved my

  neck when one of Jabba's human sail-barge tenders accused me of

  munching out of Jabba's private snack tank of live freckled toads.

  Luckily for me, Eefive-tootoo gave me an alibi. I'd vowed never

  again to have more to do with humans than necessary.

  But Jabba'd been hot to feed someone to the rancor. Justice

  would've suggested throwing in my human accuser, but Jabba and

  Justice are not on speaking terms. They dropped Eefive, liberally

  smeared with meat juice, through the rancor's trapdoor in front of

  Jabba's throne. By the time Jabba's huge, slavering mutant spat

  him out, he was beyond repair.

  Or so I'd thought. Was he back for revenge?

  He wore no restraining bolt. Rolling around a

  blaster-scarred column, he headed toward us. Frantically I

  looked around. Nobody showed signs of waking up to rescue us.

  The droid raised his upper limbs. Both ended at elbow joints.

  Somebody'd disengaged his business parts -but that didn't leave

  him helpless. Assassin droids carry backup.

  "Figrin Da'n?" he asked in a brassy green treble.

  "What would you do . . . if you found him?" Figrin sidled

  closer to me, trying to sound colorless. I've never carried a

  blaster. I wished I had one then, for all the good it would've

  done.

  "Message delivery," honked the droid. "Do not fear. My

  assassination programming has been erased, and as you can see, my

  weapons are gone. My new employer saved me from deconstruction by

  using me this way."

  "He doesn't remember us," Figrin whispered in Bithian. "His

  memory's been erased, too."

  As I slowed my breathing, my longstanding attitude about

  assassin droids resurfaced Never worry about one you can see. He

  hadn't fired before we spotted him, so we were safe. And I've

  always gotten along better with droids than with most sentients.

  Particularly humans. i But as for stripping Eefive of his weapons,

  that would be like . . . like saving my life by cutting off all my

  fingers.

  "Who's your new owner?" I asked.

  The droid hissed, shushing me with white noise.

  I dropped my voice. "Who?" I repeated sotto voce.

  The answer came softly. "Mistress Valarian."

  Oh, ho. Val to her friends, Jabba's chief rival in the

  spaceport town of Mos Eisley, a tusk-mouthed Whiphid recently

  arrived on Tatooine. Gambling, weapons running, information for

  sale, the usual . . . but she'd thrived. No wonder she sent a

  recycled envoy.

  Now that I'd processed the lack of immediate risk, I leaned

  back against the stage. "What does she want?"

  "She wishes to hire your services for a wedding, to be held in

  Mos Eisley at her Lucky Despot Hotel."

  I'd heard of the Lucky Despot. Figrin puckered his lip folds.

  "We don't do weddings," we
answered in unison.

  Please understand. A wedding gig wastes two days (three days,

  with some species, plus the time it takes to learn new music).

  You're treated like a recording, told to repeat impossible phrases

  and lengthen the usual processional, and ordered to play a final

  chord as the nerve-wracked principals arrive center stage ... if

  they arrive. Someone always brings a screaming neonate. Then the

  reception, where they inebriate themselves until no one hears a

  note. All this for half pay and full satisfaction You've helped

  perpetuate a species.

  Eefive swiveled his flat head toward Figrin. Obviously his

  recognition circuits still functioned. "Mistress Valarian procured

  a mate from her home world," he declared.

  Good thing I wasn't drinking. I'd've choked. The only thing

  uglier than a Hutt is a Whiphid. I tried to imagine another

  gargantuan, rank-furred, yellow-tusked Whiphid arriving on

  Tatooine. Valarian had probably promised luxury accommodations and

  good hunting. Wait'11 he saw Mos Eisley.

  The droid continued. "This job is for their reception only.

  Mistress Valarian offers your band three thousand credits.

  Transport and lodging provided, and unlimited meals and drinks

  during your stay. Also five breaks during the reception."

  Three thousand credits? With my share, I could start my own

  band-live in the finest habitats-

  Figrin hunched forward. "Sabacc tables?" he asked.

  Too late, I recovered from my greed attack. Jabba had given us

  an exclusive contract. He wouldn't like our performing for

  Valarian, and when Jabba frowns, somebody dies. No, Figrin! I

  thought

  "Except while performing, certainly," the droid answered.

  I buzzed my mouth folds for Figrin's attention, but his sublime

  vision didn't deal me in. Figrin set down his deck and commenced

  negotiating.

  We flew into Mos Eisley during first twilight, with one of the

  suns dipping behind a dull, murky horizon. Our cramped little

  transport skimmed through the decaying southern sector,

  chauffeured by an orange service droid. He, like the former

  assassin, wore no restraining bolt, which predisposed me to like

  their owner. Sentient shadows slipped into darkening corners as we

  drove past. The byword in Mos Eisley, which looks like a cluster

  of populated sand dunes, is camouflage. If nobody sees you, nobody

  shoots you. Or testifies against you in what passes for local

  courts.

  Three stories above one of Mos Eisley's nameless streets, twin

  beacons blinked like ship lamps, and brilliant yellow beams glowed

  out of a wide-open entry hatch. The droid maneuvered us closer. A

  long curving ramp and straight stairs swooped up from street level

  to the elevated main entry. Beneath the stairway, I spotted the

  hotel's most notable feature three large portholes.

  A group of investors crazy enough to sink their credits on

  Tatooine had towed a beat-up cargo hauler here and sunk a quarter

  of it under the sand. Debris blown in by a recent dust storm lay

  clumped along its near side, which had been starboard. Antenna-

  cluster wreckage drooped over what must've been the cockpit. I

  mentally saluted the Lucky Despot with the spacer's traditional

  appraisal of somebody else's ship What a piece of junk.

  Our speeder settled at the foot of the long ramp. "Disembark

  here, gentles," droned the droid.

  We unloaded our gear from the airbus's cargo compartment onto a

  repulsor cart. We'd only brought one change of clothes and our

  performing outfits, and left the rest of our belongings at Jabba's

  palace. Mos Eisley's odors-ship fuels, rancid food, low-tech

  industrial

  haze, and the sheer desensitizing smell of hot sand- hung in

  sullen air.

  Once inside the lobby, We blinked while our eyes adjusted. An

  orange-suited human security guard slouched at one corner. No sign

  of Lady Val. Mentally I recategorized her. She might trust droids,

  but she equated musicians with kitchen help.

  "This way." Our droid led us past an extremely attractive front-

  desk person, species unknown to me, whose multifaceted eyes

  glistened prettily. A long, vast room filled a third of the ex-

  ship's top deck. Reflective black bulkheads and a shiny black

  floor enveloped several dozen sparsely populated tables, but more

  than one table tottered over damaged legs, and here and there

  white strips showed through the peeling black bulkhead. In

  here-the famous Star Chamber Cafe- we set up and started a number

  to get the room's acoustics. Early diners clapped, clicked their

  claws, or snapped their mandibles. Satisfied, we repacked our gear

  and grabbed an empty dinner table. Within minutes, the show began.

  A comet whizzed past Figrin's head. Constellations appeared

  beneath the ceiling and reflected in my soup.

  Holographic sabacc spreads flickered into existence over

  several tables. Now I remembered the rest of what I'd heard Jabba

  had made sure the Despot never got her gambling license from local

  Imperial bribemeisters, so Valarian had to hide her gaming

  equipment until dark. Reportedly Jabba warned Lady Val of planned

  police raids . . . for a price.

  Figrin ate rapidly, pulled out his deck, and wandered away.

  Tonight he would lose. On purpose. My other comrades joined a low-

  stakes Schickele match.

  I found a bored-looking Kubaz security guard and struck up a

  conversation. Kubaz make excellent security staff. Their long

  prehensile noses discern scents the way Bith distinguish pitch and

  timbre, and a Kubaz's greenish-black skin blends into every

  shadow. In exchange for my personal stats, which he probably knew

  anyway, and a mug of mildly intoxicating lum, I found out that the

  green-caped Kubaz's name was Thwim, that he was born on Kubindi,

  and that Mistress Valarian's prospective bridegroom, D'Wopp, was

  an expert hunter-common enough profession on their homeworld.

  I also spotted a familiar triangular face. Not friendly, but

  familiar. Kodu Terrafin pilots Jabba's courier run between palace

  and town house. He's Arcona Dressed in a spacer's coverall, he

  looks like a dirt-brown snake with clawed legs and arms and a

  large, anvil-shaped head.

  I kept up my conversation with Thwim as Kodu minced from table

  to table, swiveling the anvil head. I watched sidelong. Abruptly I

  spotted the yellow-green glitter of his eyes.

  Immediately he slithered in my direction. He's got me mixed up

  with another Bith, I thought wearily. Thwim pushed back, lifting

  one edge of his cape, and made room for Kodu.

  "Figrin, ihss it?" The bulbous scent organ between Kodu's

  faceted eyes twitched.

  "Not quite," I mumbled.

  "Oh, Doikk. Hssorry." At least he knew my voice. "Information

  for hssale. Want to find Figrin?"

  I glanced toward Figrin's glimmering holographic sabacc table.

  Our leader hunched crookedly over his cards, feigning

  intoxication. Not a good time to interrupt. (Who made Doikk Na'ts
/>   the band manager? I wondered.)

  Kodu pushed closer. "I don't want to hsstay," he hissed. "Do

  you want to buy? You'd hbetter." He smiled smugly.

  "Ten," I offered. Figrin would cover that, if the news was

  worth hearing. Thwim watched the Uvide wheel studiously. His

  prehensile nose quivered as a cluster of Jawas hurried by,

  jabbering rapidly.

  "A hhundred," Kodu answered without hesitation. Within three

  minutes we'd settled on thirty-five. He aligned his cred card with

  mine and we effected the transfer.

  "Jabba." Kodu clicked his fingerclaws. "He'ss angry."

  "Angry?" I glanced around. "Who, this time? Why?"

  "You hsskipped out on your contract."

  My stomachs knotted around each other. "We got another band to

  cover for us! Not as good as we are, but-"

  "Jabba notissed."

  It was the worst compliment imaginable. Who'd have guessed the

  big slug paid attention? "What'd he do?"

  Kodu shrugged. "Fed two guardss to the rancor and promissed

  ..." He shrugged again, skinny shoulders rising along his brown

  neck.

  Promised to pay well if someone hauled us back to the palace.

  Good-bye, IFM retirement home. "Thanks, Kodu." I tried to sound as

  if I meant it. I'd left a sentimental mother at the bubbling pink

  swamps of Clak'dor VII. She missed her musical son.

  Kodu touched his blaster. "Good-bye, Doikk. Good luck."

  Luck. Right. Either we slipped out of Jabba's range fast, in

  which case Kodu wouldn't see me again,

  I weaseled through the crowd to Figrin's table. Fortunately,

  Figrin had just lost big-time. A Duro shuffled the sabacc deck,

  scattering and regathering card-tiles with a deft gray hand. I

  tugged Figrin's collar. "Finish up. Bad news."

  He excused himself droopily and arose. It takes twice as long

  to cross a room when you're looking over your shoulder every other

  step. Jabba pays well for mayhem.

  We found an empty spot at the bar. "What?" Figrin's eyes seemed

  to have shrunk spicing already, or faking it well.

  I dropped the news on him. "We've got our instruments and two

  changes of clothes," I finished.

  "But I'm losing. I'm behind."

  I flicked my mouth folds. We would also need this gig money to

  buy food till we could get another job- or Jabba recovered from

  his temper. I explained that to Figrin.

  Barlight reflections wobbled back and forth on his head as he