by Renee Ahdieh
That’s insane, says the Muftak. How could anything so beautiful be a burden? You have a gift. A true gift. Had I any sort of talent, for anything, I—
A blaster cry breaks the din of Chalmun’s Cantina, and Greedo, in a booth with Han Solo, slumps over, smoldering, dead. Everyone turns to stare, except for Djas Puhr, who stares at the Muftak. He smiles.
The Muftak scratches his head. With Greedo, Evazan, and Ponda Baba out of the picture…
You are out a fortune, he clicks at Djas Puhr. Djas Puhr shrugs. Why are you smiling? You’ve lost the bet and now owe…owe…owe all of us at least something. I know you do well as a tracker, but none of us do that well.
Djas Puhr reaches beneath the table and, from behind his legs, brings up the Kloo horn of Lirin D’avi, who gave it to his son Lirin Car’n, who lost it to Myo, who lost it to the Muftak, who lost it to Kabe, who sold it to a Scrapper, who sold it to him. He places it on the table and everyone shuts up for a second.
“Now that,” says Myo, “is a funny joke.”
—
Night: The knot of the days’ events wound and unwound themselves around the necks of many. Some escaped, some did not, and still yet others wanted only to get home in one piece. The Muftak sits at the bar, drinking, each gulp a relief, each sip sweeter and savored more than the last. He finds himself filled with a romance and sentiment toward everything on this particular night; the Muftak, having found himself in love with the entire world, keeps drinking.
Fortune eventually smiled upon him some, at least a little bit, at the sabacc table with his friends. He’s put aside about half of what the Muftak and Kabe owe to Chalmun to stay in the pipes and is imbibing the rest, raising glass after glass to the prospect of living to see another day. Nothing tastes as good as the drink Kabe gave him in the bar that afternoon, but the Muftak intends to keep tasting until he finds its equal.
When he almost falls off the stool, the Muftak gets cut off. As he rises and staggers in the first of many unstable, uncertain steps toward home, he finds himself supported by Lirin Car’n, who escorts him—with great care, with great concern—toward where he’ll sleep, in the tunnels below their feet, dreaming endless dreams of all tomorrow’s scores, each one more certain than the last to be the one that turns it all around.
It turns out that, sometimes, friends take care of one another, even in a place like Mos Eisley, and that makes all the difference in the world.
Jabba had said to meet him at Docking Bay 94. Told me it was a collection job and he needed some insurance. One look at the duds he dragged along confirmed this. Not a pro in the lot. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the whispers of surprise when I walked onto the scene. That’s right, boys. Fett’s here. Do me a favor and fall to the side after you’re hit. I really don’t want to trip over your idiot corpses once the shooting starts. Sorry, if the shooting starts. No reason to get excited yet.
Okay, Wook. There are two ways this is going down. One, we have a nice little chat, Jabba gets his money from Solo, and we all leave happy. Two, someone gets anxious, zip zip, Jabba’s rid one deadbeat, and I get a new scalp for my collection. No guesses which one I prefer.
Originally, I wasn’t supposed to be a part of this. That’s what I get, I guess, sticking around Tatooine to snag some Imperial coin. I was supposed to be off this dust ball yesterday, but I picked up trooper buzz that Vader was looking for a couple of runaway droids. Figured I’d collect the bounty and square myself with the headman at the same time. He’s still got a mad on over those rebel spies I crisped on Coruscant. Idiots came at me with ion disruptors. What, they thought I wouldn’t carry a weapon accelerator? Flash, boom, three tiny ash piles. Tried to collect and Lord “No Disintegrations!” refused to pay without bodies. My word’s not good enough, apparently. Reckoned I’d make up the loss by finding his droids and holding out for twice the reward.
No go on that. Trailed one until its footprints were wiped out by a Jawa sandcrawler. Followed those treads a way until I found someone had wiped out the Jawas, too. “Someone” meaning amateurs trying to fake a Tusken raid. Probably stormtroopers, judging by the random blast shots. Some might call them precise. Me, I say they can’t hit the butt end of a bantha. At least they had brains enough to take out everyone who had seen the droids. Hard luck on the sizzled hicks I found at that torched moisture farm. Had a look-see and discovered there were three settlers living there, not two. Betting the third ran with the droids. I’ll hunt around after I’m done here. Vader may triple the bounty if I bring him the fugitive along with the droids. Yeah, I know, intact corpse, “no disintegrations.”
Till then, here I stand, adding some credibility to the collection of bums and bugs Jabba calls muscle. Figures he’d want us to shake down Solo, the biggest loser in the galaxy. I could just pop him for target practice, but I never work for free.
Twerp? You’re really gonna call me that, Solo? Back it up with your blaster, Wook-hugger. I’ll twerp your guts all over that sorry heap of junk you call a ship. Easy, Furball. Paws where I can see them. No one’s throwing down just yet. Still, if you want to start something, sure, I can shift my gun a little, move the braids where you can see them…there you go. You like that? Take a good look. Friends of yours, maybe? Family? Smart critter. No reaction. Play it cool.
Meanwhile Solo plays for time. Same old song and dance. “I’ll pay you tomorrow for a charter I’m taking today.” Garbage. He’ll run at the first chance, and I’ll chase him down. Fine by me. The more I work, the more I’ll make Jabba pay for the pirate’s head.
Not that I really have anything against the big slug—his money is just as good as anyone’s, and better than most. But business is business, and we both know to press the advantage when we have it. Mama Fett didn’t raise any fools. Strictly speaking, my mama was a birthing pod, but you get the point.
Still, I can’t help but think Jabba considers me the closest thing he has to a friend. Well, closer anyway than that creepy suck-up Fortuna and that shrieking varmint he keeps for a pet. Some nights when the lights are down in the palace and his scum buddies are snoozing, Jabba pulls out a bottle of his really prime gardulla, kicks Rebo awake, orders him to play something low and sad, and invites me to have a few. So I take off my helmet (but never my gun) and drink as he pours. And the Hutt talks. A lot. Personal stuff, things no one else ever hears. Stories of loves lost, enemies crushed, deals brokered then broken, regrets, possibly, things that eat at his soul, if he’s got one. ’Course I don’t understand a word he says, but the drink is good and the company, considering what Jabba pays, is tolerable.
What, we’re done? Jabba actually gave Solo an extension. Unbelievable. And after Solo fried Greedo and tromped on the slug’s tail to boot. Jabba’s getting soft. Either that, or he figures Solo’s got ties to people with deeper pockets. Must be that. The Hutt can smell money, and he never misses a trick. You lead a charmed life, Solo, and I’d very much like to change that. You, too, Wook. That auburn scalp of yours will make a fine trophy. Someday. Right now Jabba just said “Boska,” and when the boss says boska, we boska. As long as he’s in a generous mood, I’ll hit him up for a mug of that fine brew. After today I could use one.
Brea Tonnika couldn’t remember where she was. Not at first.
The stale stench of wine and lingering haliat perfume on her skin helped her focus on the cracked bedroom walls smeared with stains, the origins of which she didn’t want to try to guess. Still hungover, she recoiled from the noonday rays filtering through her window and let herself sink back into the hard mattress. Try as she might, she couldn’t keep out the cacophony of merchant chatter and hissing transports. Over the years, Brea and her sister had stayed in some funky places, but the best room for rent in Mos Eisley’s dusty port was only a fraction better than pitching a tent on one of Tatooine’s vast sand dunes.
The door opened, and Brea reached for the blaster on the nightstand.
“You’re finally up,” Senni Tonnika said.
B
rea and Senni Tonnika were alike in so many ways. They shared the same lean, muscular legs and braided dark hair. The same wide expressive eyes and that roguish smirk when they set their sights on a mark. But the resemblance stopped there. Sometimes, Brea wished she could charm strangers the way Senni could with just a turn of her lovely head. Senni was tall, and her hair made her appear even taller. She found power in being able to look down at nearly anyone when negotiating contracts—contracts that lately were few and far between, and fulfilling them not made easier with the arrival of Imperial troops snooping around.
Brea sat up and grabbed a robe from the floor. “Please tell me it’s not more flatbread and beans.”
Senni kicked off her boots and hooked her cloak on the back of the door. She threw the fiber bag across the small room. Two beds, a shower, and a table for their weapons. That’s all they needed.
“It’s not more beans?” Senni said, trying to keep a straight face as her twin ripped open the bag of food to find fresh loaves of flatbread.
Brea ripped off a piece and shoved it between her lips, still smeared with her favorite metallic lipstick.
“I hate this place,” she said, finally getting out of bed. She sat at the table covered with blasters and rifles. She picked up her favorite pistol—the metal was the blue of Ithorian roses.
“We could stay at the palace,” Senni said. “You know Jabba has always taken a liking to you.”
“Us,” Brea said, chewing rudely to make her sister cringe. “And simply because the word palace is in its description does not a palace make.”
“Speaking of overstuffed snot, His Royal Slug has a job.”
“What is it?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be sitting here watching you nurse your hangover.”
“I feel perfect.”
Senni threw her head back and cackled. “If it weren’t for me, you would’ve made out with a Rodian pirate last night.”
Brea grimaced, trying to recall the night. But there was only darkness. Darkness was better than the memories that threatened to push their way to the forefront of her thoughts. Blood, and guns, and jobs gone so south she wasn’t sure she’d ever recover. Memories like that didn’t have place in the present. So she did as her sister asked and showered, the water tepid and smelling of chemicals she couldn’t name.
When she was ready, she stood in front of Senni, who without speaking zipped up the back of her bodysuit. Each sister carried a pistol at her hip and a knife in her boot. They put on their cloaks and headed out into the dry, suffocating street, where it was nearly impossible not to inhale dust.
They hopped on a speeder and zoomed toward Jabba’s palace.
—
Brea and Senni watched the suns set from atop a rock formation. Tatooine might be a desert wasteland lacking in any culinary delicacies, but few things in the galaxy compared to the brilliance of its sunsets.
The Tonnika sisters stalked down the cavernous corridor that led to the dank hall where Jabba held court. The Royal Slug’s body odor was impossible to miss. Brea always pinched the bridge of her nose until she was able to stand the smells, but Senni wasn’t fazed by things like comfort. She wanted to get on with the next job, mainly because their accounts were nearly depleted and their faces were in every criminal database in the galaxy. So Senni Tonnika held her head high, her braids swishing around her broad shoulders like fringe as she walked in.
They wore different-colored suits, Brea’s blue and Senni’s acid-green, and waded through the crowds, returning the cordial nods that were thrown in their direction. Jabba was still hidden under shadow, slumbering the way he did no matter how loudly the court bustled around him.
Brea ordered two Tatooine sunsets from a waitress, ignoring her sister’s glare, and they picked an empty spot against a wall where they could watch.
“Ugh,” Brea muttered under her breath. Since they were little, they’d developed a way of speaking without many words. Brea’s dark eyes flitted across the room where Bib Fortuna stalked around the band. His bright-red eyes sent shivers down Brea’s spine.
Senni touched her sister’s shoulder but steeled her features. “Not long.”
But it was a long time before Jabba deigned to wake up, despite having been the one to call the gathering. No one questioned him. No one complained that they’d been waiting and waiting, or that the band was recycling songs it had played when they first arrived. Brea drank another tall orange-and-pink drink, smiled at a Wookiee with a great scar across his face, and watched the Twi’lek girl twirl her delicate wrists to the rhythm of the horns. It wasn’t the music that woke Jabba, but the growl of the rancor that lived in the cage beneath his throne.
Senni and Brea glanced at each other, then at the other bounty hunters in attendance. There was a moment of stillness. The Max Rebo Band was dead silent. A deep grumble echoed in the bowels of the palace, and Brea felt her heart quicken because she knew what would happen when Jabba moved his throne back and opened the hatch. She’d seen hunters and slaves of any and all species plunge into the deep dark beneath and never come out.
Instead of feeding his pet, Jabba opened the wide slit of his drooling mouth and laughed.
“Gather around, my friends,” Jabba ordered in Huttese. He turned his serpent eyes on the band and said, “Did I ask you to stop playing?”
Max set his fat blue digits to pressing the keys of his organ, and an upbeat tune played in the background as every bounty hunter present stepped closer to Jabba’s throne.
Senni stood in front of her sister, as if she could shield her with her body. She looked from side to side at the others in attendance. Among her peers, she wasn’t someone’s sister and she wasn’t some orphan. No, she was a hunter and a thief and a smuggler. She was capable of many things, even if Brea was the one whose mugshot was listed in the criminal database for murder.
Whatever this job was, Senni would do it because they needed to get far away where they wouldn’t be recognized and their names wouldn’t be flagged on scans. They could get off this world and have what passed as a normal life. For that, they needed credits. Lots of them, and only Jabba offered that kind of currency.
“As many of you know,” Jabba began in his guttural voice, “Han Solo lost my cargo. He has ignored my summons. I want him brought to me. My sources tell me he is seeking to get offplanet as soon as he can. Whoever brings Solo to me, alive, will be rewarded.”
There was a bevy of murmurs. A dark-haired hunter wearing a black jacket looked at Brea and then at Senni. But the sisters kept quiet and waited. The scar-faced Wookiee stepped forward. The sisters didn’t understand his wailing speech, but whatever he said made Jabba laugh again.
Brea watched the Royal Slug throw his slimy head back, his tail wiggling happily, and she wondered if he ever stopped laughing. She shifted beneath the nervous ripple in the crowd, because she knew what would come next.
Senni grabbed her sister’s hand and they took a step back. The latch opened beneath the Wookiee’s feet, and his scream was the flat note of a horn.
“Bring me Solo,” Jabba said when the Wookiee’s cry died down, and then there were only the jingling tunes of the band, and the crunching of bone between the rancor’s teeth.
—
Brea and Senni discussed the job over and over again through the night and into the next morning.
“I say he won’t come with us,” Brea said.
“He can’t still be mad about the Lando ordeal. It was his idea.”
Brea wanted to correct her sister. There were many things that had happened between them and the cocky smuggler. Maybe not friendship, but there was history. When Jabba put out a prize like that, he was pitting a whole lot of rancors against one another. Why shouldn’t the sisters be the ones to come out triumphant?
“It doesn’t matter,” Brea said. “Solo is going to take one look at us and bolt. He won’t come willingly.”
“Then we won’t take him willingly.” Senni licked her lips coquettishly.
/>
“Have you forgotten his Wookiee bodyguard? Senni, it’s Han. If he’s got any brains in that thick skull of his, he’s already fixing to run. We’ll find another job.”
Senni crossed her arms and scoffed stubbornly. “Oh, yeah? When?”
“I don’t know, but—”
“But nothing. When did you go soft for Solo, anyway? You’ve been cursing his name across the galaxy for years. We need a fast ship and to get that we need credits. Someone is going to bring him in. Why shouldn’t it be us?”
“I get it,” Brea said, her brow furrowed. She was surprised at Senni. “I have a debt to pay Solo, but I’ve never been brave enough to go through with it. After all, he was responsible for my greatest humiliation, and that I’ll never, ever forget.”
Senni was startled by her own thoughtless. How could she have mistaken her sister’s hesitation for concern? “It’s your call. This could be our chance to have what we’ve always wanted.”
In their cramped room in the heart of Mos Eisley, Brea and Senni Tonnika faced each other from the edges of their twin beds. What we’ve always wanted. Freedom. Peace. Life. Everyone knew how people like them ended up—blown up, in prison, or on the wrong end of a blaster.
Then Brea made that face she always made when she was up to no good. Because they could have it all. The freedom and the peace of mind. All of it.
“I have a better idea,” she told Senni who quirked a single brow.
“This isn’t like the time we broke into House Organa’s palace to lift the royal jewels and had to hide in a dumpster for two nights, is it?”
Brea rolled her eyes. “For the last time, I got a bad tip. How was I supposed to know the housemaids don’t wear orange?”
“Or the time—”
“Enough,” Brea said, and this time her sister listened. “We can have it all—the ship, the credits, and we won’t get our limbs ripped off in the process.”
“How?”
“Let’s steal the Falcon.”