“Oh, most incomparable Jabba, as you are well aware, Han Solo, that worthless piece of dianoga dung, is a very difficult customer. May I suggest that you allow my protégé to simply kill Solo, and take his ship as payment for the debt he owes you?”
Jabba grunted and puffed his water pipe thoughtfully. Then he seemed to brighten, if that were possible. “Ne voota kinja. Jabba likes your suggestion. He will spare the superfluous life of your protégé.”
He looked straight at Greedo before he spoke again. At a signal from Jabba, the silver protocol droid, K-8LR, stepped up and translated Jabba’s every evil word into the Rodian tongue: “You may bring me Solo so that I may kill him—or you may kill him yourself and deliver his ship’s papers to me. Jabba has seen in his wisdom that this must be so.”
Greedo breathed a sigh of relief and bowed slavishly. “Thank you, great Jabba. Your wisdom is—”
“Na kungo! But you had better work fast! I now declare an open bounty on Han Solo. And I raise the price for his head to one hundred thousand credits!”
“One hundred thousand!” said Goa. “Every bounty hunter in the—”
“Yes. So true. If your protégé can’t get Solo, somebody else most certainly will!”
Then Jabba leaned forward and once again fastened his malevolent eyes on Greedo. “And if you do not fulfill our bargain, you had better start running, little green insect. Bring me Solo—alive or dead!”
11. The Cantina
There was live music today. The patrons were in an ugly mood.
Greedo and Goa sat in the booth next to the lobby entrance. When Solo and the Wookiee came in, Solo pretended not to see them, but Chewbacca articulated a low growl as he passed Greedo.
“They know we’re here, Warhog.”
“Yeah. That’s the idea. Are you ready to execute the plan?”
“Nchtha zno ta. Fnrt pwusko vtulla pa.” I’m not sure. I’m getting a bad feeling.
“Well, if you’re not ready, I suggest we head for hyperspace, before Jabba finds out. I’ve got work to do.”
“Where’s Dyyz?”
“He left this morning. Hitched a ride with 4-Lom and Zuckuss. Dyyz has a rich contract—a warlord who decided to evict the Hutts from the Komnor system.”
“Sounds like a difficult job.”
“Very difficult. But Dyyz Nataz is the man to do it. And you’re the right hunter for the Han Solo hit, Greedo my boy. Are you ready?”
Just then there was a disturbance at the bar. Shouting, a scuffle, then the sudden flash and drone of a lightsaber. A dismembered arm flew through the air, landing near Greedo’s chair. The music stopped.
Greedo and Goa had noticed the old man and the boy come in, and they had heard the bartender eject the droids. Goa had noted the quiet intensity of the old man, and the thought had crossed his mind: He’s old, but I wouldn’t want to test myself against him in a blaster fight.
The room was deathly silent. Greedo sucked in his breath and hooted softly. “Nice piece of work for an old man,” he said.
“Must be a Jedi,” said Goa. “I thought their kind were long gone.”
Greedo had never seen a Jedi.
The room came to life again, the band resumed tootling, the bartender’s helper removed the mutilated arm. Somebody ordered a round of drinks for the house.
“Check it, Greedo. The old man and the kid are talking to Solo and the Wook. You’re going to have to wait your turn.”
Greedo didn’t respond. His veins were pumping excitement at the sudden carnage.
The two Rodian bounty hunters strolled in, and Goa motioned them over to the table. Greedo looked at his beer, concentrating on what he was going to say to Solo.
“Boys … I’d like you to meet Greedo … my apprentice. Greedo, this is Thuku and Neesh, two fine bounty killers.”
Greedo looked up and saw two pair of huge eyes studying him with detached curiosity. Did he detect hostility glinting in those multifaceted orbs? The one called Thuku held out a suckered hand. “Wa tetu dat oota, Greedo.”
“Ta ceko ura nsha,” said Greedo, allowing his suckers to briefly engage Thuku’s. The three Rodians entered into a short conversation, while Goa looked on, amused. Neesh told Greedo he’d heard that Jabba had awarded him Han Solo as a quarry. Neesh seemed impressed.
Thuku warned Greedo that Solo “has already killed two of Jabba’s bill collectors … Be careful, brother. You could be the next.”
“Thanks for the advice,” said Greedo, with bravado. “I’m not worried. I’ve got Warhog for backup, in case Solo or the Wookiee try anything stupid.”
The two fellow Rodians exchanged glances with Goa, and Greedo thought he detected they were silently laughing at him. Yeah, of course they think I’m a young fool. Well, that’s the way it is when you’re just starting out. I’ll show ’em!
Imperial stormtroopers entered the bar, and a minute later, when Greedo looked across the room, Solo and the Wookiee were sitting alone. The old man and the boy had disappeared.
After the Imps passed their table, Goa unhitched his blaster and placed it in front of him. “Okay, lad. This is your chance. If the Wook tries to interfere, I’ll blast him to red smoke.”
The moment had come. Greedo felt a mixture of fear and excitement. He closed his eyes and gathered his energies. Suddenly his mind filled with a bright image of a jungle world, dripping green neon leaves, a gathering of little huts and busy half-naked green bodies. He saw himself, and his brother Pqweeduk, running under the tall Tendril trees, running toward the village. He saw his mother standing in the clearing waiting for them. He saw himself and his brother run to her and she held out her arms and hugged them both. Then he was inside the vision, looking up into her huge eyes. She was crying. “What’s the matter, Mother? Why are you sad?” “I am sad and I am happy, Greedo. I am sad because of what must happen. I am happy because you are coming home.”
Greedo snapped out of his trance and a feeling like an electric shock went through him. What was that? he thought.
Goa was staring at him with an annoyed look. “C’mon, kid. Are you gonna make your move? Solo and the Wook are startin’ to leave!”
The Wookiee, Chewbacca, passed their table and disappeared into the lobby. The perfect moment had arrived. Greedo stood up, hand on his blaster.
“Oona goota, Solo?” Going somewhere, Solo?
“Yes, Greedo, in fact I was just going to see your boss. Tell Jabba I’ve got the money.”
“Sompeetalay. Vere tan te nacht vakee cheeta. Jabba warin cheeco wa rush anye katanye wanaroska.” Greedo snickered. “Chas kin yanee ke chusko!” It’s too late, you should have paid him when you had the chance. Jabba’s put a price on your head so large every bounty hunter in the galaxy will be looking for you.
“Yeah, but this time I’ve got the money.”
“Enjaya kul a intekun kuthuow.” And I found you first.
“I don’t have it with me. Tell Jabba—”
“Tena hikikne. Hoko ruya pulyana oolwan spa steeka gush shuku ponoma three pe.” If you give it to me I might forget I found you. Jabba’s through with you. He has no use for smugglers who drop their cargo at the first sign of an Imperial cruiser.
“Even I get boarded sometimes. You think I had a choice?”
“Tlok Jabba. Boopa gopakne et an anpaw.” You can tell that to Jabba. He may only take your ship.
“Over my dead body.”
Goa saw the blaster coming out of Solo’s holster under the table. He relaxed and leaned back, sipping his Sunburn. Poor Greedo, he thought.
“Ukle nyuma cheskopokuta klees ka tlanko ya oska.” That’s the idea. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.
“Yes, I’ll bet you have.”
With a tremendous explosion of light and noise Solo’s blaster propelled a bolt of energy through the wooden table. When the smoke cleared there was very little left of Greedo.
“Sorry about the mess,” said Solo, flipping the bartender a coin.
Spurch Warhog Goa met with the two Rodians on Docking Bay 86, as he made ready to board his ship, the Nova Viper.
The tall one, Thuku, handed Goa a chest of newly minted Rodian coinage, pure gold, each coin embossed with the image of Navik the Red.
“The Rodians thank you, Goa. We would have killed him ourselves, but we can’t let it be known we are hunting our own kind.”
“His clan are all sentenced to die,” said Neesh, making a snorting noise with his green snout.
Goa picked up one of the coins and watched it glint in the bright-hot Tatooine sun. “Yeah … but tell ya the truth, boys, this is one bounty I ain’t too proud of. Least I didn’t have to kill him myself. I knew Solo would take care of that.”
Hammertong:
The Tale of the
“Tonnika Sisters”
by Timothy Zahn
“It’s a dilemma, really, that’s what it is,” Dr. Kellering said in that precise Imperial Prime University voice of his that went so well with his young, upper-class-pampered face. And so poorly with the decidedly low-class tapcafe he and the two women were sitting in. “On the one hand there’s the whole question of security,” Kellering continued. “Especially with all the Rebel activity in this sector. And I can assure you that Dr. Eloy and I aren’t the only persons within the project who are concerned about it.”
His forehead wrinkled in upper-class-pampered perplexity. “But on the other hand, Captain Drome is extremely hot-tempered in regard to what he considers his personal territory. If he knew I was even talking about this matter outside the compound, he’d be terribly angry. Especially with people like—well, like you.”
Seated across the table from Kellering, Shada D’ukal took a sip from her cup, the wine carrying with it a hint of remembered bitterness and shame. Like most girls growing up on their war-devastated world, the Mistryl shadow guards had been the focus of all her hopes. They had been the last heroes of her people, the enigmatic cult of warrior women still fighting to force justice for her world from uncaring, even hostile, officials of the Empire. She had begun her training as soon as they would take her, studying and working and sweating her way against the odds until, at last, she had been deemed worthy to be called a Mistryl. Assigned to a team, she had headed out on her first mission.
Only to learn that the Mistryl were no longer the valiant warriors of legend.
They were mercenaries. Nothing more than mercenaries. Hiring out to useless, insipid people like Kellering.
She sipped at her wine again, listening with half an ear as Kellering prattled on, letting the memories fade. Now, a year and seven missions later, the shame had faded to a dull ache in the back of her mind. Someday, she hoped, it would be gone altogether.
Beside Shada, Team Prime Manda D’ulin lifted a hand, finally putting an end to Kellering’s ramblings. “We understand your problem, Dr. Kellering,” she said. “May I suggest that you’ve already made your decision. Otherwise the three of us wouldn’t be sitting here.”
“Yes, of course.” Kellering sighed. “I suppose I’m still—but that’s foolish. The Mistryl may be somewhat—but still, you certainly come highly recommended. When my cousin was telling me about you, he said you had—”
“The mission, Doctor,” Manda interrupted again. “Tell us about the mission.”
“Yes. Of course.” Kellering took a deep breath, his eyes darting around the crowded tapcafe as if wondering which of the humans or aliens at the other tables out there might be Imperial spies. Or maybe he was just wondering what he was doing outside his pampered little academic world. Consorting with mercenaries. “I’m connected to a research project called Hammertong,” he said, his voice so low now that Shada could barely hear it over the background noise. “My superior, Dr. Eloy, is senior scientist of the group. A couple of weeks ago the Emperor’s representative to the project informed us that we were all going to be moved to some new location. We’re to leave in three days.”
“And you don’t think Captain Drome is handling security properly?” Manda asked.
Kellering shrugged uncomfortably. “Dr. Eloy doesn’t. The two of them have had several arguments about it.”
“So what exactly do you want from us?”
“I suppose—well, I really don’t know,” Kellering confessed, throwing hooded looks back and forth between the two women. “I suppose I thought we could talk to Captain Drome about you bringing in some people to help guard us en route …” He trailed off, apparently finally noticing the expression on Manda’s face.
“Let me explain something about the Mistryl, Dr. Kellering,” she said, her voice still polite but with an edge of chromed mullinine to it. “Your cousin probably told you we were just your standard group of fringe mercenaries. We’re not. He probably told you we sell our services to the highest bidder, no questions or ethics involved. We don’t. The Mistryl are the warriors of a forgotten cause; and if we hire ourselves out as temporary security to people like you, it’s because our world and our people require money to survive. We will not work with Imperial forces. Ever.”
Strong words. But that was all they were. There was a great deal of simmering hatred toward the Empire among the Mistryl, anger for their suspected complicity during the war and for their complete indifference since then. But with the remnant of their people living on the edge of survival, the simple cold truth was that the Mistryl couldn’t afford to turn down anything but the most odious of offers from the most odious of people. Manda could sound as high-minded as she wanted to, but in the end she and the team would accept Kellering’s job.
And as she had seven times before, Shada would do her best to help them fulfill the contract. Because the other simple cold truth was that she had nowhere else to go.
But of course, Kellering didn’t know that; and from the look on his face, Manda might have just dropped a large building on him. “Oh, no,” he breathed. “Please. We need you. Look, we’re not really with the Empire—we’re funded by them, but we’re actually a completely independent research group.”
“I see,” Manda murmured, frowning thoughtfully. Making a show of the decision-making process, probably in hopes of stifling any protest on Kellering’s part when she finally named her price. With an Imperial-funded project, that price was likely to be high.
It was. “All right,” Manda said at last. “We can bypass your Captain Drome entirely and run you a forward screen net that should flash out the sort of ambushes the Rebel Alliance likes to stage these days. You said three days till departure; that’ll give us time to bring a few other teams in. We should be able to field a minimum of ten ships in the screen, plus a two-ship aft guard in case the Rebels try something cute.” She lifted her eyebrows slightly. “The fee will be thirty thousand.”
Kellering’s eyes bulged. “Thirty thousand?” He gulped.
“You got it,” Manda said. “Take it or don’t.”
Shada watched Kellering’s face as it went through the run of shock, nervousness, and discomfiture. But as Manda had pointed out, if he hadn’t already made his decision they wouldn’t be here. “All right,” he sighed. “All right. Dr. Eloy can cut you a credit when we meet with him this afternoon.”
Manda shot Shada a quick glance. “You want us to meet with Dr. Eloy?”
“Of course.” Kellering seemed surprised by the question. “He’s the one most worried about security.”
“Yes, but … where would we meet him? Here?”
“No, at the compound,” Kellering said. “He almost never leaves there. Don’t worry, I can get you in.”
“What about Drome?” Manda asked. “You said yourself he was pretty touchy on the subject of outsiders.”
“Captain Drome isn’t in charge of the project,” Kellering said with precise firmness. “Dr. Eloy is.”
“Such details seldom bother Imperial military officers,” Manda countered. “If he catches us there—”
“He won’t,” Kellering assured her. “He won’t even know you’re there. Besides, you
need to see how the Hammertong’s been loaded aboard the ship if you’re going to know how to properly protect it.”
Manda didn’t look happy, but she nodded nevertheless. “All right,” she said, her hand curling into a subtle signal as she did so. “I have a couple of matters to attend to here first, but after that I’ll be happy to come with you. Shada can go offplanet in my place and get the rest of the team assembled.”
“Understood.” Shada nodded. The team didn’t need any assembling, of course—all six of them were right here in this tapcafe, with their two disguised fighters, the Skyclaw and Mirage, parked in separate docking bays across town. But it was as good an excuse as any for Shada to disappear from sight. Backups, after all, weren’t supposed to be seen.
“Good,” Manda said briskly. “Have the others here in Gorno by nightfall. In the meantime—” She gestured Kellering toward the door. “We’ll go deal with a couple of details, and then go meet your Dr. Eloy.”
“They’re approaching the gate,” Pav D’armon’s voice murmured from one of the two comlinks fastened to Shada’s collar. “Two guards visible, but I see movement in the gatehouse behind the fence. Could be as many as six or seven more in there.”
“Copy,” Shada acknowledged, stroking a finger restlessly across the side of her sniper’s blaster rifle and wishing Pav wouldn’t get so chatty on the air. Mistryl comlinks were heavily encrypted, but that wouldn’t stop the Imperials from pinpointing the transmissions if they took it into their heads to do so. And this close to a major base, that was a distinct possibility.
The base. Lifting her eyes from the section of road winding through the hills below—the road Manda and Kellering would be traversing in a few minutes if they made it through the gate—Shada studied the waves of rolling hills that stretched into the distance beyond the innocuous security fence cutting across her view. It certainly looked like the agricultural test ground the signs on the fence claimed it to be, not at all like the weapons-bristling popular image of an Imperial military research base. But its strategic location, within fifty kilometers of the Gorno spaceport and four major technical supply and transport centers, made its true identity obvious.
Star Wars: Tales from Mos Eisley Cantina Page 7