Star Wars: Tales from Mos Eisley Cantina

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The Rodian snatched the bottle away, contemptuously dumped a handful of credit chips on the counter, and marched away into a dark corner booth. Even though he’d had this kind of treatment before, it still stung Wuher. He felt like a pile of womp rat guano, and the fact that he could do absolutely nothing to avenge his slighted feelings made it all the worse. This, mixed with that smell. He could smell that smell to the corns on the soles of his feet. It touched him to the very core of his being, and he was not entirely sure why.

  For the next moments, he was in a kind of reverie as he went about his work, serving. He worked up some nice drinks for the band, whose music had actually helped make working in this dump bearable. He served an Aqualish and the Tonnika sisters. He whipped up a gaseous delight for the blues-loving Devaronian. All the while in a sensory smog of anger and confusion.

  He barely noticed the new arrivals until his assistant tugged on his tunic.

  “Wuher. We’ve got a positive on the droid detector.”

  Alarm swept away the mental images as Wuher turned away and looked down at the little Nartian creature, two of his four arms still busy washing glasses.

  “Thank you, Nackhar.”

  Wuher turned his attention to the entranceway, to where an old man and a young towheaded fellow were making their way into the light-speckled smoky darkness of the tavern, followed by a sparkling, mincing protocol droid and a rolling R2 model.

  “Hey!” called Wuher in his best gruff voice. “We don’t serve their kind in here.”

  There was some confusion.

  He had to make his position clear. “Your droids. We don’t want them here.”

  The droids left.

  He got particular satisfaction from booting the droids out. It was one of the only exercises of power that Wuher truly felt comfortable with—it was a clear and free area in which he was sure he would offend no one else. Nonetheless, even as he watched the droids leave, something bothered him. The memory of that lone droid, stranded in that alley, pleading for assistance. Somehow, the pang of that memory merged with the strong scent of Greedo’s pheromones to create a jarring unease and yet odd excitement in the bartender.

  A young man in desert duds shook him and asked for some water. It took a couple of shakes to get a reaction out of Wuher, but finally the drink was served and Wuher went about his business, serving yet another squeaky ranat.

  He was so immersed in his own particular funk that it took him a while to realize that an altercation was building. Wuher looked over to see that Dr. Evazan seemed to be having a confrontation with the young man. The older man stepped in and spoke. The next thing Wuher knew, there was a blinding flash.

  Alarmed, he cried out. “No blasters! No blasters!”

  A light sword swashed through the air. A chop, a flop—and the gun arm of Evazan’s Aqualish companion separated from his body.

  The old man and young man stepped away and after a moment of silence, the band struck up again.

  “Nackhar,” said Wuher to his assistant. “Please clean that up. I have work to do.”

  Even though the doctor had stood up for him, Wuher felt no kinship. The man was an ugly, bent, and demented creature. Nonetheless, there was no reason to litter the floor with blood and groans of the doctor’s associate for an overlong time.

  The Nartian scurried away.

  Wuher went back to work.

  A day’s shuck, a day’s buck.

  Business as usual at the Mos Eisley Cantina.

  Too bad Chalmun wasn’t around. His imposing figure usually discouraged these kinds of shenanigans. That Wookiee that had been talking to the old man looked a bit like his employer, only taller and younger. He’d been hanging around before, with that larcenous smuggler Han Solo. The spacer had burbled something yesterday about the Wookiee being his first mate. Dangerous profession, that. Perhaps there were worse things in the universe than being dumped on by Rodians in the Mos Eisley Spaceport Cantina.

  Still, it rankled, and Wuher could feel his anger and hatred roiling and coiling like a stepped-on sandsnake.

  The next thing he knew, a pair of stormtroopers had come through the doors and immediately stepped to the bar.

  “We understand there’s been a ruckus here,” said one in a muffled electronic voice through his white skull-like helmet.

  “You bet,” said Wuher. He looked around, saw the backs of the perpetrators at a table at the far end of the establishment. Curiously enough, sitting across from them were none other than Han Solo and his Wookiee first mate. “The old guy and the young guy over there.”

  He pointed. The sooner these troopers got out of here, the better. They made him nervous. The place had plenty of trouble enough as it was. Besides, stormtroopers were terrible tippers.

  Wuher’s mind dipped back into his musing as he went on automatic pilot, making up barium frizzes and frosty sulphates and even serving the odd shot and a draft. He even poured himself some of his own homebrew ale, to take some of the edge off the mild headache that sulked at the back of his skull. However, during all this he was still haunted by two things that smell that still clung to his nostrils, and that squeaking droid. What was going to happen to it? Why should he care? And what did it say its specialty was?

  His musings were suddenly interrupted by a loud blast.

  All heads swung toward its origin, the table where Han Solo sat. The jaunty smuggler was rising up and walking toward the bar, sticking his gun back into its holster.

  Wuher could not believe what he was leaving behind.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Solo said, flipping a two-credit chip toward Wuher. Normally, Wuher would have immediately slapped a palm down onto the coin to prevent its appropriation. However, he was far too stunned by what he saw to think about money.

  There, flopped over at the table, was none other than Greedo the Rodian bounty hunter, a shred of smoke rising up from a blasted abdomen.

  Greedo, dead as a starship rivet.

  A kind of chill satisfaction moved through Wuher, a transection of reality and dream that did not occur often enough. True, creatures got killed in here all the time, and it would have given Wuher far more satisfaction to have actually been behind the trigger of that blaster, seen its power rip through that obnoxious, smelly—

  A kind of transcendental realization flashed through the bartender. Thought processes meshed thunderously in his head, and it was as though the heavens had opened and the light of Cosmic Wisdom poured down upon him.

  That droid … that odd, frightened droid …

  He had to get it out of harm’s way. He had to save it!

  “Nackhar!” he called.

  The little creature scuttled up. “Did you see that, sir? I say that Chalmun should take all guns at the door. I say—”

  “Are you going to be the one to do the body searches, Nackhar?”

  The assistant bartender was stunned speechless at the notion.

  “Take over for me. There’s an urgent task I must attend to. I shall be back soon. In the meantime, do not allow the body of the Rodian to be moved a centimeter. Don’t let those Jawas trying to bag it take it out of here. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. Of course—but if the police—”

  “They can examine it all they want to, and there’s no question about who did it. However, claim it in the name of Chalmun. It’s officially our property now.”

  “But why can’t you—where are you going?”

  “I am embarking on a mission of mercy!”

  Thus saying, Wuher left.

  The droid was not amongst the refuse cans.

  Alarm filled Wuher. The thing had said that it would be here until nightfall. Its absence could only spell foul play.

  Wuher bent and examined the sandy floor. Sure enough, tracks. Fresh tracks, leading down the alley in the other direction. Without a further thought, either for caution or self-protection, the bartender hurled himself after them.

  The droid must be saved.

  He puffed
through the twisting alleys, following the tracks. The ground told the story clearly enough. Droid tracks. A pair of small shoe tracks. A Jawa had scoped the metal being out, as it had feared. As he moved along, Wuher removed the club from the back of his belt. Within moments, he heard the telltale beeping and chitter: the sounds of the droid and its new master.

  Wuher slapped himself against a wall, peered around the corner. Sure enough, there they were, waddling along. The Jawa had clamped a restraining bolt on the odd-looking droid. They were within yards of a main thoroughfare.

  He must move quickly.

  Without hesitation, Wuher the bartender leaped out from his concealment, ran up behind the Jawa, and fiercely and conclusively brought down his club upon the back of its hood. Thunk. The Jawa went down like a bag of smunk roots. Speedily, the bartender dragged the hooded creature back to a darker part of the alley, trailing a slight seepage of blood.

  He went to the droid, examined its body, and found the restraining bolt. He pulled it off and tossed it after the downed Jawa.

  The droid came alive.

  “Sir! You have saved me. You have delivered me from my enemies!”

  “That’s right, Ceetoo-Arfour.”

  “You have undergone a change of heart. I knew it, I knew it, I could tell that deep within you there beat a heart of gold. That is why I risked my encounter with you. Why, this is marvelous. This is what they write stories about! A hard soul, changed for the better. Thank you, kind human. Oh, thank you!”

  “You’re welcome, Ceetoo-Arfour. Yes, I realized that you were a wronged droid. The squalor and sadness of my life made me realize that I should do something good and worthwhile for once.” Wuher smiled. “However, we shouldn’t just stand here and banter. There are doubtless more Jawas about. We should get you back to where it’s safe.”

  “Oh, my lucky stars shine this day. Sir, you have redeemed my faith in the true pure spirituality of the human soul. For you see, we droids, though of metal, possess consciousness and thus spirituality as well.”

  “Oh, good. I’m sure we’ve got a lot of philosophy that we can discuss. First, though, we should hurry on,” said Wuher solicitously. “Is there anything that I can do to ease your path?”

  “You already have, kind sir. And here I was thinking myself the poorest, most bereft soul in Mos Eisley. There is indeed room for growth in the purity of the human soul.”

  “Yes, I have had a complete turnabout in my attitude toward droids,” said Wuher. “I am bringing you back to the cantina. I will hide you in the basement, where there are no droid detectors.”

  “Oh, oh!” said the droid, clearly enraptured by this stunning turnabout. “Finally, I experience the milk of human kindness.”

  “Oh,” said Wuher, with a wry grin. “I don’t think I’m particularly interested in milk today.”

  The drop depended, a jewel of promise.

  Dropped.

  The usual pain, of course. Too bad, but that was the price you paid for system incompatibilities. Still, Wuher bore it stoically, even gladly, awaiting the news his taste buds would bring. Already, his quivering nostrils were behaving in a positive fashion as the familiar wisp of steam rose to tickle them.

  Around Wuher, as though hovering expectantly, were all the trappings of his experimental alcove, along with its two new additions …

  Yes, yes, this was new!

  He detected a hint of bergamot!

  Better, something more.… and it struck him with such tremendous power, it was as though someone had kicked him in the head.

  The taste of two bloody aliens arut in a tangle of erupting spice pods and mud mushers.

  He fell off his stool, a spasm racking him.

  “Master! Master!” cried Ceetoo-Arfour. “Are you all right?”

  Wuher shivered.

  He shuddered.

  He arose, a silly smile on his face.

  “Wow!”

  He looked over at his still, at the larger beaker, already almost half full of this deadly elixir, and with so much more still bubblingly in the works in the coils and guts of his makeshift lab.

  “It’s even better than I’d hoped,” he said. “This is exactly the liqueur that will appeal to Jabba the Hutt.”

  “Jabba the Hutt, Master?” said the droid. “Is he not the criminal gang lord of this territory?”

  “Nonsense,” said Wuher. “He is wronged by his enemies. He will not only be my benefactor, but ultimately yours as well.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Yes. Of course. We’re going into business together, Ceetoo-Arfour. First we shall work for Jabba the Hutt. Then we shall shake the miserable dust of this detestable planet from our heels. Greatness, Ceetoo. We are destined for greatness!”

  The rough bartender beamed at his new collaborator.

  Ceetoo-Arfour stood in the very center of the alcove. Below a new item that extruded from his barrel side—a spigot—was a small bottle full of an emerald-gray liquid. Just a few small drops of this stuff had been sufficient to give Jabba’s liqueur its new and wonderful kick into the territory of greatness. Wuher, bioalchemist extraordinaire, was going to be able to keep Jabba the Hutt happy a very long time.

  From the droid grill-jaw extruded a naked green alien foot, pausing for a moment before it too was processed to remove every last bit of precious juice in Ceetoo-Arfour’s excellent chemical extractors.

  Hanging on a spike by the bubbling still was the other new occupant of Wuher’s bioalchemical alcove: the head of Greedo the Rodian. Nackhar had had to fight hard with those Jawas to procure the body. It had cost him several rounds of free drinks, but it had been worth it.

  “Here’s to your pheromones, Greedo,” said Wuher the bartender, hoisting his dropper in toast. “Han Solo did both Rodian females and yours truly a vast favor.”

  The head glared back blankly.

  “I must say, the creature was a gnarly, gristly thing,” the droid said. “I’m afraid that my grinders shall be needing a sharpening after this arduous effort.”

  Wuher grinned and winked. “Nothing’s too good for you, Ceetoo. Believe me, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  For, indeed, now Wuher the bartender had an entirely new attitude toward droids.

  Nightlily:

  The Lovers’ Tale

  by Barbara Hambly

  “Madam, I am most sorry.” Feltipern Trevagg switched off the computer screen above his desk with the air of being anything but. “If you don’t pay your water impost there isn’t anything I can do about your water line being shut. I don’t make the taxes.”

  As it happened, he had made this one, or at least made the suggestion to the City Prefect of the Port of Mos Eisley that the water impost be raised twenty-five percent. But, Trevagg reasoned, rubbing his head cones as he listened once again to the Modbrek female’s frantic plea for more time, she probably wouldn’t have been able to come up with the original impost, so it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that now, through proper go-betweens of course, he’d be able to offer her a few thousand credits for her dwelling compound—which she’d be glad to accept, after going without water or food for a couple of days—and rent it out by the room. Provided, of course, he could arrange it with his go-betweens before the Prefect heard about it and outbid him.

  The Modbrek female’s distress irritated him. Coming from another of his own species—another Gotal—it might have evoked pity, though Trevagg had been less ready than many of his compatriots to yield to emanations of wretchedness and fear. But Modbreks were in Trevagg’s opinion only semisentient, wispy ephemeral beings, hairless as slugs save for the grotesque masses of blue mane that streamed from their undeveloped heads, with huge eyes, and tiny noses and mouths in pointy pale faces. This female and her daughters, sending forth waves of anxiety, reacted on him as a kind of screechy music.

  “Madam,” he said at last, sighing, “I’m not your father. And I’m not a charity worker. And if you knew you couldn’t pay your water i
mposts—which I assume you did know, since you’ve been in arrears for two months and neither you nor your daughters have troubled to find decent-paying work—you should have gone to your family or some charity organization before this.”

  He nudged a toggle on the control board of his desk. A human deputy in a rumpled uniform came in and showed the three females out. Trevagg could sense the man’s pity for them, and also, much to Trevagg’s disgust, the fact that the human found the insubstantial creatures physically attractive, even sexually interesting.

  Of course, Trevagg had always had difficulty understanding how humans found each other sexually interesting. Wan, flabby, squishy, they lacked both the Gotal ability to transmit a range of emotional waves, and the contrast between strength and weakness so necessary to pleasure. How could anyone …?

  He shrugged, and turned back to his desk to tap through a call. Behind him he heard a step on the threshold, felt the heat of a body—no closer than the threshold, and human range—and recognized the electromagnetic aura as that of Predne Balu, Assistant Security Officer of Mos Eisley. Felt too like a smoky darkness the man’s weariness, the bitter tang of his disgust.

  “You couldn’t have let her have another month?” Balu’s raspy voice sounded tired. The heat of the Tatooine suns seemed to have long ago baked out of Balu the savagery, the enthusiasms so necessary to a hunter. Trevagg despised him.

  “She’s had two. Water’s expensive to import.”

  A message flickered across the black screen of the receiver: PYLOKAM 1130. Trevagg moved a finger and the pixels wiped themselves away as if they had never been. He turned in his chair, to face Balu: a heavy man, slope-shouldered in his wrinkled dark blue uniform, hair black, eyes black, but the pitiful stubble of what humans called beard was thickly shot with gray. A head like a melon. Trevagg never could look at humans without feeling contempt and a little amusement. He knew they had other types of sensory organs than head cones, but even after many years on the space lanes—as bounty hunter, Imperial bodyguard, and officer of ship security—Trevagg had never gotten over how silly, how ineffectual, beings looked who didn’t have cones. On Antar Four, though everyone knew in their heart of hearts that the size of one’s cones didn’t affect their ability to pick up sensory vibration, Gotals whose cones were undeveloped frequently resorted to falsies.