Kenobi

by John Jackson Miller

  “You?” Jabe objected. “You’re crazy. You don’t even carry a blaster!”

  “And if one is necessary,” Ben said sternly, “that’s more reason you shouldn’t go.” His expression softened. “Orrin was one of the first people to welcome me here. If he needs help, I’ll get it for him.”

  Reluctantly, Jabe agreed. Ben waved to Annileen. “See you soon.”

  Orrin marched toward the durasteel doors of the town house. It was an unassuming place—a pourstone blockhouse in the shadows of the Mos Eisley Inn, with a large dome to the left of the front entrance. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all. And while he had an escort, there were no guards outside the building. It didn’t make sense.

  Or maybe it did. Who’d be crazy enough to attack here?

  Boopa pointed him to the main entrance. Orrin walked up the steps, ready for anything. He nearly fell back down them again when a black sensor orb jabbed out from an iris near the doorway.

  It spoke in Huttese, and then again in Basic. “Identification and purpose!”

  Orrin took a deep breath. “Orrin Gault.” He looked at his hands and flexed his fingers. “I have important business to discuss—with Jabba the Hutt!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  HUMAN SWEAT DRIPPED ONTO finely carved ceramic tiles. Jabba’s foyer was as richly appointed as the building’s exterior was modest. Orrin wasn’t surprised. He’d heard Jabba kept a presence in Mos Eisley, apart from his mountain palace; the Hutt seemed to want to convey a benevolent paternal presence to the locals.

  There was nothing benevolent about the place, though. This was where the guards were, Orrin realized. Four more Gamorreans stood here, two at either side of the door, large poleaxes in their hands. They looked bored.

  Bojo Boopa and Jorrk followed Orrin in, blasters at the ready. As they marched Orrin down a wide hallway, he again felt the empty space in his holster. Boopa had even taken his comlinks; Mullen and Veeka had no idea where he was.

  The audience chamber loomed ahead, behind a roll-away blast door. A silvery bipedal droid emerged and scanned Orrin’s body, confirming that he was unarmed. Orrin felt like everyone was watching. Why did they put people through this? Was this really necessary?

  The droid said in guttural tones, “Jabba will see you now.”

  Great suns, Orrin thought, pulse racing as he urged his feet to move. How did it come to this?

  He inhaled deeply and walked through the doors. In the center of the rotunda, atop the long wooden platform built for a Hutt’s power sled, Orrin beheld …

  … something else. In place of a sled, a small figure in a light green business suit huddled over a desk. The pink-and-brown creature punched numbers into a datapad. Credits of all colors sat stacked in orderly piles on the desktop. A squat safedroid wobbled on its wheels nearby, its maw open and ready to accept currency.

  Orrin didn’t recognize the desk worker’s species. He had an almost simian face, his cheeks accented by two straight, finely coiffed tufts of quill-like whiskers. Large, studious black eyes remained fixed on the calculations before him as he entered each new figure with zeal. And like the Gamorreans at the gate, he paid no mind to the new arrival.

  Jorrk shoved Orrin toward the center of the room. Behind, Orrin saw three more Gamorreans along the room’s perimeter—and Boopa, who placed Orrin’s comlinks and blaster on a small table.

  Orrin looked up into the dome above the room. Slivers of light from vents cut high in the bowl filtered down through heavy wire mesh netting, suspended meters above the floor. The metal web made no sense architecturally; the only break in the pattern was at the focal point of the dome, where a square mass sat over the center of the room. Orrin squinted. Was something up there?

  With a cautious last look at the guards, Orrin removed his hat and spoke. “I’m here.”

  “Indeed you are!” The being at the desk looked up and smiled toothily. “I like this human. Observant.”

  “They told me Jabba was here,” Orrin said, feeling some blood reentering his limbs. “Either they were wrong, or you’ve lost weight.”

  “Ha!” The suited alien slapped the desk for emphasis. “Observant, and with a sense of humor.” He set down his datapad and stood. “Yes, I like this! I want to be in business with such a person, I do!”

  “But who are you?”

  “Ah. Mosep Binneed, your humble servant,” the creature said, bowing. He was a full head shorter than Orrin. “I manage Jabba’s portfolio when he’s not here.”

  Clutching at the brim of his hat, Orrin shifted uncomfortably. “Boopa said this was Jabba’s place, so I assumed—”

  “His Immensity is a busy creature,” Mosep said, lifting a small tray of money. Like cleaning crumbs from a plate, he slid the credits into the safedroid’s innards. “But Jabba knows the people of Mos Eisley feel better when he’s around. So at this office, Jabba is always in. My cousin Lhojugg and I are the joint caretakers.”

  “Is that so,” Orrin said, not caring. No Jabba? He was thrilled!

  Mosep looked up, a sparkle in his eye. “I also travel under Jabba’s name from time to time, representing his interests. It doesn’t hurt to confuse the competition. So, yes, for today’s purposes—with our master’s kind permission—you could say I am Jabba.”

  Jorrk chortled. “Monkey Jabba, Monkey Jabba!”

  “That’s unkind, Jorrk,” Mosep said, casting a sidelong glance at the tough. “You’ll have to excuse my associate. He saw a Geniserian sand monkey once, and hasn’t failed to find his joke funny since. I am, of course, a Nimbanel.” He looked back at Orrin. “A good tactic for Jabba, though, don’t you think?”

  Orrin felt impatient. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because you’re part of the family, Orrin, my boy. No secrets among us, are there?”

  “I’m not part of your family!”

  Jorrk giggled again.

  Mosep bristled his whiskers and reached for his datapad. “If you insist on getting to business—let’s see. Yes, here’s your record.” He read quietly, his hairless lips every so often smacking. “My, this is disturbing.”

  While Mosep continued the routine, his tongue occasionally clicking, Orrin fought the urge to move, to say something. This is torture!

  At the thought, Orrin glanced up and saw movement above the netting. A dark, lithe figure moved past the lights, glancing against the mesh and raising a racket. “Something … something’s up there.”

  Mosep didn’t look up from the datapad. “That would be the Kayven whistlers,” he said. “Carnivorous fliers. They live in the rafters—but occasionally we hoist a treat up to them.”

  Orrin looked up with alarm. The square shape nearly above him, he now saw, was a cage, attached to a pulley system reaching into unseen heights above. “A treat?”

  Mosep looked at Boopa. “Yes, who was the treat today?”

  Boopa lifted a human leg bone from the floor beside him. “Problem gambler, I think.”

  Mosep smiled at Orrin. “They’ve had their fill. You can relax.”

  Orrin could do no such thing. There were more sounds above—and more shadows. For a moment, he almost thought he saw a bipedal figure in motion, soaring from one of the ventilation slits to the cable. Another clatter followed, with more wings slamming the nets.

  “I’ve read enough.” The Nimbanel accountant set down the datapad. “You owe us quite a bit of money, my boy.”

  “I’m not your boy, Binneed!”

  “All I know is certain obligations have not been met,” Mosep said. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. You called this meeting.” Mosep sat down in his chair and cracked his hairy knuckles. “I suspect it’s not because you’re ready to repay in full.”

  “I’m working on that,” Orrin said, reaching for his courage. “No. I want you out,” he said, firmly.

  “Out?” Mosep smiled mildly. His long whiskers bristled. “How so?”

  “Out of my hair. Your punks have been coming around my ranch, my store
—”

  “Your store?” Suddenly interested, Mosep looked again at the datapad. “No, no. My records show your holdings only include the ranch, the vehicles in the garages, and the barracks for your muscle.”

  “They’re called farmhands!” Orrin raged. “Not that you people would know. You haven’t done a day’s honest work in your lives.”

  “Oh, they work,” Mosep said, idly sorting credits. “It may not be poking around in the sand or sweating the air for water, but it’s work. Investments are made. Capital is expended. And a return is expected.”

  “Yeah, or you sweat us!”

  “You’re the one making this unpleasant, Orrin. Or Master Gault, if you prefer. The fact that you’re dealing with me ought to be a sign of respect, I should think. My superior knows there are different kinds of business, and that they must be conducted in different ways.” He turned his black eyes on Orrin. “Believe me, if Jabba wanted to deal unpleasantly, you’d have known it by now. Still, we must check on our investments—and that means going to the site. Including this store, which you seem to keep offices in.”

  Another clatter from above. The hoodlums paid it no mind.

  “My business depends on my reputation,” Orrin said, chastened. “Part of the value in my operation is goodwill. I’ve worked twenty-odd years to build it. If your thugs start showing up, I lose that.”

  “Indeed?”

  “You bet,” Orrin said. “People will start to measure the water coming out of Gault drums, to see if I’m shorting them.”

  Mosep rose from the desk and began pacing. “It’s too late for such concerns. You comprehend that, Orrin—you’re a good businessman. Or you were one. You know we can’t let this continue.”

  Orrin looked around, wary of any movement. “Look, this year’s harvest is going to be big. Real big. It’s taken a while to get the new vaporators set up right, but it’s about to turn around—”

  “I don’t understand much about agriculture, I’m afraid,” the accountant said. “But I know arithmetic. Even if we kept to the payment plan you were on, I don’t see any way you could make poor Jabba whole again. Not even,” he added, “if you tap your other resources.”

  The comment threw Orrin. “Other resources? What are you talking about?”

  Mosep tapped the datapad and smiled knowingly. “Pretty clever, what you boys are doing out there. Even if Jabba thought of it first, more than a decade ago.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Fine. Play innocent.” Mosep pitched the datapad to the desk, where it disturbed the credit stacks. “I guess it’s so easy, anyone can do it. Though this year’s Tuskens aren’t much for fighting back.”

  Another ruckus from above. Orrin shook his head, trying to register everything. “Wait. Did you say you were going to change the payment plan?”

  “Yes,” Mosep said. “You might say that we want out.” He fingered his vest buttons. “Double your usual payment for tomorrow—and the full balance in two weeks.”

  Two weeks? Orrin gulped. Even the first condition was impossible. “I’ve tried to keep up. You’ve seen it! It’s just this last couple of payments that have been short. Why now?”

  Mosep grinned. “I thought you wanted it to be over.”

  “It’ll never be over,” Orrin said, enraged. “I know you people! You get your claws into someone and you never let go!”

  “In another time,” Mosep said, “we’d be perfectly happy to have … a long-term engagement with your business. We find you to be rather inventive, for a rural. But the truth is Jabba is in need of cash, now, not investments.”

  “In need of—” Orrin looked around. Apart from the macabre mess of a ceiling, the rest of the room stank of money, right down to the finely woven tapestry hanging behind the platform depicting a scene from Hutt history. “You seem to be doing pretty well!”

  Mosep looked at the credits on the desk and chuckled. “No, Jabba needs a good bit more. It’s this Galactic Empire the Republic became. It’s quite the change. Until we see how it’ll deal with the Hutts, Jabba wants as much cash on hand as possible.”

  “To bribe the new people, you mean!”

  “Or whatever is necessary. No business likes uncertainty.” Mosep looked at his pocket chrono. “So, twenty-four hours for the penultimate payment, shall we say?”

  Orrin slouched, feeling the weight of the galaxy. He stammered. “I—I have some plans. I can get it. But I might need more time. If you could take a little less tomorrow—”

  In the center of the room, Mosep snapped his fingers, suddenly reminded. “Yes, that’s right. I’d forgotten about that. We’ve taken a little less already, these last three payments. It’s why we sent you Bojo.” He looked to the guards. “Well, as you’ve done us the convenience of coming here, you can be punished for that right away.”

  Orrin dropped his hat. “What?”

  “Smash his hands,” Jorrk said, cackling. “He won’t need that swank drivey-drivey anymore.”

  “Naw,” Boopa said, slapping the Klatooinian in the chest with the back of his hand. “Smash his legs. He spends time in that store. Everything he needs is just a crawl away.”

  “No, no, no!” Mosep shook his head vigorously, his face disappearing in a blur of whiskers. “This gentlebeing still has a day to find payment. We can’t allow punitive measures, however just, to impede his mobility.” Mosep looked Orrin over. “We’ll give him an hour with the nerve disruptor in the basement. Sir, what shape is your heart in?”

  Orrin’s eyes bulged. “I—I—”

  “I suppose we’ll find out,” Mosep said, nodding to the guards. “One for the show, please.” Then he beckoned toward the droid, standing by the doorway. “I’ll watch the feed from up here. Can you bring me some caf?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ORRIN LUNGED TO THE RIGHT. He’d seen the sealed door there, providing Hutt-sized access to the street. But a Gamorrean waddled in front of the exit, giant blade in giant hand. Another hulking figure lumbered toward Orrin from behind. Bojo Boopa and Jorrk blocked the main entrance and any chance of reaching his comlinks and blaster, still sitting tantalizingly on the table.

  “Time to play ‘Fry the farmer’!” Boopa said.

  “Fry, fry!” Jorrk exclaimed with glee.

  Orrin looked around in desperation. All he saw was Mosep, trying to escape the center of the room before the Gamorrean behemoth stepped on him. “Careful, friends!” Mosep said. “There’s no need to be hasty. Most accidents happen in the workplace!”

  The Gamorrean behind him lunged. Orrin twisted and fat fingers raked at his back. But the movement only brought Orrin into Jorrk’s reach. “Fryfryfry!”

  “No!” Orrin wrested free from the Klatooinian and fell toward the wooden platform. His chest slammed against the tile floor. He tried to wriggle forward, but Jorrk grabbed at his feet. Writhing, the farmer rolled over—and at that instant, he heard a metallic snap. A dark metal shape appeared above the heads of his attackers.

  Klaaang! The heavy metal cage from the rafters crashed down, pummeling one of the advancing Gamorreans, caroming off the green brute, and knocking Jorrk off his feet. Startled, another of the Gamorreans stumbled backward and landed on Mosep. The accountant howled in pain.

  Boopa pointed up into the dome: a square opening now existed in the mesh where the metal prison had been. Still on his back, Orrin saw what Boopa saw: a tan-clad figure high in the lofty shadows, clinging to what remained of the chain.

  “Somebody’s up there!” the Gossam shouted. “Blast him!”

  Forgetting the farmer, Boopa started shooting upward. Jorrk joined him, and then two more guards entered from the hallway, blasters raised. Orrin took a quick look at the figure above; whoever was up there was now in spectacular motion, using the cage’s severed lifting chain to bounce from wall to wall. Orrin couldn’t wait any longer. On his hands and knees, he quickly scuttled up the platform and behind the desk.

  Orrin instantly realized that
the Nimbanel’s desk was in the safest place in the room. All the gun-toting thugs were firing upward, through the gap and the meshwork. And while the shots seemingly had no effect on the impossibly nimble intruder, they did get the attention of the dozen or so Kayven whistlers in the dome. Annoyed by the blasterfire, the meter-long reptilian fliers soared downward, swooping through the opening toward anything moving.

  “Yaaaghh!” Jorrk yelled as a whistler latched onto his shoulder and bit. The Gamorreans were squealing, trying to fend off attacking fliers with their axes.

  “The door!” Boopa yelled, cowering behind a statue. “Open the doors to the street!”

  “Only Jabba’s sled triggers the door!” came a response from somewhere in the room.

  Orrin hid under the desk. Now and again, the terrified farmer heard a fleshy thud nearby. He peeked out to search for a weapon but could find only credits, scattered on the floor around him.

  “Close the blast door,” someone yelled. “They’ll get into the house!”

  But Orrin did not hear a door being moved. All he heard were screams, the thunder of feet, and the high-pitched whistles of Kayven predators that had evidently gone off their diets. The ruckus finally faded when the parties involved took the fray into the rest of the residence.

  The room fell silent. Orrin cowered beneath the desk, which had twisted sideways in the bustle. Before he could emerge, however, he saw Boopa creeping out from behind a bronze statue. Wary and frazzled, the Gossam looked up and around. Spying Orrin, he pulled a blaster from one of his holsters.

  “I didn’t do this!” Orrin yelled.

  “I’m sure you didn’t, water man. But somebody’s gonna suffer for this,” Boopa said, climbing the platform. He pointed the blaster down at Orrin, underneath the desk.

  Orrin felt the sudden thump of boots on the desktop above him, out of his sight. He saw Boopa looking up, astonished.

  “You?” Boopa yelled. “I’ve seen you before!” Orrin saw the Gossam raise his blaster—

  —and vanish. Boopa rocketed off his feet and flew toward the far wall. He slammed headfirst into the pourstone surface, and then his limp frame dropped to the floor, like an insect falling off a windshield.