Tales From Jabba's Palace

by Kevin J. Anderson

  In her tongue I say she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen;

  that I have lusted for her, watching from the shadows, the closets of

  Jabba's palace, wishing she might so much as glance in my direction. But

  she has not, and I am bereft, and weak, and cowardly, and only now brave

  enough, male enough to come forward, to swear to her the truth, to abase

  myself before her so she will know, must know, how it is with me, a male

  who sees and desires a female, and such a female as she . . .

  Almost, she believes. Twin spots of ruddy color glow in fleshy cheeks.

  Beneath my hands her shoulders lift.

  Her mouth parts as I slip my hands from shoulders to neck, from neck to

  the bones of her jaw, hidden beneath heavy flesh. And then I clamp her

  skull in the Anzat's embrace and allow her to see the truth of what I

  am. Legend come to life.

  A whimper. Then rigid, paralyzing fear as I uncoil proboscii.

  They are discriminating and slower to rouse than usual; their diet has

  always been soup of the highest sort, and I have profaned them of late

  with soup' of the lower order, from entities who have no courage.

  But they rouse, extrude. And the woman whimpers again, trapped by her

  horror, my hands, by the knowledge.

  Pleasure/pain-Pain /pleasure-- No. Not this time. Patience is

  required, and control.

  ---pleasure?-- Later: Later.

  A caress only, the faintest breath of proboscii beneath her nostrils. In

  my hands she trembles-A step. A presence. A voice, flatly mechanical,

  inquiring as to my presence, to my intent.

  As she whimpers again, I turn. I permit him to see as I permitted her.

  There is regret that after so many centuries I must allow the truth to

  be known, the methods, the means to be comprehended, but it is

  necessary.

  I had meant for her to live. The purpose was for her to see me, to know

  me, to cry of near-assault. But. now he is here as well, armored male

  in helmet that is also breathing mask; he will do. She will do. They

  may both tell a tale of terror.

  Anzat, of the Anzati . . . loose in Jabba's Palace.

  For time out of mind, I have been what does not exist, save for

  imagination. I am folklore. Mythos. Legend.

  A figment, a fragment, a fleeting dream called nightmare. All one and

  the same, if known by different labels . . . but the truth is harsher

  yet, and far more frightening.

  But blighted truth, twisted truth, honesty unknown, can serve a purpose.

  It has served the Anzati for time out of mind, and me. It serves me

  still.

  It serves me now.

  Ah, but the promise of soup, of satiation-Why wait? I hunger now.

  For the soup, and victory.

  The knowledge that I have done what no one else has done.

  Jabba's soup: the excrescence of what he is, what he has become; what he

  has made of himself. Soup that no one has spilled before, to drink of

  its strength.

  To devour the life of the Hutt while the hulking husk putrefies.

  But not so soon, never so soon. He presents a challenge, does Jabba. A

  wily Hutt well cognizant of how to ward his life. To bring fear into

  his soul--and set the soup to boiling--will take time.

  Effort. And the unveiling of my truth.

  But I am hungry now, and for more than Jabba's soup. For Jabba's fear.

  Hear of me, O Jabba, and know yourself afraid.

  I am of the day, but equally of the night; I take my rest when I choose,

  not because any biological rhythm insists upon it. And so I am free to

  wander as I will, throughout the labyrinthine corridors of what once was

  monastery and now is Jabba's lair. And it is as I wander that I am

  certain, at once, there are those within the palace who were not here

  before.

  Abruptly: --soup-I have known its like before. But this essence, this

  essence --soup--Oh, it is powerful, overwhelming . . . I stop where I

  am in the shadows, transfixed by the awareness, the preternatural

  knowledge of such soup as I could wish for before all

  others---soup-Proboscii, denied the sort of soup they prefer for too

  long, twitch frenziedly within cheek-pockets. They know. I know.

  Han Solo. Han Solo, vividly alive; and others nearby, others of similar

  soup . . .

  How many? Solo, another, another.

  --soup-Through the corridors to the kitchens. Where I find a body,

  though living still; a small, insignificant being of thin and immature

  soup, but he will do, will do; in my need there is only the soup,

  anyone's soup at all.

  There is no time, no time-I clutch him. Turn him. Catch him up in the

  embrace.

  He struggles briefly, too briefly. Proboscii plunge into nostrils,

  through to the brain.

  There is so little soup, and all of it weak.

  But it will do. For the moment.

  He is discarded quickly, abruptly, proboscii tearing free. I let him

  fall in a sprawl, ungainly and lacking dignity, against a broken box

  nearly large enough for his body.

  There is blood on the boy's face. I have left evidence of the means,

  the method.

  There is no time.

  It will suffice. It will serve.

  Anzat, of the Anzati . . . loose in Jabba's palace.

  --soup-Ah, but it is ecstasy, or will be.

  Who?

  Along the corridors, shadow-cloaked, prowls an Anzat, but shedding

  habitual wariness in the quest for fact, for truth-Oh, rejoice!

  --it is here, is here; all of it, here . . . Solo's, another's.

  Another's.

  I catch myself up short at the corner, on the cusp of Jabba's audience

  chamber. For it is there, all of it there: Solo, thawed from carbonite,

  his soup wild and reckless, tinged with that, with panic: he is blind,

  blind and untrusting, but all his instincts are to fight, to

  fight-Another's. Wild and free and boiling.

  Frightened as well, that she-she?---will not be able to get him free

  despite precautions, despite plans: Chewbacca, Lando, Han; always Han,

  foremostm Calrissian Then he is the third.

  Solo. The woman. Calrissian.

  Betrayer.

  Rejoice . . . oh, rejoice!

  But Solo overwhelms them all with his presence, his soup; and in the

  doing overwhelms me. Proboscii extrude, quivering.

  --soup-She has unmasked, the woman. Unhelmed so he knows her, so he

  will not be afraid.

  No. Let him be afraid, so he might overcome it. And in the fear, in

  the overcoming of it, the pushing through to awareness and competency

  and the wild, crazed courage, he becomes what I want, what I need-Han

  Solo's soup-Oh, let it be mine!

  I will take all of them. One by one.

  No. Wait. There is the task first.

  --Soup--No! The task.

  Possess yourself of patience.

  But it is difficult. Self-denial is a discipline I have never learned;

  nor ever had to learn.

  Solo. The woman, royal-bred. And Lando Calrissian.

  All it wants is the boy, so rich in Jedi promise. Han Solo's soup-I

  fall back. Containment, control is difficult; proboscii rebel as I try

  to withdraw them, urge them to withdraw.

  There is w
ar within my skull.

  Have I gone so far? Lost so much?

  Never have I been so close to the edge.

  There must be a death. Now. Soup must be drunk.

  Now.

  I turn. I scrape myself against the walls and retreat rapidly, hearing

  the echo of Jabba's laughter. Are they caught, then? Has the Hutt

  captured them all?

  --soup-Solo. The woman. Calrissian.

  All. I will have them all.

  Or die in the trying.

  It is not sleep, with us. It is stupor, near to coma. A withdrawal

  from that which is living, to those whose lives are slight; and to a

  deepness, a darkness, an otherness, where my body repairs itself in the

  ways both large and small, if necessary. But it has not been necessary

  for a long time, for I am cautious, and careful, and no one save my

  victims has ever seen me, except for when I choose to walk among

  entities without offering threat. It is a lonely life, else; and I

  choose not to be lonely.

  But that bears its cost. The stupor is deeper than most.

  The coma nearly complete. So that when roused out of it by something

  most unexpected, I am as close to walking the edge of madness is as

  possible, with us.

  And so it is madness, and overwhelming, when I am roused abruptly, too

  abruptly, by the awareness, sharp and painful, exquisitely demanding, of

  power beyond reckoning. Like Yoda's, like Kenobi's. But young yet,

  still young, still learning its way.

  And the way, the precipice of the power, is yet to be understood fully

  by the one who does and will wield it.

  Thus roused, I am angry. And comprehending abruptly, so abruptly: he

  will be stronger than any in so many lives, this one. Of all of them,

  nearly extinct.

  Now alive again, in him.

  That boy. Kenobi's boy, whom I first saw years ago in Chalmun's

  cantina. Who did not then know what he is, but knows now, and plainly;

  knows enough how to use, how to shield.

  Here, in Jabba's palace.

  Solo. The woman. Calrissian. The boy.

  All of them here. Now.

  Why has he unshielded? Why do I know him now? A Jedi excretes power

  when he chooses; to Anzati, it is obvious. But there is control in it

  regardless. This time there is none. He is wholly open, unshielded,

  yielding to some purpose I cannot conceive.

  --SOUp-Proboscii rake my nostrils. Roused, no longer stuporous, I walk

  out of the shadows of the labyrinth and make my way through, passing

  those who barely see me, but know enough to stop, to stare, to blink; to

  question what they have seen, albeit in silence, in the interior of

  their fear.

  Let them see. It serves.

  --Anzat, of the Anzati-- --loose in Jabba's palace-But that is of no

  moment. It is plain to me now, too plain; the boy, that boy, has come

  into the lair intent on his own purpose . . . it was planned, all of it

  planned: Calrissian, infiltrating; the princess, clad in costume; the

  Wookiee, beleaguered bait; and now the boy, Kenobi's pupil, so rich--so

  rich! in power that was before only potential, barely promised-And

  Solo, always Solo . . . all of them now, together: Solo, the Wookiee,

  the woman, Kenobi's boy, and Calrissian-And Jabba!

  I have been careless. I! --through the corridors, running-Running.

  Running.

  How could I have been so careless?

  --running-Closer now. Proboscii twitch, extrude.

  --soup"-All of them here, at once.

  Somewhere.

  --soup-So many dead of my need. But none of them count, none--they are

  nothing, all of them--the only soup of the moment is here, now, but

  retreating---no-It cannot be; will not. I am I: Dannik Jerriko.

  I have never failed.

  I am here forJabba's soup.

  For all the soup, of all of them.

  --soup The massive gates stand open. There is no one to guard now, no

  Hutt to protect. He is gone, is gone; they are all of them gone, are

  gone-The dust from the sail barge, from the hovercraft playing remora,

  drifts slowly to the ground.

  --are gone, all of them gone---soup-Jabba has taken them away.

  Jabba has taken himself.

  Away. Not here. Apart from me.

  Oh, foul! That I should come so close. That I should let it be known

  an Anzat is among them. That I should reveal myself to no purpose at

  all, save to feed the nightmare.

  Oh, foul.

  I am undone.

  Failure is intolerable.

  Among my kind, impossible.

  Oh, the horror. The horror.

  In my body, need cries out. Comprehends. Acknowledges.

  Distant now, so distant, carried across the dunes.

  All of it my soup. And now denied to me.

  Oh, most foul.

  There is nothing to do but wait. Wait for the Hutt's return.

  They will none of the others be with him, for he will have disposed of

  them and wasted all the soup --fool! fool!--but there is still Jabba.

  Jabba.

  And Dannik Jerriko.

  O fool. O corpulent, famous fool.

  There is yet a chance for me to redeem myself, to permit me success, not

  failure. Jabba is my task. The others, merely spice.

  Jabba will return. And I will drink his soup.

  Jabba will return.

  He must.

  Or I am undone.

  There are shadows here, always. It is a simple thing to walk into them

  and put on the raiment they offer.

  I can wait. I have always waited, when necessary. It is a gift.

  A power.

  I am a thousand and ten years old, and I can wait forever. Shaara and

  the Sarlacc: The Skiff Guard's Tale

  by Dan'l Danehy-Oakes

  yes, Mister Boba Fett, this is indeed a very serious matter.

  There is no other subject of conversation heard anywhere else in Jabba

  the Hutt's palace. But this does not surprise me at all, because I have

  never seen any party work their way beneath the skin of Jabba the Hutt

  in the way this self-proclaimed Jedi Knight and his friends have done. I

  mean, just to think of the very gall of their coming in the place and

  threatening Jabba the Hutt, damaging his rancor, even releasing that

  two-credit phony smuggler Solo · . . Well, I certainly admire their

  courage, but their common sense is some other matter entirely. It is as

  one might say not entirely smart to annoy Jabba the Hutt in this manner.

  Jabba the Hutt is extremely angry. I would also be angry if it was me

  in his position. The palace is not just a fortress, it is his home, and

  individuals take a certain particular kind of offense when they are

  annoyed in their own homes. So I am really not particularly surprised,

  you see, that he orders that they are to be given to the Sarlacc like

  this.

  And I might add it is a great honor to be permitted to accompany you

  like this. I am sure that Jabba the Hutt intends it as an honor to give

  you a personal guard. And besides, I can show you the best place to see

  the Sarlacc."

  "Yes, Mister Boba Fett, we have always talked about it as "the" Sarlacc

  here on Tatooine. If there is another Sarlacc anywhere, I have

  certainly never heard about it. I like to thin
k I would have done so,

  because I make the Sarlacc a sort of special interest of mine since I am

  only a child. You see, my sister Shaara is the only person I know of

  who has ever come out of the Great Pit of Carkoon alive. I once heard a

  story that Skywalker escaped the pit, but he is a notorious liar, as you

  can see for yourself. Jedi Knight? Why, he is not even carrying a

  lightsaber when Jabba the Hutt captures him.

  Oh, that is a long story. You do not want-- You do want to hear it?

  Very well.

  It begins with the Imps, as so many things do these days.

  Imperial stormtroopers. Half a dozen of them decide to go for Shaara in

  a big way. She is three years older than I am, and I am twelve when all

  of this proceeds so she is fifteen. She is working in the floor show of