Tales From Jabba's Palace

by Kevin J. Anderson

  . even if she had been foolish enough to ignore Yarna's counsel on how

  to stay alive.

  It had only been a few days since Oola had been fed to the monster

  residing beneath the throne room now it was dead, as well, slain by the

  young warrior who called himself a Jedi. Yarna, watching from above,

  had barely been able to conceal her vengeful glee. The Askajian dancer

  had hated the ugly beast with a fierce passion ever since it had

  devoured her mate, Nautag. Their whole family had been captured in a

  slaver raid, and they'd been brought to Tatooine as part of a shipment

  for Jabba's inspection. The slavers had marched their merchandise into

  this very throne room, and invited the Hutt to take his pick of their

  wares.

  Then, in a moment that still haunted Yarna's dreams, Nautag had stepped

  forward and cursed the Bloated One, defying Jabba and declaring that he

  and his mate and their cublings would never be slaves . . .

  never! And then . . . Jabba had laughed, that deadly "ho, ho, ho" that

  always chilled Yarna's hearts. Jabba laughed . . . and sprang the

  trapdoor, and Nautag fell.

  Her mate had fought bravely, but he'd only lasted a few minutes.

  The rancor's triumphant roar as he'd torn her mate in half echoed in the

  Askajian dancer's ears . . .

  Yarna started, abruptly recalled to the here and now by a shrill,

  unmistakably feminine scream. The chaos had begun.

  I have to get out of here, she thought, remembering the small cache of

  pilfered valuables she'd been collecting ever since she'd been brought

  here. She'd need them when she reached Mos Eisley, and her cublings.

  Prefect Talmont's auctioneers would be eager to sell, but they'd expect

  at least a hundred apiece . . .

  Mentally, she tallied up the value of her little hoard. Do I have

  enough ? Probably. Just barely.

  She couldn't stay here, not now. She wouldn't last a full day, she knew

  it. Not long ago, she had seen the face of the Death that was haunting

  Jabba's palace, and she knew that he would never let her live to tell

  what she had seen. Only luck had saved her yesterday.

  If Ortugg hadn't come looking for her . . .

  And then they'd found the kitchen boy. Yarna was the only one who

  understood the significance of the small drops of blood crusted in the

  victim's nostrils.

  She knew how the lad had met his death . . . and she had no desire to

  share his fate. Since that moment, she'd been careful never to be

  alone, even taking one of the servants when she visited the bathhouse

  and lavatory.

  "Mistress . . ." someone said, hesitantly, and Yarna turned to see

  Doallyn still standing beside her. His features were hidden, but there

  was no mistaking his tense, urgent bearing.

  "Yes?" The Askajian strove to keep the impatience she felt from

  reaching her voice. Nobody must know that she intended to escape, or

  she'd be stopped.

  "I was wondering if you could help me. You're in charge of the cleaning

  . . . you know where Jabba keeps . . . kept things. Have you ever

  seen a supply of these?" With quick fingers, the guard detached a

  small, cylindrical cartridge from the side of his breathing helmet and

  held it out for her inspection.

  Yarna had seen a box of small gas cartridges like that, concealed behind

  a panel in Jabba's personal quarters. She looked curiously at Doallyn.

  "What is it?"

  "A trace-breather cartridge. I can breathe Tatooine's air for short

  periods of time, but if I don't have minuscule amounts of hydron-three

  added to my air intake, I will die." The guard glanced over his

  shoulder apprehensively. "Jabba only doled out one day's supply at a

  time . . . his way of ensuring my loyalty.

  But now, with him dead . . ."

  Yarna studied him speculatively, arms folded across her topmost set of

  breasts. Did he have any money?

  Could she make him pay for the information? She considered demanding

  credits in return for the location, but something inside her balked at

  the idea. By Askaj's Moon Lady, Doallyn would die--and he wasn't one of

  the ones who had tormented and oppressed her, he was just another being

  who'd been in thrall to Jabba.

  Besides, she'd need help to reach her cache. Another shrill scream

  echoed through the palace followed by the grunting and squealing

  laughter of a Gamorrean. With every passing second the sounds of tipsy

  revelry and riot grew louder. Although there were worse things stalking

  the corridors of Jabba's palace than mere drunken Gamorreans, they were

  bad enough . . .

  Yarna nodded brusquely at Doallyn. "I know where he kept them."

  So strange to have to refer to Jabba in the past tense. The Askajian

  found that she had trouble imagining the Hutt as dead. Jabba had been

  foul, disgusting, perverted, and greedy--but he had been strongly,

  vitally alive. "Come with me, guard me, while I get some things, and

  then I'll show you where they are. Fair enough?"

  Doallyn nodded.

  The Askajian headed for her goal, moving rapidly through the palace with

  Doallyn following. As she passed each darkened doorway, she tensed,

  wondering if he was waiting within. But their journey was un-hindered.

  When they reached the servant's quarters, Yarna made straight for the

  closet that held the sonic brooms and other cleaning supplies.

  "Keep your weapon handy," she instructed her escort, as she knelt and

  opened a panel in one of the automatic floor-cleaners.

  "I don't want to be surprised."

  She reached past the power cell to retrieve the little bag she'd hidden

  inside the cleaning unit. Doallyn cocked his helmeted head, and Yarna

  fancied she heard amusement in his mechanical tones. "What do you have

  in there, Mistress?"

  Yarna bounced the bag on her palm, feeling its weight. Her lips curved

  upward in the first genuine smile she'd smiled in a year. "My

  children's freedom," she said, slowly.

  "Your children?"

  "They aren't here," Yarna said. "Jabba ordered them kept in his town

  house in Mos Eisley. I have three cublings still left... the slavers

  killed my fourth during our capture. I have to get to Mos Eisley before

  the officials sell off Jabba's assets. They'll sell my babies--I have

  to get there in time to buy them!"

  Somehow she knew he was staring at her from behind his helmet.

  "Mos Eisley? You're going to Mos Eisley?"

  "I have to," Yarna said, urgency filling her voice.

  "And quickly."

  "Across the Dune Sea? You must be mad."

  Yarna heaved herself to her feet, her breasts bouncing heavily within

  their leather restraints. "Probably," she admitted. "But I would far

  sooner die out there" --she waved a hand in the direction of Mos

  Eisley--"than I Would trapped in here, waiting to become the killer's

  next victim."

  "The unknown killer . . ." Doallyn said. "Yes, that is a thought. I

  don't fancy becoming the next victim, either."

  "If I stay," Yarna said and began stuffing the bag into the space

  between her bottommost set of breasts, tying it securely
so it would not

  fall out, "I will be the next victim, I know it." She glanced up at him

  and shivered. "I . . . I've seen his face. He won't let me live."

  "You've seen him?" Doallyn's voice was tinged with urgency. He grasped

  her arm, pulling her toward him, and reflexively glanced over his

  shoulder. There was no one there. "Who is it?" he whispered.

  Yarna's voice shook. "I don't know his name," she muttered hoarsely.

  "He's the tall, slender humanoid, the one with the dandified clothes . .

  . and the pouches on either side of his face." She drew her fingers

  down her own cheeks in illustration.

  "That's Jerriko you're describing," Doallyn said.

  "Dannik Jerriko. He was working for Jabba. Are you sure? How do you

  know?"

  "Because he tried to kill me yesterday." Yarna's voice was flat, but

  her whole massive body quivered.

  "He has . . . things that come out of his face. Beside his nose . . .

  and they kill you."

  "Things?" Doallyn echoed blankly. "What kind of things?"

  "Like . . . tendrils. They uncoil. He..." She nearly gagged at' the

  memory. "He sticks them up, inside your nose . . . he did it to the

  kitchen boy."

  "How did you get away?"

  "Just as his tendrils touched me, one of the Gamorreans came in.

  He . . . the creature . . . let me go."

  "ButJerriko is no match for you." Doallyn's fingers tightened on her

  upper arm, testing the solid muscle beneath the outer flesh.

  "You're twice his size."

  "When he lays his hands on you, and looks into your eyes . . .

  you can't move," Yarna whispered, feeling her gorge rise. "When you see

  those tendrils uncoil, you know what's happening, because he wants you

  to know. But you can't move. It's . . . horrible."

  She gagged, put her hand over her mouth, and fought for control.

  Moments later, she looked back up at him.

  "If you swear on whatever belief system you follow that you'll escort me

  to the motor pool afterward, I'll take you to find those gas cartridges

  now," Yarna promised. How could she trust someone whose features she

  couldn't see? But she had little choice . . .

  Doallyn touched the breast of his uniform with two fingers and a thumb

  in what looked like (and probably was) a ritual gesture. "I swear by

  the Sky Seraphs that I will take you to the motor pool."

  Yarna nodded. "Let's go, then."

  The two ventured out into the corridor, and headed purposefully toward

  the other side of the building, with Yarna in the lead. She walked

  quickly, surely, only too aware of the occasional screams and crashes

  that emanated from other portions of the palace. Just a few more

  minutes and I'll be out of here, she told herself, her strides coming

  faster and faster. She was nearly running. Just a few more minutes . .

  .

  Her luck gave out when she rounded the next corner, with Doallyn a dozen

  paces behind her. Two of Jabba's erstwhile guards were waiting to

  pounce. The dancer recognized them--the human was named Tornik, and the

  Gamorrean was Warlug. Both were reeling drunk. As she tried to beat a

  hasty retreat, they greeted her with grunts of inebriated delight and

  grabbed her.

  "Ugly One!" roared Tornik. "Love of my life!

  Come here and have a drink with me!" As Yarna tried to pull away, he

  yanked her arm viciously. "Dance for me, then we'll have some fun!"

  The Askajian glanced back over her shoulder, but there was no sign of

  Doallyn, Had he run off and left her? But what about his breathing

  cartridges?

  "No!" squealed the Gamorrean, trying to drag her away from his

  compatriot. "I saw her first! I get the Ugly One first!"

  "Stop .it!" Yarna ordered, trying to stay calm despite the racing of

  her twin hearts. "Let me go. I'm . . .

  I'm on an errand for Master Fortuna."

  "Ha! He can't have you!" Tornik declared. "Warlug is right! We saw

  you first! He'll have to stand in line!"

  The Gamorrean reached for the fastening between her topmost breasts.

  "Mine! I go fi--" He broke off at a sudden flash and sizzle, to stare

  unbelievingly at the scorched hole that had suddenly blossomed in his

  side. Letting go of Yarna, he staggered back, panting, then squealing

  in pain as he hit the wall and slid down it.

  "Let her go," Doallyn said, stepping around the corner, his blaster

  still leveled.

  "But we saw her first--" the guard protested, eyes narrowing.

  "You can have her when we're done."

  "I said, let her go." Doallyn's voice was still level, but the muzzle

  of his weapon moved up, steadied until it was aimed at the man's face.

  "Or I'll make you let her go. Your choice."

  Cursing, Tornik dropped Yarna's arm and stumbled backward. Warlug

  squealed frantically for help, and the human grabbed his arm, hoisted

  the injured being to his feet, then the two of them staggered away.

  Yarna sagged against the wall as her knees threatened to buckle.

  "Oh, Sergeant, they . . . thank you, thank you . . . they were--"

  "No time for that," Doallyn said briskly. "The breathing cartridges.

  You promised."

  "Yes . . ." muttered Yarna, collecting her scattered wits.

  "This way . . ."

  Within minutes they were in the Hutt's personal chamber. There had

  already been looters there--the place was stripped, and someone had

  flung a shovelful of dried rancor dung into the middle of the sleeping

  dais.

  A message had been scrawled in huge letters across the wall: "Freeze,

  Jabba, in the Ninth Circle of Damnation!"

  The words were already half covered by other, less creative admonitions

  and obscenities.

  Quickly, Yarna led the way to an intricately carved panel, and pressed

  the tail of a fanciful creature. A small door swung open.

  "How did you know about this panel?" Doallyn demanded as he began

  stuffing the cartridges into a bag, after sliding several into his

  pocket. Yarna methodically scooped up several credit disks that lay on

  the bottommost shelf.

  "I was Jabba's favorite dancer," Yarna said. "He would send for me

  sometimes when he couldn't sleep, and I would dance the sand-wave ballet

  for him. He said it helped him relax after a busy day. One time Jabba

  fell asleep, and I was dozing over there"--she pointed at the sleeping

  dais--"when Bib Fortuna entered.

  He didn't know I was awake, and he opened the panel."

  "I'm surprised Jabba trusted him with the secret of his hiding place,"

  Doallyn said, as they cautiously left the chamber with the guard in the

  lead, blaster at the ready.

  Yarna smiled mirthlessly. "Jabba didn't trust anyone.

  He--" She broke off in alarm as they rounded a corner and she recognized

  a familiar shape silhouetted in the dark corridor. Long, lean, shrouded

  in shadow . . .

  Dannik Jerriko! The dancer gasped and shrank back, as Doallyn, with

  commendable composure, raised his weapon. "Don't move, Jerriko!"

  The vampire turned his head, and his features came into view.

  Yarna whimpered with terror. No demon spewed up out of Askaj's

  Nethermost Abyss could have
looked more evil. Fury contorted Jerriko's

  features, and the pouches on either side of his face writhed as if with

  a life of their own. His mouth opened in a soundless snarl of rage.

  The Askajian clapped both hands over her mouth to hold back a shriek.

  Doallyn's finger must have tightened involuntarily on the trigger of his

  weapon, for an energy bolt suddenly erupted in a white flash.

  The shadowy figure melted into a doorway up ahead.

  Yarna had to admire Doallyn's courage, even as she questioned his

  sanity. He charged after the alien, and the dancer, against her better

  judgment, followed.

  But when they reached the doorway of the chamber, and Doallyn keyed the

  illumination on, the room was empty of life. No other doors, no windows

  . . .

  but still, it was empty. "He couldn't just vanish," the guard muttered,

  sounding shaken. "Is there a secret passage, or hidden door?"

  Yarna shook her head. "Not that I know of. But the palace has many

  secrets. There are passages beneath it, you know. Part of this place

  is still a B'omarr monastery."

  Doallyn's breath whistled exasperatedly, then he shut the door, and