hatred he had spent a lifetime growing, the Sarlacc's straining
tentacles shaking against his body. "Because you're stupid, a miserable
mean wretch of an excuse for a sentient being without the imagination or
the courage--" The tentacles slashed around him, a sound like a thousand
whips cracking, drowning out Fett's voice.
He shoved, got his right foot solidly against the ground and pushed
upward.
The switch in the jet pack's emergency access panel, digging into the
soft wall behind him, was pushed down as Boba Fett pushed up.
Flame erupted in the enclosed space around them.
The Sarlacc itself shrieked in pain, a sound that echoed away down the
tunnels, the hundreds of tentacles around Fett whipping themselves into
a frenzy, those that held Fett constricting so tightly that for an
instant he could not breathe-The jet pack had never been intended to be
run in such tight quarters for any length of time.
It exploded.
It was his oldest possession; the Mandalorian combat armor that was
almost as famous as he was, famous the galaxy wide. It had protected
him, down the decades, from blaster fire and slugthrowers, explosions
and knives, from all the various insults the universe was apt to throw
at a man in his line of work. But not even Mandalorian combat armor,
designed by the warriors who had fought, and sometimes defeated, Jedi
Knights, had been intended to withstand an exploding jet pack in close
quarters.
Fett could not have been unconscious for more than a few seconds; he
came back to awareness unable to breathe. The jet pack's fuel had
splattered down the length of the corridor, and the corridor was
burning, and so was Fett. The flame touched his skin in exposed places,
on his arms and legs and stomach, and flames danced on the surface of
his combat armor, the armor itself cracked, broken open by the force of
the explosion, and everywhere the armor touched him the metal was
scaldingly hot-Boba Fett surged to his feet. The ground beneath him
shook, rolling as the Sarlacc's flesh burned, and the Sarlacc fought
against it. Fett reached back over his shoulder, unslung the deadliest
weapon he carried.
Standing in the fire, burning alive, Boba Fett fired a concussion
grenade into the ceiling thirty centimeters above his head, and threw
himself down to the surface of the tunnel, into the flaming mixture of
acid and fuel-The explosion tore apart the world. The concussion
slammed Fett down into the flames, and his left arm, trapped beneath him
at the wrong angle, snapped as he was smashed down atop it. A pain so
great it was like a white light surrounded Boba Fett, and he knew that
he was dying, that he had failed, like all the others before him, that
he had traded a slow death by acid for a fast death by fire-Sand rained
down upon him.
A long time later, Boba Fett became aware that he was still alive.
He forced himself up into a sitting position, looking around him.
Fires still burned, along the length of the corridor, and in the
distance the sound of cracking tentacles was very loud.
It was quiet where he sat.
Fett's left arm hung useless at his side, and he looked away down the
tunnel; it was night, but he knew which direction he needed to go, to
get back to the main pit, to the shaft that led back to the surface · .
. to the main pit, where Susejo hung, where the enraged Sarlacc awaited
him, tentacles lashing back and forth in anticipation.
Sand trickled down onto Fett's helmet. He looked up.
Darkness.
Without moving from where he sat, Boba Fett made a long arm, and
retrieved the grenade launcher. It carried three grenades; and he'd
already fired one of them.
He raised the launcher and fired it a second time, into the darkness
above him, and then had to dig his way out of the avalanche of sand that
came down upon him. He stood at the edge of a small hill of sand,
looking upward into the darkness... and started to undress. The armor
was useless at this point--acid-covered and cracked in places, which was
an improvement on Fett having cracked in those same places--and his
clothing disintegrated as he mOVed. He almost fainted while removing
the upper body armor; his left arm was broken in at least two places,
and he was covered with burns that were already starting to form
blisters.
It took several minutes, but finally he had worked his way out of the
armor, and he fought against his dizziness and weakness and started
climbing, halfway up the small hill of sand, and fired his final grenade
into the darkness above him. The wave of sand that collapsed on him
this time was unbelievable; Fett struggled up through it as it came down
upon him, almost swimming upward through the falling sand.
The sand covered him, his nude body and the helmet that still protected
his head, and he clawed at it frantically, with no air but that trapped
in his helmet with him, using both hands, both the broken arm and the
good, possessed by a mortal terror that gave him the access to the final
strength he would ever be able to call upon-A hand broke free, he felt
it, felt it thrust up into emptiness, and seconds later, Boba Fett dug
his way up out of the sand and into the cool nighttime air, in the
middle of the Dune Sea, at the edge of the Great Pit of Carkoon,
hundreds of kilometers away from anyone or anything.
Alive.
A year later: Boba Fett returned to Tatooine in the Slave II.
He came down out of orbit and hovered above the Great Pit of Carkoon, in
the midst of the Dune Sea.
On the night desert, the glow of his thrusters burned like the daytime
sun, lit the sand for kilometers in all directions.
The Slave II descended until the flame of its drive played directly down
onto the Pit of Carkoon. The wash of pain that rose to greet Boba Fett
tasted like wine of an ancient vintage. If he closed his eyes he could
see it, the main chamber where Susejo hung, shimmering beneath the
superheated air.
You.
"Yes, indeed."
Inside the creature's pain, Boba Fett could feel something like relief.
You liberate me from the long Cycle.
The Slave II hovered above the pit . . . and then drifted off to the
side, and came to a landing fifty meters from the edge, well away from
the reach of even the longest of the burnt, writhing tentacles.
Susejo's pain and confusion touched Fett. What strange mercy is this ?
Sitting in the Slave II, a faint smile hidden beneath a Mandalorian
helmet, Boba Fett said, You don't eat a barve like that all at once.
I see I suppose I shall see you again, then.
You can count on it, said Boba Fett. His hands danced across the
instrument panels.
The thrusters caught fire; light washed once more over the Great Pit of
Carkoon-A dark spirit arose into the night. Skin Deep: The Fat Dancer's
Tale
by A. C. Crispin
Thud . . . thud . . . thud.
The rhythmic pounding echoed faintly in the cavernous audience chamber
/> of Jabba's palace. The bulky figure dozing cross-legged on the empty
dais sat bolt upright and stared apprehensively at the arched doorway
leading upstairs to the main entrance. The knocking came again.
Why would someone be out there, hammering on the blast doors?
Yarna d'al' Gargan wondered. Heaving herself up, the multibreasted
dancer cautiously ventured to the archway and stood peering up the
stairs toward the front entrance. Jabba's frog-dog, Bubo, who was
tethered at the top of the steps, looked down at her and croaked
plaintively, begging for scraps. For once, Yarna ignored it.
Straining her sensitive hearing, the dancer picked up a faint shout.
Thud... thud... thud.
The Askajian female glanced around and swallowed nervously. She wasn't
going up there alone. Death stalked the corridors and chambers of
Jabba's palace; they'd discovered another body, that of an unfortunate
scullion named Phlegmin. Earlier, Yarna herself had been attacked and
had barely escaped unscathed.
"J'Quille?" she called softly into the dimness. It was his turn to be
on guard.
No reply.
Where was that stupid Whiphid? Hugging her arms across the pendulous
mounds of her topmost pair of breasts, Yarna shivered. It was after
sunsdown outside the palace, and nothing should be out there at this
hour.
It was true that MasterJabba had gone off in his sail barge to witness
the executions of the ill-fated Han Solo and his friends. The Hutt was
hours overdue, and none of them had heard a word since the sail barge
had departed . . . but that couldn't be Master Jabba's entourage
outside. He wouldn't knock on the front entrance. The master would
enter the palace through the big rear doors. After being in the Hutt's
"employ" for nearly a year, Yarna knew the routine only too well.
So who was out there?
And what should she do?
THUD . . . THUD . . . THUD.
The hammering redoubled in intensity, and the shouting grew louder, more
desperate. Everyone with the authority to tell her what to do--Master
Fortuna, Tessek, Barada--was gone. Even the head Gamorrean, Ortugg, was
nowhere to be seen.
Running her tongue over suddenly dry lips, she turned and cupped her
hands around her mouth.
"Guards!" she bellowed across the chamber.
"Guards! Is everyone deaf? There's someone at the main entrance!"
Other denizens of the Hutt lord's motley "court" who had been sleeping
in the far reaches of the audience chamber stirred, glancing around
furtively . . .
but none of them joined the Askajian at the foot of the stairs In
Jabba's palace, calling attention to oneself could prove dangerous.
Yarna heard running footsteps, then an armed humanoid raced through the
opposite Portal. The guard in the battered dark armor was familiar,
though he always kept to himself and she didn't know his name.
He'd been the one the Wookiee Chewbacca had knocked silly, smashing him
into the wall with one swipe of a long, furred arm.
"What's going on?" A mechanical-sounding voice emanated from inside the
helmet that masked his features, and Yarna realized he spoke through a
breathing filter. "Where is Master Jabba?"
"Hasn't returned yet," Yarna said, feeling her hearts pound in her
belly. "Who are you?"
"Sergeant Doallyn, at your service," the guard said, automatically
straightening to attention. More knocks at the entrance made him glance
up the stairs. "Who is at the door, Mistress Gargan?"
"I don't know," she said, appreciating the title of respect. It had
been a long time since anyone had addressed her as anything but "Ugly
One." The hammering reached their ears again, seemingly weaker now.
Yarna shrugged and pointed. "The sentry who should be there . .
. isn't. And I didn't think I should open it without a guard present."
The helmeted head nodded. "Good thinking." He beckoned her to follow
him, and started up the steps.
Yarna stayed so close to him that she nearly trod on his boot heels.
When the pair reached the tall, massive doors, Doal-lyn glanced at the
sentry screen, but it was too dark to make out the identity of the
visitor. He leveled his blaster, then gestured to her. "Key it, then
stand back."
Moving with a quickness that belied her bulk, Yarna pressed the
appropriate combination, then skipped off to the side. Slowly, the
enormous portal rumbled upward. Cold night air rushed in.
Tessek the Quarren stood outside, his robes rumpled and smelling of
smoke. His wrinkled, tentacled features were pale and cracked as though
he'd been exposed to intense heat. "Jabba . . . Master Jabba ... the
sail barge..." he babbled breathlessly.
"Solo, the Wookiee . . . and that Jedi! There may be an attack!"
"Where is Jabba?" Doallyn demanded.
"Dead! She strangled him, that Alderaanian dancing girl, the new one.
Just as the execution was supposed to take place, a terrible battle
erupted on the sail barge. They had weapons hidden, and that Jedi boy,
Luke Skywalker--he had powers beyond belief! I fought them, but a shot
grazed me, and I lost control of my swoop . . . I nearly went into the
Sarlacc pit!
Then"--his arms waved expressively--"a huge explosion!
The sail barge is in pieces all over the Dune Sea!"
"Jabba? Dead?" Even Doallyn's mechanical tones sounded stunned.
The Quarren nodded. He glanced from Yarna to Doallyn, then seemed to
remember his dignity. Pulling himself up, he straightened his hunched
shoulders.
"I'm in command, now," he said, his voice deepening. "Wait for me here.
I'll return shortly."
Doallyn sketched a half-salute, but did not respond further, and the
Quarren, still shaking, turned and swung a leg across his swoop.
Moments later, he was gone.
Yarna stood frozen with shock, scarcely daring to believe what she'd
heard. She'd waited for this day for so long! Could Tessek be lying?
Was this yet another of Jabba's twisted schemes to test the loyalty of
his minions?
And yet . . . she did not believe the Quarren meant her ill.
Yesterday he'd even caught her pilfering some semiprecious stones and
hadn't reported her to Jabba. She remembered Tessek's wide, frightened
eyes. No. The Quarren was telling the truth.
Yarna heard excited gabbling at the bottom of the stairs, and realized
that the news was already spreading. Within minutes, everyone would
know.
The Askajian struggled for calm. She had to think--think!
What did this news mean to her? What would happen now?
She felt no compunction to obey Tessek---even if he had done her a favor
yesterday. The Quarren was an arrant coward, and everybody knew it.
With Jabba gone, there was no one that Yarna could think of with the
strength of will, ruthlessness, and intelligence to assume Jabba's
mantle of leadership. Within the hour the palace would be in chaos.
And back in Mos Eisley · . . Yarna's breath caught in her throat like a
limp of jelled sagbat. Under Tatooine law, Jabba's illegal asse
ts would
be seized and liquidated. His slaves would be sold to the highest
bidder.
Yarna herself was not legally a slave, since Jabba had placed her under
"contract," promising her she could buy her freedom one day.
That had been one of the Bloated One's favorite ploys. "Free" people
tended to work harder and show more dedication than slaves. And Yarna
clearly recalled the wording of the contract she had thumb-signed--it
had stated that, in the event of Jabba's death, she was a free
being--unless, of course, she had helped in any way to bring about that
death. But she had not. So now . . . she was free.
The eventual promise of earning her freedom had made Yarna serve the
Hutt crimelord loyally, dancing for him, minding the household staff and
cleaning droids, and being a sort of mother figure to his other dancing
girls. Another three years, and she'd have been free--unless, of
course, Jabba had tired of her and ordered her killed.
Thinking of Leia and the other dancing girls made her mind flash to
Oola. If only the poor little Twi'lek girl had taken her advice, then
she too would have lived to see this day--and she too would have been
free! Yarna hadn't known Oola well, but she'd liked the girl . .
Tales From Jabba's Palace Page 41