Tales From Jabba's Palace Read online

In a single follow-through motion, the rancor swept its claws sideways

  and tore open the Tusken Raider that had been knocked from the bantha.

  The second rider wailed a challenge, thrashed his own gaffing stick in

  the air, and charged directly at the rancor. The bantha kept its head

  down, curved tusks forward like a battering ram--but the rancor flitted

  sideways with deceptively easy speed and snatched the Tusken from the

  bantha's back. It raised the victim to its cavernous mouth and stuffed

  the Tusken in, chomping down with vise jaws of razor fangs, swallowing

  the attacker in only two gulps.

  With its rider gone, the bantha went wild, as if crazed. The rancor

  scooped up an enormous broken sandstone boulder that had fallen from the

  cliffs above in ages past.

  Malakili staggered to his feet. The first Tusken Raider had turned his

  bandaged face to stare at the battle between rancor and bantha,

  forgetting his human victim. Watching the rancor, Malakili felt the

  fury from his pet monster. He saw the Tusken who had attacked him, who

  had swung a gaffing stick at him.

  Malakili picked up a much smaller boulder, but one still deadly enough.

  The bantha reared up and tried to butt the rancor, but the rancor hefted

  the sandstone boulder. It brought the stone crashing down on the

  mammoth beast's shaggy head, snapping the tusks like brittle straws and

  caving in the creature's thick skull. The bantha grunted.

  Momentum carried it forward until it slumped in a tumbled heap to the

  canyon floor.

  As the last Tusken Raider heard a sound beside him, he whirled, bringing

  his gaffing stick up just as Malakili struck with the smaller boulder,

  crushing his attacker's swathed head. The Tusken Raider fell to the

  rocks, thick bandages soaking up the spreading flower of bright blood.

  Malakili's heart pounded as he looked at the carnage.

  The rancor let out a ululating bellow of triumph and looked at Malakili

  with something like contented satisfaction. Then the monster squatted

  over the bloody carcass of the slain bantha and began to feed.

  Later, Malakili clung to the dry knobby skin of the rancor's neck as the

  monster trotted across the sands in the desert twilight. It knew where

  its home was and arrowed straight toward the underbelly of Jabba's

  palace.

  As it ran hunched over, puffs of sand drifted into the purpling night.

  The rancor had gorged itself, and blood spattered the monster's chest.

  It seemed to consider Malakili strange for not devouring the Tusken

  Raider he had killed, but Malakili had no appetite.

  Already he was wondering how he would explain everything to Jabba the

  Hutt.

  Lunchtime Beneath the Jaws

  It turned out that Jabba didn't particularly care that Malakili had

  taken the rancor out for a romp in the wastelands--he was furious,

  however, that he had missed its titanic battle with the two banthas.

  Malakili beamed with a paternal pride as he extolled his monster's

  bravery and viciousness, but Bib Fortuna whispered a different

  suggestion into Jabba's ear. The Hutt lurched upright on his dais with

  a belch of delight. Wouldn't it make a magnificent duel to pit the

  rancor against a krayt dragon?

  The legendary desert dragons of Tatooine were huge and rare and

  instilled more fear than any other creature in this sector of the

  galaxy. None had ever been captured alive before, but Jabba's

  incentive--one hundred thousand credits guaranteed to anyone who could

  bring in a live, unharmed specimen--was enough to ensure the most

  ambitious efforts. Even the great bounty hunter Boba Fett vowed to

  remain at Jabba's palace as he considered the best way to tackle the

  challenge.

  Malakili was convinced that someone would succeed, and he looked upon

  the threatened battle with great dread. Though he was proud of his

  rancor's abiLities, he knew how awesome the krayt dragons were.

  Jabba planned to build a special amphitheater out in the bowl of desert

  sands visible from his tallest towers, where the krayt dragon and the

  rancor would face off and tear each other apart. Even if the rancor

  managed to defeat the incredible dragon, Malakili suspected the battle

  itself would wound the rancor grievously, perhaps mortally.

  He couldn't allow that.

  Down in the lower levels of the dungeons, Malakili wheeled a heavily

  laden cart stacked high with dripping stacks of meat, sawed bones, and

  leftovers from the slaughterhouse connected to Jabba's kitchens.

  Porcellus, Jabba's chef, had set aside choice morsels as treats for the

  rancor, as well as a sandwich of sliced, marinated meat for Malakili's

  own lunch.

  Malakili got along well with the skittish cook, passing along whatever

  gossip he managed to hear in the lower levels, though he had to listen

  to the chef's ever-increasing fears thatJabba would soon tire of his

  culinary abilities and feed him to the rancor.

  With a sigh, Malakili pushed the cart to the barred gate of the rancor

  pit. The wheels squeaked like a terrified bristling rodent in the

  dungeon levels. He swung open the gate, pulled the cart through, and

  fastened the door behind him.

  The rancor stood up and watched him bring the mound of meat closer,

  running a stubby purplish tongue across the edges of its packed rows of

  teeth.

  Malakili nudged the meat in front of the rancor after removing his own

  white-wrapped sandwich from the top of the pile. The rancor used a

  hooked claw to sort through the lunch offerings until it selected a

  curved dewback rib studded with lumps of gristly meat.

  Malakili unwrapped his sandwich and hunkered down on the rancor's

  bench-sized toe. Above him, the monster chewed on the long' rib bone,

  gnawing and slurping. Malakili's black headdress protected him from the

  splattering gobbets of dripping juices that fell from the rancor's

  mouth, showering him and running down his own bare back.

  As he ate, munching absently on his delicious sandwich, Malakili thought

  about his possibilities, the options-and his future.

  It had been clear from the start that Jabba's main goal was to challenge

  the rancor until some greater opponent killed it. Jabba cared nothing

  for the monster, and neither did any of the others. Even greasy-haired

  Gonar was terrified of the monster, wanting to be around the rancor only

  for the prestige and the power it offered. The other spectators who

  hung around the dungeons had no attachment to the beast either--not the

  hairy Whiphid guard who poked his tusks against the bars of the cage,

  watching the bestial power of the rancor as if it reminded him of

  something from his home planet; not Lorindan, the nozzle-nosed spy who

  had no motives other than to find information he might sell to someone

  else.

  No, Malakili was alone on Tatooine. He alone loved the monster, and it

  was up to him to see that his pet was protected. He would find some way

  to help the rancor escape--and himself along with it.

  Malakili continued to chew on his sandwich, swallowing in a dry throat

  as plans began to form
in his mind. Jabba was a powerful crimelord,

  yes, but he was not the only power on Tatooine. Jabba had many enemies,

  and Malakili had much information.

  Perhaps he could find some way to buy freedom for his pet.

  !n the monster's Lair

  Near the center of the grubby city of Mos Eisley, a battered cargo

  hauler gathered dust. After landing one time too many, the Lucky Despot

  could no longer pass a single safety test, and so the hulk had remained

  where it sat, abandoned, until a group of misguided Arconan investors

  decided to convert it into a luxury hotel, hoping to take advantage of

  the extensive tourist trade on Tatooine.

  Shortly after the entrepreneurs went bankrupt, the Lucky Despot hotel

  and casino was taken over by a new crimelord on Tatooine, an upstart

  rival to Jabba who had great dreams, modest capital, and a mean streak

  wider than her yawning, tooth-filled mouth.

  The Lady Valarian lounged back in her contorted chair, relaxing in her

  plush office. She looked as suave as was possible for a horse-faced,

  tusk-mouthed, bristle-haired Whiphid female. As she spoke her smooth

  syllables, it seemed as if she were trying to purr--but to Malakili, it

  sounded like an overgorged gun dark gargling with its own bodily fluids.

  "I know you are from Jabba's palace," Lady Valarian said with a grunt

  deep in her throat. Her peg-like tusks shoved forward from her underjaw

  as she leaned closer. She batted long eyelashes at him.

  Malakili whiffed her heavy perfume that attempted to mask the rank,

  musky smell of Whiphid fur; he thought this was a worse odor than

  anything he had smelled in the cages at the Circus Horrificus.

  "Yes, I am from Jabba's palace," Malakili said, stroking his black

  headdress, "but Jabba can't always provide everything I need. So I've

  come to you, Lady Valarian."

  She hunched her shoulders and lifted her brutally ugly face. Her body

  trembled in what Malakili took to be an expression of mirth. "And how

  do you expect to pay for this favor you ask of me?"

  "I know that Jabba is your enemy, Lady Valarian," Malakili said.

  "I know that you might wish to have full schematics of the palace. The

  B'omarr monks who built it have kept the layout secret. You might wish

  to learn some of the hidden entrances to the lower levels. You might

  wish to know some of Jabba's habits and weaknesses."

  Lady Valarian snorted. "Don't you think I have my own operatives inside

  Jabba's palace?"

  Malakili showed no expression, although he was terrified.

  "I said nothing about your operatives. I merely offered my own

  services. If you intend to challenge Jabba the Hutt, you must be very

  careful, indeed."

  He hoped he had said the right words. He, who had spent seven seasons

  taming the wildest creatures in the Circus Horrificus, now felt

  completely out of his depth in a plush room with a perfumed female who

  could squash him with a snap of her fingers.

  "I'm not saying that I have any personal interest in doing harm to

  Jabba," she said. "In fact, he and I have a limited partnership. He

  owns a token percentage of the Lucky Despot. But, information is

  sometimes incalculably valuable, difficult to estimate its worth. It is

  unwise to dismiss an opportunity to increase one's knowledge." She

  raised a bristly eyebrow.

  "Would you care for a drink? Then you may tell me about this favor I

  can grant you."

  Malakili nodded dumbly as she brought him one of Tatooine's most

  expensive beverages in a frosted glass: clear, chilled water with two

  ice cubes floating in it.

  Malakili sipped his drink, licked his lips as the cold liquid danced

  down his throat.

  "I'll need a ship--a cargo ship with a specially reinforced cage

  chamber."

  Lady Valarian widened her nostrils with a hefty sniff Of curiosity. "A

  cage? What are you going to transport?"

  "A live animal," Malakili said. "And myself. I intend to take Jabba's

  pet rancor with me. I need to find a deserted world, preferably lush, a

  jungle moon perhaps a backwater forested planet where a resourceful

  person could eke out a living, and where a large creature could have his

  freedom and enough prey to hunt to his own satisfaction."

  Lady Valarian growled in stuttering low bursts, which Malakili

  interpreted as delighted laughter.

  "You want to steal Jabba's rancor? That would be hilarious!

  Oh, this is too good to miss. Yes, yes, I will provide the ship you

  need. We can set the time and the date."

  "As soon as possible," Malakili said.

  Calmly, Lady Valarian waved a clawed hand across the glowing sheen of

  her antique desktop. "Yes, yes, as soon as possible. The most

  important thing, I think, will be to install a tiny spycam in Jabba's

  throne room --just so I can watch the expression on his bloated face

  when he finds out what's happened!"

  Valarian tapped some unseen marker on her desk, and a melodious chime

  rang out. The door whisked open, and two heavily polished protocol

  droids marched in. "Yes, Lady Valarian?" they said in unison.

  She directed one of the droids to take Malakili to another room where he

  would provide "certain information."

  The other she instructed to arrange for a ship, to find a suitable world

  according to Malakili's specifications, and to arrange all the details

  of the passage.

  "My gratitude, Lady Valarian," Malakili said, stumbling over his words,

  still unable to believe that he had stepped down the irrevocable path.

  Valarian chortled again as Malakili got up to follow the protocol droid

  into the corridor. "No, thank you," she said. "This is worth any

  number of investments."

  The door closed behind her while she was still chuckling.

  Bad Timing

  Malakili tried to remain calm and behave normally as he counted the days

  to the appointed hour of his rescue.

  He watched with furtive eyes, suspecting spies in every shadow but Jabba

  and his followers above in the throne room seemed oblivious to

  Malakili's actions.

  Jabba was caught up in the troublesome details of running his new

  cantina, and he also boasted that his bounty hunters would shortly bring

  him a krayt dragon--which meant that the Hutt limited the violent

  challenges upon the rancor, not wishing the monster to be injured before

  its titanic battle. The most recent fresh and kicking meal the rancor

  had devoured was a mere Twrlek dancing girl, which the rancor savored,

  consuming her in three delicate bites rather than the customary one

  large gulp.

  Malakili tried to relax, hoping that perhaps his plan would come off

  smoothly after all. But, as he was wheeling the meat-laden cart of the

  rancor's lunch to the cell gate, pallid-faced Gonar stepped out of the

  shadows with an idiotic, devilish grin.

  "I know about you, Malakili!" Gonar said in a hushed, hoarse whisper.

  "I know about you and the Lady Valarian."

  Malakili stopped the cart and turned slowly, trying to keep from showing

  his shock--but he had never been good at hiding his emotions.

>   "And just what do you know about me and Valarian?" he asked.

  "I know you're spying for her. You were traced going into Mos Eisley,

  into the Lucky Despot. I know you saw her in her private chambers. I

  don't know what your game is, but I know that Jabba won't like it."

  Malakili couldn't hide. His eyes flitted from side to side.

  Inside the cage the rancor sensed his keeper's alarm and let out a low

  growl. "What do you want?"

  Malakili said.

  Gonar heaved a relieved sigh, as if pleased that he wasn't going to have

  to argue any more. He swiped a greasy strand of hair out of his eyes.

  "I want to take care of the rancor," he said. "I've been around him as

  much as you have. He should be my pet."

  Gonar flicked his eyes toward the cage. "Either you flee now and leave

  me to take care of the monster," he said, "or I'll report you to Jabba,

  and he will kill you, and I will still claim the rancor as my reward.

  Either way, I get what I want. The exact manner is up to you."

  "You don't leave me much choice? Malakili said, whimpering.

  "No," Gonar said, drawing himself up, puffed with his own triumph.

  "No, I don't leave you much choice."

  Malakili grabbed a heavy femur from the rancor's lunch pile.

  Without pause, he swung the blood-wet bone with all the strength behind