Star Wars: Tales from Mos Eisley Cantina

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Figrin, ihss it?” The bulbous scent organ between Kodu’s faceted eyes twitched.

  “Not quite,” I mumbled.

  “Oh, Doikk. Hssorry.” At least he knew my voice. “Information for hssale. Want to find Figrin?”

  I glanced toward Figrin’s glimmering holographic sabacc table. Our leader hunched crookedly over his cards, feigning intoxication. Not a good time to interrupt. (Who made Doikk Na’ts the band manager? I wondered.)

  Kodu pushed closer. “I don’t want to hsstay,” he hissed. “Do you want to buy? You’d hbetter.” He smiled smugly.

  “Ten,” I offered. Figrin would cover that, if the news was worth hearing. Thwim watched the Uvide wheel studiously. His prehensile nose quivered as a cluster of Jawas hurried by, jabbering rapidly.

  “A hhundred,” Kodu answered without hesitation. Within three minutes we’d settled on thirty-five. He aligned his cred card with mine and we effected the transfer.

  “Jabba.” Kodu clicked his fingerclaws. “He’ss angry”

  “Angry?” I glanced around. “Who, this time? Why?”

  “You hsskipped out on your contract.”

  My stomachs knotted around each other. “We got another band to cover for us! Not as good as we are, but—”

  “Jabba notissed.”

  It was the worst compliment imaginable. Who’d have guessed the big slug paid attention? “What’d he do?”

  Kodu shrugged. “Fed two guardss to the rancor and promissed …” He shrugged again, skinny shoulders rising along his brown neck.

  Promised to pay well if someone hauled us back to the palace. Good-bye, IFM retirement home. “Thanks, Kodu.” I tried to sound as if I meant it. I’d left a sentimental mother at the bubbling pink swamps of Clak’dor VII. She missed her musical son.

  Kodu touched his blaster. “Good-bye, Doikk. Good luck.”

  Luck. Right. Either we slipped out of Jabba’s range fast, in which case Kodu wouldn’t see me again, or …

  I weaseled through the crowd to Figrin’s table. Fortunately, Figrin had just lost big-time. A Duro shuffled the sabacc deck, scattering and regathering card-tiles with a deft gray hand. I tugged Figrin’s collar. “Finish up. Bad news.”

  He excused himself droopily and arose. It takes twice as long to cross a room when you’re looking over your shoulder every other step. Jabba pays well for mayhem.

  We found an empty spot at the bar. “What?” Figrin’s eyes seemed to have shrunk: spicing already, or faking it well.

  I dropped the news on him. “We’ve got our instruments and two changes of clothes,” I finished.

  “But I’m losing. I’m behind.”

  I flicked my mouth folds. We would also need this gig money to buy food till we could get another job— or Jabba recovered from his temper. I explained that to Figrin.

  Barlight reflections wobbled back and forth on his head as he shook it. “We’ll get offplanet,” he said.

  “What about your … stash, back at Jabba’s?”

  “Nothing irreplaceable. We’ll leave tomorrow afternoon, after the wedding. I’m ready for bigger crowds again.”

  I agreed. “Even if gigs aren’t so regular, out there in the competition.” We’ve always had a following, but you can’t eat “esoteric.”

  “Richer tables, too,” he added, gilding his voice. “Somebody’d better stay awake tonight. Did I hear you volunteer?”

  So the spicing act was just that … an act. “I’ll take the first shift,” I said.

  Our band set up bleary-eyed the next morning in the Star Chamber Cafe. After breakfast, wedding guests started prancing, oozing, and staggering into the Lucky Despot’s lounge. Waiting in the cafe, we tuned. I tried to imagine a Whiphid wedding (Did they osculate, lock tusks, or shout battle cries at the climactic moment?). I’d spotted two turbolifts, a kitchen entry, the main entry, and a small circular hatch that must’ve once been an emergency airlock. My caped, long-snouted friend Thwim staunchly held up one end of the bar. Around ten banqueting tables, Lady Val’s staff laid out food, programmed bartend droids, and hung garlands, making the Star Chamber as classy as it could be, given its state of disrepair.

  Beyond the big tables lay a dozen little ones. I could almost feel Figrin’s mouth folds twitch, anticipating a wealthy crowd in the mood to celebrate.

  A red-raucous cheer erupted in the lounge. “They must be married,” Figrin mumbled. Beings streamed out into the cafe. Figrin swung into our opening number. Before we finished, I’d started to sweat … and not from the heat. Several of Jabba’s toughs had ridden the wave of that stream into the cafe. Were they invited guests? Or had Jabba set us up a one-way trip to the Great Pit of Carkoon?

  One more time, I looked around at Valarian’s security. Eefive-tootoo stood beside her back hatch, gleaming new blasters and needlers retrofitted for the occasion … and a shiny new restraining bolt dead center on his massive chest. Evidently she only trusted droids so far.

  A young human tottered up to our stage, wearing clean, unpatched clothing and a slouch. “Play ‘Tears of Aquanna.’ ” He tugged Figrin’s pant leg where it gathered above his boot. Figrin pulled his leg free. The human repeated his request, then headed toward me.

  I didn’t want my pants stretched. “Got it,” I said toward him, then took a fast breath and hit my E flat entrance.

  How were we to know that a local gang had adopted one of our numbers as their official song? The slouch and several friends huddled at the foot of our stage and caterwauled lyrics they’d obviously invented.

  Several other humans lurched toward the stage, glaring. I elbowed Figrin. He took an unorthodox cut to the coda. We finished playing before the gang finished singing. Several of them glowered.

  One newcomer, a darkly tanned female, shoved a nonsinging bystander aside. “Now play ‘Worm Case,’ ” she growled in a voice that matched the shade of her skin. “For Fixer and Camie.”

  “Got it,” said Figrin. I have a six-bar intro into “Worm Case.” I cut it to four.

  When you’ve played a piece six hundred times from memory, you lose track of where you are during the six hundred and first. This time through, it became a crazy game of cut-and-patch. I don’t remember having so much fun with that moldy jump tune. This group didn’t try to sing.

  Thwim and another security guard accompanied both gangs away. I rechecked Jabba’s toughs. They’d gathered near the bar, just killing time … for now.

  At the end of that set, Figrin headed for a sabacc table. I lingered onstage, up out of the congealing smokes and odors.

  One of the ugliest humans I’d ever met, with a diagonal sneer for a mouth, sauntered over carrying two mugs. “You dry?” he asked in a surly black tone. “This one’s lum, that one’s wedding punch.”

  “Thanks.” Despite my distaste, I seized the mug of punch and put down half of it.

  “You’re welcome.” My plug-ugly sat down on one edge of the reflective bandstand, then stared out over the crowd. Not wanting to turn his back. Probably a native. I wondered if he’d consider it polite to ask his name, or if he’d take a swing at me. “Good band,” he muttered. “What’re you doing on Tatooine?”

  I set down my mug beside the Ommni. “Good question,” I said stiffly. “We’ve played the best palladiums in six systems.”

  “I believe it. You’re excellent. But you haven’t answered my question.”

  I began to warm toward him. “You’re looking at it.” I nodded down toward Figrin’s gaming table. “We were passing through and got stuck. You work around here?”

  “Yah.” Sounding blue-gray, he picked up my mug. “I tend bar up the street. Rough living, but somebody’s gotta keep the droids from taking over.”

  I hissed softly in a range humans find inaudible. Droids improve life. I was getting ready to remind him when he said “Keep your reed wet, my friend,” and hustled away.

  Was he one of the rare, approachable types? Had that been a warning? I looked for Thwim by his green cape and twitchin
g snout, but I couldn’t spot either.

  Soon Figrin rejoined us on the bandstand. “Losing?” I murmured as he plugged in his horn.

  “Naturally. Give me an A.” We swung back to work. At the table just below us, something changed hands with infinitesimal, micron-per-minute movements: a normal Mos Eisley business deal.

  Something else—something huge—lumbered into view. Two gargantuan Whiphids—two and a half meters of tusk and claw and pale yellow fur, lashed together with a garland of imported greenery—danced toward our stage with their long furry arms draped around each other. I stood on a platform, but their heads towered over mine.

  D’Wopp stared rapturously into the broad, leathery, tusk-bottomed face of his bride. Without seeing the surreptitious traders already occupying the closest table, the Despot’s owner and her professional hunter sank onto empty chairs. They started untwisting greenery.

  I held my head at an angle that made it look as if I were staring out over the dance floor, but actually, I was watching one of Jabba’s toughs, an anemic, gray-skinned Duro, glide in our direction … alone.

  A trio of Pappfaks twirled past, entwining their turquoise tentacles in something that looked like a prenuptial embrace of their own. They nearly tripped over a mouse droid wheeling toward Lady Val. Seeing the droid, our hostess bride excused herself from D’Wopp with a fond pat of his lumpy head. She followed the droid toward her kitchens.

  The Duro’s red eyes lit. He edged along the dance floor, approached D’Wopp, paused, and bowed. “Gooood hunting, Whiphid?” Jabba’s Duro shouted, gargling through rubbery lips. He extended a thin, knobby hand.

  D’Wopp’s massive paw closed on the Duro’s arm, dangling a ribbon of leaves. “Explain that remark, Duro, or I shall serve your roasted ribs to my lady for breakfast.”

  “No-o, no-o.” The Duro rocked his head, cringing. “I do not signify your lo-ovely mate. I am addressing D’Wopp, bounty hunter of great r-repute, am I not?”

  Placated, D’Wopp released the gray arm. “I am he.” He tilted his head back. “Is there someone you want splashed, Duro?”

  I breathed a little easier, too. Playing by memory means occasional boredom and backflashes, but sometimes it saves your neck. I kept listening and playing.

  “Has the lovely br-ride offered any game yet?” asked the Duro.

  D’Wopp flicked one tusk with a foreclaw. “What is your point?”

  I strained to hear the Duro answer. “There is a big-ger-r boss on Tatooine, excellent one. Lady Valarian pays him protection money. A Whiphid who truly looves the hunt doesn’t settle for small bait. My employer just offered a r-record bounty. You’re probably not looking for work at the moment, but opportunities like this come r-rarely.”

  So the toughs were baiting Lady Val through her bridegroom—and not us! Goggle-eyed, I hit a string of offbeats and reminded myself that Jabba had plenty of time to come for us.

  D’Wopp clenched his paws over the table. “Bounty? Is it a fierce bait?”

  The Duro shrugged. “His name is Solo. Small-time smuggler-r, but he made the boss big-time mad. Jabba has man-ny more enemies than Lady Valarian has, reputable D’Wopp.” The Duro’s red eyes blinked. “May I sponsor-r you to the mighty Jabba?”

  The Whiphid’s leathery nose twitched. “Record bounty?”

  At last the Duro dropped his voice. I missed the numbers that clinched the deal, but D’Wopp sprang up. “Tell your employer that D’Wopp will bring in the corpse. I shall meet him then.”

  Solo … Figrin had mentioned him as a tolerable sabacc player, for a human. Now he was my fellow bait on Jabba’s short list. The Duro whined, “Ar-ren’t you staying for the celebration?”

  “Later,” said D’Wopp. “My mate and I shall celebrate my glorious return. She is Whiphid. She will understand.”

  Lady Val reappeared out of the crowd. Jabba’s Duro melted back into it like an ice cube on a sand dune. I held my breath. Figrin counted off another song, one I didn’t know so well. I had to concentrate. Something rumbled at the foot of the stage. A deep voice shouted “fickle” in Basic. A gruffer one called “dishonorable.”

  My reed squeaked. Two bellows boomed out in an unidentifiable language. Our loving couple attacked each other tusk and claw, right below the bandstand. I stepped back and almost tripped over Tech’s Ommni. Figrin missed tipping the Fanfar by millimeters.

  A crowd gathered instantly. Mos Eisley being what it is, and with Jabba’s brutes cheerleading, this brawl would spread like a sandstorm. I took advantage of a five-beat rest and blurted out the danger signal. “Sundown. Sundown, Figrin.”

  “I’m still losing,” Figrin hissed. “We can’t leave yet.”

  At the foot of stage left, Lady Val careened sideways into a knot of onlookers. Regaining her balance, she dragged three of them back into the multicolored melee. D’Wopp whistled twice. Two young Whiphids charged in. Jabba’s toughs stampeded their side of the onlookers from behind. Lady Val shrieked. Every offplanet gangster in town, and every passerby who’d had too much of Jabba, rushed in on Lady Val’s side. Chairs flew. One crashed into the bulkhead, offstage left.

  Figrin bent over the Ommni. “End of set, thank you very much,” he announced vainly over the bedlam. Tech, wide awake for once, broke down the Ommni. I couldn’t find my Fizzz case. Glancing frantically around, I spotted white armor at the grand entry.

  Stormtroopers? Not even Valarian could’ve called in Enforcement that quickly! All sabacc projectors shut down simultaneously, but the gang at the uvide table got caught with its wheel spinning. Just this once, I guessed, Jabba hadn’t tipped off Lady Val. I’d’ve even bet that he sent the stormtroopers himself, but I don’t gamble.

  “Back door!” Figrin leaped off one end of the stage, barely missing a bulky human’s murderous backswing. We followed Figrin along the bulkhead, clutching our instruments—our livelihood. I spotted my new friend Thwim bashing heads. “Help us! We’re unarmed!” I shouted.

  His nose swiveled toward us. He leveled his blaster into the midst of us and fired. Tedn shrieked and dropped his Fanfar case. Appalled, I ducked. “Get the instruments!” Figrin cried. Nalan dove into a scrum and emerged carrying one arm at an odd angle—and two Fanfar cases. I grabbed Tedn’s unwounded arm and pulled him closer to the hatch, mentally promising anything and everything to any deity listening, if only I could escape with my fingers unbroken and my uncased Fizzz undamaged.

  Eefive stood his post, calmly blasting every being that approached him. Figrin stopped running so suddenly that Tech almost bowled him over.

  I glanced back over my shoulder. No use heading that way. Imperial and unlicensed weapons popped off all over the Star Chamber Cafe.

  Well, I reminded myself, I’ve always had better relations with droids than with sentients. I marched straight toward Eefive.

  “Doikk!” Figrin cried. “Get back here! Get away—”

  Eefive didn’t shoot. Just as I’d figured, he still had us on his recognition circuits. “Let us out,” I pleaded. Something whizzed over my head from behind.

  “Shut the hatch behind you,” he honked.

  “Go!” I shouted at Figrin, motioning him past me.

  Figrin ducked under my arm and cranked the hatch open. I stood rearguard. As daylight appeared through the hatch, beings of all shapes and sizes charged at it. I spotted the slash-mouthed human bartender among them.

  I hesitated. If nothing else, I owed him for a sweet mug of punch. “Come on!” I shouted, then I ordered Eefive, “Don’t shoot that human.”

  Eefive may have recognized me, but he didn’t take my orders. He pointed his needier straight at the bartender. Plug-ugly dropped to the floor, surprisingly agile for such a big human. “High register,” he cried. “Do a slide!”

  It sounded crazy, but I raised my uncased Fizzz and let out a squeal, pushing it higher with all the breath I could muster. Somewhere along the squeal, I must’ve hit the control frequency for that brand-new restraining bolt. The droid shut down.<
br />
  The barman sprang up and rushed past me. We squeezed into the airlock together. “Stinkin’ droids,” he muttered, wiping blood off his nose. “Stinkin’, lousy droids.”

  I emerged on a narrow duracrete ledge, three stories up. The bartender leaned back, sandwiching my Fizzz between his gray-belted bulk and a pitted bulkhead. “Careful! That’s my horn!” I cried, teetering as I glanced down. Figrin jumped off the foot of a precipitous steel escape ladder and dashed away, dodging filth and leaping sandpiles.

  An anvil-shaped Arcona head poked out the airlock. Clutching my Fizzz in one hand, I backed down the ladder. The human almost stomped my head in his hurry. “Come on,” he grumbled. “Move.” The ladder swayed from his weight. I barely held on, wishing I’d never met the guy. As more escapees piled on, the ladder’s sway became a terrifying oscillation.

  I kept dropping. Once down, I spotted another half-dozen stormtroopers trotting up the main ramp in formation.

  Another hot morning in Mos Eisley.

  Ignoring the trickle of escapees behind us, we ran. “Now what?” wailed Nalan, cradling his arm against his chest. “Without the credits from that job, how are we going to get offplanet?”

  “Three thousand credits,” Tech moaned, wagging his large, shiny head. “Three thousand credits.”

  I glanced down to examine my Fizzz. It looked undamaged. “Not only that, but Figrin gambled away our reserves, seeding the table so he’d win today. Didn’t you, Figrin?”

  The barman changed directions without even slowing down, and I almost got left. “This way,” he called.

  “We can’t pay you for a bolt hole.” I hustled to catch up. “Thanks, but we’re broke.”

  “This way,” he repeated. “I’ll get you a job.”

  He led us up street and down alley. I followed, thinking, I’ll do anything—shovel sand, polish bantha saddles—but I won’t work for humans!

  But his boss wasn’t human. The cantina owner, a beige and gray Wookiee named Chalmun, offered us a two-season contract.

  No, I thought across the Wookiee’s office at Figrin. It’s too public, and that’s too long. Jabba will find us for sure.