Star Wars: Tales from Mos Eisley Cantina

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Most of their backup players could play lead, in a lesser band.

  I settle down in the seat, set just off center for the room, where the sound comes together most cleanly, open a bottle of twelve-year-old Dorian Quill, and wait for the music to start.

  My people believe that to kill something, you must cherish it and love it as it dies. There is no barrier between you and the thing you are killing, and you die as you kill.

  Music is the only thing I know that feels the same way.

  The music surrounds me until I cease to exist.

  I die as I kill.

  It’s what I live for.

  I’m glad my fathers are dead.

  In the morning I went to see Jabba.

  He had me stand on the trapdoor, and his tail twitched as we spoke. That always bothers me. Part of me was frightened by it; even carnivores get eaten by bigger carnivores. Another part of me wanted to pounce on it.

  He regarded me with those slitted ugly eyes, and laughed a rumbling, unpleasant laugh. “So … what information does my least favorite spy have to sell me?”

  I made it good. I spoke to him in Hutt, which I normally try to avoid; it hurts my throat, and I have to use both sets of teeth to make some of the sounds. After a long conversation, the front row aches from being pulled up and then dropped down again quickly. “There’s a mercenary in town.” I’d learned what I could about him before heading over. It hadn’t been much, but I’d been rushed. I wanted to move on this quickly—if Jabba didn’t like Da’n and the Nodes, I might never get to see them play. Nor would anyone else. “Obren Mettlo. A real professional, fought in dozens of battles, often on the winning side, looking for employment. Moorin, has an attitude—”

  He made a low, grumbling sound that might have been interpreted as interest. Jabba had plenty of muscle, but not always smart muscle; and Moorin tend to be bright as well as vicious.

  I forged ahead. “If you like, I could get in touch with him. Bring him by to meet you … for dinner, perhaps. Possibly some entertainment, some music—music is good with Moorin. Keeps ’em peaceable.”

  His eyelids drooped slightly; either he was bored or he was thinking. Finally he gave me a slight chuckle, and said, “Send him over.”

  I bowed and backed away as quickly as was polite, getting off that trapdoor. “As you wish, sir. We’ll be by—would first dark be appropriate?”

  He smiled at me and it made the fur on the small of my back stand straight up. “Send him by,” he clarified. “You are not invited.”

  I stood frozen at the edge of the trapdoor, mind refusing to function. Surely there had to be some way to wangle—

  Jabba made a sound. A familiar sound; I’ve heard Devish make it, too—except that it takes a pack of Devish. It straightened my ears and made my front teeth jump out of the way. “You can leave now.”

  I bowed and got out.

  I spent the evening at the cantina, drinking myself into a stupor.

  I just knew Jabba would feed the Modal Nodes to the rancor. He’d never had a decent band before, never, not once. The closest he’d ever come was Max Rebo’s bunch, who could carry a melody if you gave them a basket to keep it in.

  But the next morning, I learned that Rebo was out looking for work.

  Jabba had a new favorite.

  • • •

  It came this close to killing me.

  For four days I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it. There they were, not a half part’s speedster trip from Mos Eisley. Playing for him. It ate me alive thinking about it. I lost so much Grace in those days that if I had any shame left to me, I’d have to use some of it on that period.

  Sometime on the fifth day I drank too much. I awoke lying facedown in the alleyway upstairs and behind the cantina, in darkness, with someone nudging my shoulder with his toe. I decided to take a chunk out of his calf—

  Wuher knelt next to me. “Can you stand up?”

  The cold gravel pressed against my cheek. I had bruises, cuts—the memories came back slowly. Several someones had beaten me—heavy wood or metal staffs, I vaguely recalled. Just a random robbery. My right arm wouldn’t move at all. “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on.” My body is denser than humans’; he staggered, helping me to my feet. The strain sent a jolt of astonishing pain through my shoulder. “Where do you live?”

  He half carried me to my apartment, and stood at the opening while I fumbled with the interlock. “Do you need medical help?”

  I don’t remember if I answered him or not. It was a stupid question. No doctor on Tatooine knew anything about Devish physiology—or if they did, I didn’t want to know them.

  I made it to the shower before I collapsed. I got the cold water turned on and sat in it until morning, trying to decide how badly I wanted to live.

  By morning the apartment half reminded me of home. I stayed in it and did not go out, kept the heat-exchange coils running all day. Around midday I found the strength to pull a slab of womp rat the length of my arm from the freezer, heat it to blood temperature, and drag it into the shower with me. I sat under the water, nude, eating until my stomach bulged, and when there was nothing left but bones on the floor of the stall, turned the water off and staggered to my bedpit.

  It took me some time before I felt safe going out in public again. Several times someone came to my door; I didn’t open it. Some information travels Mos Eisley faster than light. Mos Eisley is like a living creature: It eats the sick and weak. I’d survived all these years without having to kill more than a few of my fellow residents. They’d have heard by now of the attack on me—the humans who’d robbed me might have boasted of it, in which case I’d have them in my freezer, whoever they were, before the month was out.

  But in any event I dared not go back to the cantina until my strength was returned.

  The arm took longest to heal; weeks later it was still stiff and it hurt when I moved it wrong. But I was almost out of food, so I had no choice. Early one morning I dressed, set my alarms, and headed for the cantina.

  Wuher looked up and nodded at me when I entered. First one in the door. He put a glass on the counter and poured a shot of golden liquid. “On the house. Drink it before someone else comes in.”

  I looked at the drink, and then at Wuher, almost as much at a loss for words as I’d been when Jabba told me to send the merc over by himself. “Many thanks,” I finally got out. He nodded and I lifted the glass—

  And stopped. Predators have better noses than leaf eaters. There was something wrong with the alcohol. It was—

  He poured himself a shot while I was staring at my glass, raised it to me, and knocked it back.

  Merenzane Gold. The real stuff. Precious, pure, real Merenzane Gold.

  Wuher corked the unlabeled bottle while I was still staring at him, put it away under the bar, and wandered away from me to finish opening up.

  I took the glass to my booth, sat and drank it very slowly. I hadn’t known there was a bottle of real Gold on all of Tatooine. I’d almost forgotten what it tasted like.

  I wondered how many years he’d had that bottle down there without saying anything about it.

  By the Cold, I’m a lousy spy.

  That’s something to be proud of.

  I spent the morning listening to the talk throughout the bar. I’d been out of touch … and interesting things had happened while I’d been hidden away from the world. Last night an Imperial battle cruiser had fought in orbit with a Rebel spaceship, and today stormtroopers were looking all over Tatooine for someone, or something, that had escaped them.

  And a piece of horrifically bad news: The damn mercenary I’d recommended to Jabba had picked a fight with a pair of Jabba’s bodyguards and shot them both up before getting himself fed to the rancor. There was some rumor that perhaps the merc had been an assassin paid by the Lady Valarian, whose real target had been Jabba himself—

  Maybe Jabba had forgotten who had recommended him.

  And maybe Long Sno
ot would give me my fifty credits back.

  It came to me in a vision.

  Okay, that’s not true, but it’s close. Long Snoot stopped by and mentioned something interesting: The Lady Valarian was getting married. Max Rebo and band were going to play at the wedding.

  I barely noticed when Long Snoot left. I stared straight ahead, through the noonday crowd come to escape the heat, not seeing them, not seeing the cantina. Just thinking.

  “Wuher.”

  He turned away from a conversation with a pair of human females who looked like clones; the Tonnika sisters, they’d introduced themselves as. He did it grudgingly; they were attractive, by human standards. “Yeah?”

  “How’s business?”

  He stared at me suspiciously. “It stinks. It always stinks.”

  “How would you like entertainment by real musicians?”

  “Rebo? Can’t afford him, and his bunch don’t draw what they cost anyway.”

  I gave him the polite smile. “Figrin Da’n and the Modal Nodes. They’re Bith. They’re good, Wuher. I mean really, really good.”

  “What would they cost me?”

  “Five hundred a week.”

  He gave me the suspicious stare again. If something sounds too good to be true, someone’s being screwed. “Really. A band better than Rebo’s will work here for less than his.”

  “I think I can arrange it.”

  “How?”

  I told him. When I was done he said in a somber voice, “You are one twisted puppy, Lab.”

  “Is it a deal?”

  He shook his head no, said “It’s a deal,” and wandered away, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

  The Lady Valarian is the closest thing to competition that Jabba the Hutt has on Tatooine. That’s not saying much; Jabba tolerates her because it keeps all the discontents in one place. She’s a Whiphid, which means she’s stupid, huge, ugly, has more muscle on her than I do, and smells worse than Jabba. I wouldn’t eat her even after a long hunt.

  I went to see her at her hotel, the Lucky Despot. The Lucky Despot isn’t much of a hotel, truth told; just a spaceship that won’t ever lift again.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Modal Nodes. Lead is Figrin Da’n. I know you want the best for your wedding, Lady Valarian. This group makes music so glorious, your wedding will be the talk of this corner of the galaxy. People for dozens of light-years will speak with envy and longing of the entertainment provided at the wedding of the great Lady Valarian and her handsome consort, the daring D’Wopp, of the romantic mood set by the finest musicians this poor galaxy has ever seen.”

  She glared at me—well, I think she glared at me; with those mad little eyes Whiphids have, it’s hard to tell—and said skeptically, “Better than Max Rebo? I love Max Rebo.”

  She would. And she deserved to have the ugly little runt play her wedding, for all of me. “Fair mistress, your taste is as that of your tongue, and none would dare say otherwise.” I gave her the polite smile. “But Modal Nodes is currently Jabba the Hutt’s favored entertainment. Would you have it said that the entertainment at your wedding was provided by the musicians Jabba deemed too poor to play for him?”

  It took her a bit to work through it. I’d gotten a little carried away with my syntax; Whiphids have a working vocabulary of only about eight thousand words. “No! No, I won’t have it! I want the Nodal Notes!” She looked briefly uncertain. “Do you think they’ll come?”

  “They’ll be expensive, madam. They’ll be braving Jabba’s displeasure to play for you. It might cost … two, or three thousand credits, perhaps. If I can have the loan of a messenger droid, I would be most happy to begin making the arrangements …”

  The morning of the wedding I called Jabba.

  He laughed with, I think, real amusement on seeing me. “My least favorite spy!” he boomed. “Perhaps you should come visit me. We can have dinner together, and talk about the mercenary you introduced to me.”

  “I have information, Jabba.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Do you know your musicians are missing? Figrin Da’n and the Modal Nodes?”

  “Hmmmph!” He made a bellowing noise and rocked himself off camera. I heard shrieks, steel clanging, things breaking … I stood patiently in front of my comlink’s pickup and waited for him to come back, if he was going to. After a bit he did. “Hoooo,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Where are they, least favorite spy?”

  “The Lady Valarian is getting married today. She’s hired them to play at her wedding, at the Lucky Despot Hotel.”

  The eyes narrowed to slits. “And what does my least favorite spy want for this information?”

  I spread my hands. “Let us forget a certain unfortunate introduction …”

  He looked at me through the slitted eyes for a second, and then gave the booming laugh. “Least favorite spy, call me again sometime.”

  He broke the connection.

  Cold sweat trickled through the fur on the small of my back.

  Wuher had dressed for the wedding. He’d changed his shirt.

  The cantina was dark and silent; I’d never seen it like this before, except the first few minutes in the morning. I gave Wuher my invitation; the Lady Valarian had given it to me in gratitude for acquiring the “Nodal Notes” for her wedding, while hinting that, in the future, I might find it better business to share information with her rather than with Jabba.

  Someone’ll kill Jabba, someday, but it’s not going to be Valarian.

  “You’re sure the wedding’s going to be broken up,” he repeated.

  “I’m sure the Modal Nodes aren’t going to want to go back to Jabba after this. All you have to do is offer them a place to lie low for a while, play a few gigs, pick up a few credits. They’re going to be broke; Valarian won’t pay them after her wedding is broken up.”

  He shook his head, tucking his shirt in again. “You think they’ll go for it?”

  “I think they’ll jump at it.”

  Wuher stood there, studying me in the gloom. “Lab … if you put this kind of effort into anything else, you could be a wealthy being.”

  I shook my head, and said gently, “My friend, this is all that I want.”

  It’s hard to outthink Jabba. Also dangerous.

  I sat in the shadows of a building down the way from the Lucky Despot, watching the crowd arrive for the wedding. A scummy lot, all around. I recognized several of the “guests” as Jabba’s people. I hoped there wasn’t any shooting. I didn’t see enough of Jabba’s troops to make that likely; if he’d decided to wipe out Lady Valarian for her theft of his musicians, he’d have sent more soldiers. That was a good sign.

  I could hear, so faintly that my ears twitched, a song that might have been “Tears of Aquanna.” It was followed by what was, quite definitely, “Worm Case.” Odd choices for a wedding. Maybe they were playing requests.

  And then the bad news arrived.

  Stormtroopers.

  Two squads. They set down out of the night, quietly and with running lights doused, in full combat armor. One squad covered the entrance to the hotel, and the second squad went in. From the moment they set down I doubt it took them twenty seconds.

  Oh, the noise was awful. From where I sat, I could hear it. Screams, blaster bolts, yelling, another round of blaster fire—one of the stormtroopers near the entrance went down. I lifted my macrobinoculars and watched the building through them. Windows opened and the scum of a dozen different races came squirming out through them. I moved the macrobinoculars up, scanning across the structure of the half-buried ship … Toward the top of the ship, three stories above the dirty sand, an emergency airlock clanged open. The first head through it was a Bith. I couldn’t guess who: All Bith look alike, even when you’re not looking through macrobinoculars. More Bith followed, and then the unmistakable squat form of my friend Wuher. They took off across the sand together, Wuher and the Bith, and ran straight by me in the darkness without pausing.

  I’d never ha
ve guessed that Wuher could move that fast … and a moment later I saw why he was managing it. A pair of stormtroopers came charging after them, weapons at the ready. I shed a little Grace by tripping the one in the lead. The second stormtrooper tripped over him. I bent over them and picked up their rifles. I hadn’t handled an assault rifle in—well, in a very long time, but they hadn’t changed. I pulled the charge cages from them and handed them back to the two stormtroopers as they recovered their feet.

  “You appear to have dropped these, gentles.”

  One of them immediately jumped backward, rifle pointing at me, and shouted, “Don’t move!”

  The other one looked at me, and then at his rifle, and then at me again.

  “Come now,” I said gently. “We’re reasonable beings. You tripped and I helped you up again. No need for anyone to get upset. If you got injured in the fall, perhaps, I’d be more than happy to compensate you for it …”

  I let my voice trail off and the three of us watched each other for a beat.

  The one pointing the useless rifle at me said in a strained voice, “Are you trying to bribe us?”

  I drew myself up to my full height and stared down at them, and gave them the sharp smile. “Not,” I said, “if you’re going to be snotty about it.”

  In the morning, when I reached the cantina, I found the Modal Nodes already there, setting up.

  Wuher scowled at me. “I got shot at. By a stinking droid.”

  “I’m sorry.” He didn’t seem that angry, though … “You heard them play.”

  He nodded grudgingly. “Yeah. They’re pretty good.”

  “They’re the best,” I said softly. “And I think you know it.”

  He just snorted.

  “About my fee.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Free drinks for a year.”

  He snorted again. “Not bloody likely. We won’t get a year out of this lot; they’ll jump planet as soon as they can find some idiot to run the lines for them.”

  He had a point. Still—