Star Wars: Tales from Mos Eisley Cantina

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Peering carefully over the top of the wall, he saw a man in the distinctive green uniform of an Imperial spice inspector emerge from the shadows and run through the crowded thoroughfare. More laser shots echoed, and the crowd began to rapidly disperse into the surrounding alleys and gambling saloons.

  Greedo saw bright bolts of energy smashing off buildings and vehicles. The running man was hit and went down, not three meters from Greedo’s hiding place.

  Two imposing figures stepped out of the shadows onto the brightly lit concourse. With deliberate steps they approached the fallen man.

  The larger of the two figures, who was dressed in a rusted skull-shaped helmet and full Ithullan armor, nudged the victim with his boot. “He’s dead, Goa.”

  The shorter figure bent over to inspect the victim, and Greedo got a glimpse of a mottled brown wide-beaked face squatting on a disarrangement of leather and iron and bandoleers. “Too bad, Dyyz,” said the short one. “I only tried to wing him. He was worth twice as much alive.”

  Bounty hunters, thought Greedo. They’ve taken their prey … now they’ll be collecting the reward. I’ll bet it’s a lot. I’ll bet they’re rich.

  The big one, whom the other called Dyyz, bent over and picked up the dead spice inspector and slung him easily over his shoulder. “All in a day’s work, hey, Goa? I gave this scum a bribe or two myself, over the years … but when the Imps put a man on the bounty roster, there’s only one way to go! Let’s bag and stash him and go for a drink.”

  “Fine with me. I’m thirsty as a Tatooine farmboy.”

  Greedo noticed for the first time that the one called Goa had an oversized blaster rifle slung on his back. He’d never seen a blaster that large. It was cased in scrolled black metal and layered with tubing and electronics. A custom job, Greedo thought. Look at the sights on that thing! I’ll bet that’s one bounty hunter who always gets his man.

  Greedo expected the two bounty hunters to disappear back the way they came, but instead they walked straight toward him.

  The closer they got to the retaining wall, the more frightening their appearance became. The big one, Dyyz, wore a corroded parasteel helmet that covered his entire head. The face mask—narrow eyeslits in a stylized death’s-head—communicated deadly, inexorable threat. This one wore the armor of the extinct Ithullan race—Greedo knew the warlike Ithulls had been wiped out hundreds of years ago, their civilization crushed and annihilated by another, equally warlike race, the Mandalore. From the looks of his armor, thought Greedo, he must have stolen it from an Imperial museum!

  The other bounty hunter, Goa, was outfitted in a hodgepodge of gear that suggested he never changed it or took it off—he had simply added new pieces over the worn-out ones, until he became a walking collection of military costuming and equipment.

  The most fascinating aspect of Goa was his head: obviously an intelligent species of bird—or descended from birds. Mottled brown leathery skin, featherless, with tiny intense eyes buried behind a broad scarred beak.

  Dyyz and Goa reached the retaining wall and Greedo ducked down. The next thing Greedo heard was a third voice, rasping and cruel:

  “Well, well, if it ain’t Dyyz Nataz and Warhog Goa—where ya been, boys? You should know better’n ta stiff an’ old friend!”

  “Ease up, Gorm. You’ll get your share. Fact is, Warhog and me are takin’ in this blacklisted spice inspector. The Imps’ll pay us plenty and we’ll be more than happy to cut you in on the deal!”

  “Hell we will, Dyyz.” That was Goa’s voice. “There’s two of us and one of Gorm. He can wait for the credits we owe him.”

  “One of me is worth six of you cage cleaners—”

  Blaster fire spanged and red bolts of energy shot over Greedo’s head. He ducked lower and the sounds of a fierce struggle came to his ears. Suddenly Goa’s big blaster rifle came flying over the wall and clattered on the pavement next to Greedo.

  As he impulsively reached out to touch the weapon, Greedo heard the one called Gorm directing the one called Dyyz to hand over the body of the spice inspector. “Give ’im up … and I’ll let ya live another day—”

  Finding the courage to again peer over the wall, Greedo saw a most awesome figure, two heads higher than Dyyz Nataz, clothed in heavy plated armor and full helmet. The eyes of the face mask were glowing red electronics. Must be a droid, Greedo thought. I’ve heard of renegade assassin droids taking up the bounty trade. Or maybe it isn’t a droid …

  Greedo suddenly had an idea. Taking the huge blaster rifle in trembling suckers, Greedo hefted the weapon as quietly as he could into firing position. He checked for a safety switch—found it and armed the gun.

  Then, surreptitious as Uncle Nok waiting for a Manka cat, he hoisted the nose of the rifle over the edge of the retaining wall. It pointed straight at the back of Gorm.

  Greedo saw Goa’s eyes go to the rifle and then flick away. Greedo squeezed the trigger.

  The weapon whistled and roared and the bounty hunter called Gorm toppled forward with a grunt, a blackened blaster hole in the center of his back.

  As Greedo stood up, Goa emitted a maniacal cackling noise and lunged for the rifle. But Greedo swung the barrel at Goa’s head.

  “Whoa, kid! Easy there! That’s a hair-trigger yer pinching!”

  Dyyz snorted and laughed. “Thanks, kid. You saved our skin. We’re eternally in your debt. Now if you’ll just give my partner back his weapon, we’ll be on our way.”

  Greedo clambered carefully over the wall, keeping the blaster rifle trained on Goa. Moving closer to the prone figure of Gorm, he looked into the hole he’d made in the big bounty hunter’s back. Fused wires, exploded electronics. “Is he a droid?” asked Greedo.

  “You might say that,” said Goa. “Now about the gun—how about we cut you in on the reward for this inspector? You’ve earned it.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Greedo. “I think I can help you guys make a lot of money.”

  5. The Smuggler and the Wookiee

  “Spurch Warhog Goa?” Why do they call him Warhog?

  Anky Fremp, Greedo’s street friend, sat on the edge of a parking platform, with his short legs dangling over a miles-deep city canyon. Anky was a Sionian Skup, a near-human race with small closely spaced eyes, hair as brittle as glass, and skin the color of dianoga cheese. Anky pitched one bottle after another into the abyss.

  The distance from the spaceport’s highest tower to the surface of the Nar Shaddaa moon was so great, they never heard the bottles hit. But sometimes the bottles collided with a cab or freighter repulsing up the shaft, and that was fun.

  “What you doin’ that for?” Greedo said with disdain. “That’s the kind of stupid game my kid brother plays. If Corellian Port Control catches ya, we can be conscripted to work on an ore hauler.”

  “Yeah … you’re right. I’m gettin’ too old for this stuff. Oh well, there goes the last one.”

  A hangar scow emerged into the shaft seven levels down, and Fremp’s missile hit the scow pilot square on his protective helmet. The man looked up, screaming, and shook his fist.

  When the scow lifted rapidly toward them, Greedo and Fremp decided they’d been edge-sitting long enough, and began walking fast toward Ninx’s garage—one of their favorite hangouts.

  “Okay, so tell me the deal, Greedo. These bounty hunters you met are going to make you rich?”

  “Yeah, I told ’em about the Rebels runnin’ guns through Level 88. The Empire pays a big bounty for that kind of information. Dyyz and Warhog said they’d cut me in on the take.”

  “Wow. Will ya share it with me?”

  Greedo sounded superior. “Yeah … I’ll throw a few credits your way, Fremp. But most of it I’m going to use to buy me my own ship. Ninx has got a cute little Incom corsair he’ll let me have for fourteen thousand. All she needs is new power couplings.”

  “That’s nothing. We can steal the couplings!”

  “Right. I can steal the power couplings.” Greedo gave his
eager friend the Rodian’s version of a condescending look, as they arrived at the secret door to Ninx’s garage. Fremp doesn’t need to think any part of my new ship is going to belong to him.

  Shug Ninx’s assistant was an ambidextrous Corellian hyperdrive mechanic named Warb. Warb recognized the two youths on the entry monitor.

  “Hey, Anky … Greedo. Got any hot therm pumps for me today?”

  “Sorry, Warb. Tomorrow we’ll have something.”

  “Okay, see ya tomorrow. Shug ain’t around and I’m busy.”

  “I want to show Anky that little Incom corsair I’m going to buy.”

  “Hmmm … okay. C’mon in. But if any tools show up missin’ I’m gonna know who to vaporize.”

  Warb buzzed them into Ninx’s garage and went back to work helping a smuggler overhaul the lightdrive on a beat-up YT-1300 freighter he’d won in a sabacc game.

  The cavernous repair shop was a confusion of dismembered ships and the greasy clutter of a lifetime—parts everywhere, whole assemblies hanging from lifts and cradles—and bright flashes of ion flow welding from technician droids working high on scaffolding surrounding a massive Kuat Starjammer-IZX fast freight hauler that seemed to take up half the garage.

  Greedo and Anky wandered through a maze of packing crates to where the Incom Corsair sat on her landing skids, gleaming like an Arkanian jewel. She looked almost new!

  “There she is,” said Greedo proudly. “I’m going to call her The Manka Hunter. Nice, huh?”

  Anky gulped. “Only fourteen thousand credits for this? I don’t believe it! Shug’s probably going to substitute some broken-down clunker once he’s got the money.”

  “Not my pal Shug. He knows I’m going to be a bounty hunter. He knows a bounty hunter has to have a good ship.”

  “You’re going to be a bounty hunter?”

  Greedo puffed out his chest. “Yeah. My friend Warhog Goa said he’d teach me the trade. He said some of the best bounty hunters are Rodians.”

  Anky became an instant believer. “Do you think he’d teach me to be a bounty hunter, too?”

  Greedo hooted. “I don’t think the Skups were ever known to do much in the way of bounty killing.”

  Anky looked crestfallen. The Sionan home world was noted mostly for the master thieves it had produced.

  “Come on, Anky. Let’s look at the inside of my ship.”

  But the Corsair’s hatch was locked. Since Shug wasn’t around, they’d have to ask Warb to unlock it. They made their way back through the packing crates and clutter and headed toward the YT-1300 where Warb and the smuggler were working. They were almost to the freighter when Greedo spotted a pair of Dekk-6 power couplings sitting on a workbench, next to Shug’s milling machine.

  Greedo knew right away they were Dekks. Dekk-6’s were the best. Modog couplings used to be the best, but starship technology was advancing very rapidly, thanks to the Empire and its insatiable military needs.

  Fremp spotted the Dekks too, and both youths stopped to admire the gleaming components. A pair of Dekk-6’s could cost twenty thousand credits—that’s how advanced they were.

  “I’ll bet Warb is planning to put these in that junk heap he’s workin’ on,” said Greedo. “He’s going to have to mill the casings, to fit the converter flanges on that old freighter.”

  “These are just what we need for your new Corsair,” said Anky, fingering the expensive hardware. “They’ll drop right in.”

  Yes. Greedo had already felt an impulse to steal the Dekks. They were brand-new, they were beyond beautiful, and he would never find their like stripping Hutt caravels.

  A bounty hunter needs a fast ship. My ship will be the best. I will replace every part of my ship with the most advanced components I can buy or steal. No one will outrun The Manka Hunter.

  Greedo looked around casually and scanned the garage. Warb and the smuggler were floating a heavy power cell up the gangway of the YT-1300. They disappeared through the hatch.

  No one was watching.

  Greedo slipped off his rancor-skin jacket and wrapped it around the fist-sized couplings.

  “Come on, Anky. Let’s go. I gotta meet Goa in twenty minutes.”

  “Right. Let’s go.”

  Suddenly Greedo felt powerful shaggy paws grip him around the waist and hoist him into the air. He dropped the skin jacket as he kicked and struggled, and the Dekk couplings clattered onto the floor.

  “HNUUAARRN!”

  “Te kalya skrek, grulla woska!” Put me down, ya hairy heap!

  The Wookiee turned Greedo with his paws so he could look into the snouted green face. “NNHNGRRAAAGH!” Greedo saw bared teeth and angry eyes, and he wilted. Anky Fremp was already heading for the door.

  “What’s goin’ on, Chewie?” The tall Corellian smuggler appeared, with Warb at his side. The smuggler had his right hand on a holstered blaster.

  “HNNRRNAWWN.” The Wookiee’s groans were just terrifying noise to the youth, but the smuggler seemed to understand them perfectly.

  “Stealing our Dekk-6’s, huh? Great. What kind of shop you guys running, Warb? Do you know what I had to pay for these Dekks?”

  “Sorry, Han. I told Shug I didn’t trust these street kids, but he took a liking to the green one … You know the rules, Greedo. I’m goin’ to have to tell Shug about this. If you know what’s good for ya, you’ll get out of here and never come back … that is, if the Wookiee don’t break yer neck first!”

  The big Wookiee was still holding the terrified Rodian a meter off the floor, as if waiting for a signal from his friend the smuggler.

  “Wait a minute,” said the smuggler. “Don’t hurt him, Chewie. I’m going to teach the little sneak a lesson … Where’d you put those burnt-out Modogs, Warb?”

  The Wookiee lowered Greedo to the floor, but kept his hairy paw on him as Warb fished around in a big trash barrel next to the workbench. A second later Warb emerged with two blackened and corroded Modog power couplings. He gave them to the smuggler and the smuggler handed them to Greedo.

  “Here. The kid wants power couplings, he can have these. I took ’em off the Millennium Falcon. They’ve got a real pedigree, kid. And all I want for ’em is this rancor-skin jacket. What do you say? Even trade?”

  The smuggler grinned and the Wookiee squeezed Greedo’s shoulder.

  “T-te jacta.” I’ll get you for this.

  “Did he say what I think he said?” asked the smuggler.

  “He said it’s a deal,” laughed Warb.

  “Good. The kid knows a bargain when he sees one.” The smuggler held out his hand for a handshake, but Greedo ignored it. Instead he made a popping noise with his hand-suckers and threw the burnt couplings on the floor. Then he turned and ran for the door.

  “HWARRNNUNH.”

  “Yeah, Chewie, I was probably a little rough on him. But you got to set punks straight while they’re still young. Otherwise no telling where they’ll end up … Here, Warb, ya want this jacket? It’s a birthday present.”

  “Thanks, Han. How’d you know today’s my birthday?”

  6. The Teacher

  Spurch Warhog Goa was sitting by himself, counting a pile of credits, in a corner of the Meltdown Cafe. He waved his arm when he saw Greedo come in. “Hey, kid—over here!”

  Greedo was still nursing his anger and resentment, but he tried to look like a seasoned spacer as he moved through the noisy gathering. He started to feel better when one grizzled old Twi’lek actually jumped out of his way.

  “Hello, Spurch.”

  “Have a seat, kid. Ya want somethin’ to drink?… Don’t sit too close. You Rodians don’t smell right to a Diollan.”

  Greedo took a place opposite his new mentor. Goa ordered up a bottle of Tatooine Sunburn for Greedo.

  “T-that’s a lot of money, Spurch.” Greedo eyed the pile nervously. He hoped Ninx would still sell him the Corsair, after what happened.

  “Call me Warhog, kid. I don’t care for that other name. My mother thought it was cute ’c
ause it means ‘brave bug catcher’ in our language.” Goa snorted. He took a stack of chits off the pile in front of him. “Here, kid. For you. Thanks for the tip about the Rebels. It paid off … big-time.”

  “Cthn rulyen stka wen!” Wow, that’s great! Greedo picked up the bills and flipped through them. They were small denominations … far less than he had expected. Visions of piloting his own fast Corsair began to evaporate.

  “Uh … two hundred credits … uh, thanks, Warhog.”

  “Whatsamatter, kid? You look disappointed.” Goa surveyed his new protégé with a bright bird eye.

  “Uh … I thought there would be more, I guess.”

  “Hey, kid. You want to be a bounty hunter, right? Didn’t I say Rodians make the best bounty hunters? Didn’t I?”

  Greedo nodded solemnly. I do want to be a bounty hunter. But a bounty hunter needs a ship.

  “Now, you think I train bounty hunters for free? Huh? Do ya?… Drink your Tatooine Sunburn, kid, it’s delicious.”

  Obediently Greedo picked up the bottle and swallowed the thick fluid. It tasted bitter. He felt embarrassed. Warhog was right. “Uh … I guess I … uh, never thought about that,” he said.

  “Right. It never crossed your greedy little mind. Goa gets paid for teaching young punks how to hunt! Now look here—” Goa reached into one of the many pouches strapped to his body and pulled out a much larger roll of credits. “This is all yours, if you want it—twenty thousand. That’s one-third of what the Imps paid for the intelligence on the Rebels.”

  Greedo’s eyes watered, and a profound hunger rippled in his guts as he stared at the mound of credit notes. Visions of The Manka Hunter started to re-form.

  Goa leaned forward and fixed Greedo with his beady eyes. “But if you take this money, that’s it, ya understand? I never want to see you again. You gotta make up your mind, kid. Do you want to learn the trade from an expert … or do ya want a few nights on the town and the down payment on a hot rod you’ll probably crash in a week? Warhog Goa can make you the galaxy’s second-greatest bounty hunter, kid … Warhog Goa being the first.”