by Renee Ahdieh
Today would be the day.
Greedo took a seat at the bar and signaled the sneering bartender for a drink. He watched the silver and brass pipes above gleam dully beneath a fog of swirling hookah smoke.
The tumbler of Corellian red swirled in his hands as he awaited his prey in silence. After he’d downed three of the brews, his attention drifted toward the arrival of a towering Wookiee. Since Chalmun—the purveyor of this establishment—was himself a Wookiee, the sight of these overgrown beasts was far from unusual in these parts. But this particular Wookiee caught Greedo’s attention nevertheless. His long green fingers clenched around his tumbler.
From the corner of his eye, Greedo watched the Wookiee begin making his rounds. Watched and waited.
“Hey!” The barkeep pointed over Greedo’s shoulder, his already disdainful face contorted with irritation. “We don’t serve their kind here!”
Greedo glanced behind him to see a wide-eyed boy with two droids clambering in his shadow. The boy looked like exactly the kind of fool who didn’t know any better and would likely die for it before the day was out. Why anyone would bring in droids to take up the spaces of living, breathing patrons, Greedo would never know.
“What?” the boy asked, his ridiculous eyes going even wider.
The barkeep ground out his retort. “Your droids…they’ll have to wait outside.”
His shoulders dropping, the boy muttered something unintelligible to his droids. This fool would be lucky to make it through an entire drink at Chalmun’s, never mind another year of his life in general.
Untried bantha fodder.
Snorting to himself, Greedo turned back toward the bar, continuing to tune out the mindless prattle of those seated nearby while the band changed its tune. His gaze settled on a beguiling young creature across the way, with eyes that shone like the barrel of a newly polished blaster.
Eyes just like those of Uncelta.
Curse her for being as big a fool as that boy with the droids.
Greedo would have loved her as she deserved to be loved. Not dallied with her like that Corellian scumbag had chosen to do.
Greedo continued observing Solo’s first mate from his periphery, biding his time. If he was patient, the Wookiee would lead Greedo’s quarry right into his clutches. Into a justice so long unserved. He was distracted from his musings by raised voices. That same awkward boy was engaged in the beginning of an altercation with exactly the kind of creature who would bring about his inevitable end. What kind of shirt was the boy wearing anyway? What sort of simpleton wore white in a spaceport as dirty as Mos Eisley? Sure enough, the boy flew back into a table at the first sign of a cross word. Further distracted by the ensuing commotion, Greedo twisted around in time to see an old man in a peculiar robe flash a weapon he’d heard of in passing but never seen in person: an ancient saber fashioned from growling blue light. The weapon snarled through the air, and the instigator’s severed arm struck the floor in almost the same breath.
Amid the strangled screams, Greedo laughed to himself. With nary a flinch, the Bith resumed playing their tuneless music.
After all, these kinds of disturbances were far from unusual in a place like Chalmun’s Cantina. Indeed, if the purveyor of the establishment had been present, he undoubtedly would have relished the spectacle. Wookiees were known to enjoy a good dismemberment as much as any Rodian did.
At the reminder, Greedo craned his neck closer toward the particular Wookiee he’d taken note of earlier. The hulking, fur-covered stranger had loped toward the bar and was now in the midst of a hushed conversation with the old man in possession of the snarling saber.
Greedo remained hunched and alert as the Wookiee signaled to someone hovering in the darkest fringes of the cantina. His stomach tightened into a coil of knots.
Solo was on his way.
A moment later, the smug coward ambled toward a table to the left of the bar and began chatting with the saber-wielding old man and the foolish boy.
The knot in Greedo’s stomach became a jumble. Anticipation flared through his center, mingling with that same satisfaction like kindling to a flame.
Today would be the day.
Greedo slunk lower into his barstool, continuing to bide his time. Continuing to wait for his opportunity.
He kept silent and still while a contingent of Imperial troops collected in front of the bar, drawn by the earlier commotion. The barkeep was all too eager to point them in the direction of the fool boy and his elderly bodyguard, who quickly ducked out of sight. Greedo’s ire spiked. Worry cut through his earlier blaze of triumph. If the stormtroopers thought to detain Solo, his opportunity would be lost. He thought for a moment about confronting him once and for all, with little concern for the presence of the Empire’s lackeys, but the risk was too great. And Greedo could not risk the additional possibility of rousing Jabba’s anger.
If Greedo did decide to throw caution to the wind, he might lose the chance to stare his enemy in the face and experience the supreme satisfaction of watching Solo squirm in fear, like the coward he was.
Greedo stood from the bar and moved into the shadows nearest to the alcove where Solo sat with his first mate, smiling as though he had not a care in the galaxy.
A breath of relief past Greedo’s lips when the stormtroopers passed the table and continued on their way.
As soon as the Wookiee left and Solo stood from the table, Greedo made his move, yanking his blaster from its holster. He would not waste this opportunity.
Today would be the day.
“Going somewhere, Solo?” he said in Huttese as he shoved the barrel of the blaster into Solo’s vest.
“Yes, Greedo, as a matter of fact, I was just going to see your boss.” The coward backed away, shoved toward the same alcove, his hands raised at his sides as though to convey a desire for peace. “Tell Jabba that I’ve got his money.” He sat down at the table.
“It’s too late,” Greedo said as he took the seat opposite Solo, a white lantern glowing before him, bathing the air between them in cool light.
Solo slouched into the back of the bench, an amused half smile beginning to curve up one side of his face.
Fury shot through Greedo’s chest. “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. I’m lucky I found you first.” He laughed under his breath. Perhaps luck had nothing to do with it. It had been his patience. His intuition. His hatred.
Perhaps if Uncelta could see them now, she would not have made the same mistake she’d made those many years ago.
Hate filled the hollow around Greedo’s heart.
The sight of Solo tossing his booted leg onto the tabletop and grinning with casual arrogance only heightened Greedo’s growing rage.
The suggestion of a frown fell upon Solo’s face. It was gone in almost the same instant. “Yeah, but this time I’ve got the money.” He waved his left hand through the air, once more the picture of supreme arrogance.
“If you give it to me, I might forget I found you.” Forget? Greedo could never forget. But he would gladly take the scum’s money before delivering him to Jabba.
Or perhaps he’d blast a hole through Solo’s chest. Just like Uncelta had done to him.
Solo winced with irritation. “I don’t have it with me.” He glanced over his shoulder and began circling his fingers across the rough wall at his back, as though he were toying with something only he could see. His head lolled against the gleaming bracer above the bench. “Tell Jabba—”
“Jabba’s through with you.” Unmistakable irritation laced Greedo’s words. “He has no time for smugglers who drop their shipments at the first sign of an Imperial cruiser.”
“Even I get boarded sometimes.” Solo’s retort was curt. “You think I had a choice?”
“You can tell that to Jabba. He may only take your ship.” Greedo’s finger tightened on the trigger of his blaster.
Solo
’s left hand fell from the wall. “Over my dead body.” Whatever lingering traces of amusement that remained vanished from his eyes as a shadow descended across his features.
“That’s the idea.” Triumph spread through Greedo as satisfaction began to take root once more. “I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.” He grinned, peace tinging the air around him with a strange sweetness. At last, vengeance would be his. He would live to see Jabba rob Han Solo of the only thing the coward prized. And it would be glorious.
“Yes, I bet you have.” Solo glanced to one side as though in thought.
The last thing the luckless Rodian saw was a flash of bright light.
His last memory was that of bitter injustice.
Excerpt from The Lady Has a Jocimer: My Life as a Modal Node, A Memoir by Ickabel G’ont
CHAPTER 3: NOT FOR NOTHING
Tatooine was the worst place in the galaxy for Bith.
When your skin is milky white-pink and your eyes are lidless and tearless, a planet with two suns, high heat, and blowing sand is essentially a jail sentence.
When Figrin D’an and the Modal Nodes got a gig on this planet, we all protested.
“Our skin will burn off our skulls!” Tech M’or said.
“What if we get sand in our eyes, D’an?” I demanded. I have the best eyes of the whole band, and even I find myself particularly sensitive to irritants. “How good are we going to play when we are staggering around looking for an eyewash? Do they even have eyewashes on Tatooine?”
Then came Lie #1: “We are invited to play for the ruling lord on Tatooine. I’m sure his palace will have all the accommodations we will need.”
He didn’t say that the ruling lord was a Hutt, a species that’s not really known for hospitable and clean living spaces.
Then came Lie #2: “We are only there for a standard week, tops.”
We were there over a year.
Then the best Lie, #3: “The money is incredible.”
Now, if I’d been D’an, I would have let the group know the facts this way: “I’ve got some bad news. I’m in serious debt to a Hutt and have sold all of you into indentured servitude in the sandy armpit of the galaxy. Once we pay off the debt, we will have to find other gigs in order to get enough money to get the hell off the planet. Working for the Hutt will be the worst job you will ever have.”
We didn’t talk to him for weeks after the truth made itself known. We played for Jabba and his companions within the palace. (Were they companions? Visitors? Prisoners? We were never sure.)
“Palace.” Please. I’ve seen palaces. I’ve performed for kings. This was no palace.
After a few months we finally accepted that this was our lot in life, and the one bit of good news was we were still the Modal Nodes, which meant we played the best music in the galaxy. Never mind that it was for a crime lord slug and his lackeys and slaves, but it reminded us of our humble beginnings when you took what gigs you got offered.
You also pay attention. You never know what kind of dirt you can get. We watched people wheedle, cajole, and deal with Jabba. One interesting thing about Bith that other species don’t really know is how we can separate different sounds around us. It’s what makes us such good musicians. We can listen to the different instruments separately or together to make sure everyone is in tune and working well together.
We can also listen to conversations that otherwise would be drowned out in lesser ears. So we were privy to many of Jabba’s dealings that happened while we played, and he had no idea. We learned to know and hate many of the residents of this world. One of my least favorite people was Greedo, a Rodian bounty hunter. He is actually the person who found Figrin D’an and delivered him to Jabba.
We hadn’t known D’an had a price on his head. The things your bandleader doesn’t tell you.
D’an had me keep a close eye on Greedo and find some dirt on him. I pointed out the bucket of sand I had to wash out of my eyes every night and said I got dirt on everyone, it’s right there, but he told me to get over it and stop complaining. Brave card to play, as he put us in this situation, but D’an always was a terrible gambler.
So I watched Greedo. He would bring in small-time criminals who owed Jabba, get a pat on the head and a handful of credits, and stalk away, very proud of himself. I kept track of the money he demanded from Jabba, and the money that he got, and the times he would slip keys or blasters to his quarry so they could escape, and then he would bring them back in for another reward. He brought in one poor Jawa three times.
When it was time to pay off our debt, Jabba asked for more than twice what he said D’an initially had owed him. We expected this, so D’an counteroffered information instead of more credits. That’s when he brought Greedo down. Jabba was furious at the bounty hunter, and actually let us go—
—in the middle of the desert. Naturally. But when a giant slug surrounded by several heavies with weapons sets you free in the middle of the desert, you thank him kindly for the freedom and get moving. We counted our stars that he let us go at night so we could at least avoid the suns. I honestly didn’t expect him to let us go at all. So, thanks Jabba. I’ll buy you a cup of slime the next time we see you.
[Ed. Note: Since the writing of this memoir, Jabba the Hutt has been murdered by an unknown assassin within his palace. Jabba the Hutt cannot be thanked anymore. Still, the author requested we leave this entreaty in the text.]
We made it to Mos Eisley soon after the suns rose, which was good because my hands were beginning to turn pink, and my eyes were burning. We found a place for the band to stay while D’an, like a good leader, went to get us a gig.
Tech went with him because he wanted to make sure D’an wouldn’t go and gamble away our new freedom in pursuit of more credits.
Now is when I suppose I have to answer the question you’ve been asking yourself. Why in all of the galaxy do we choose to stay with D’an? He put us in slavery to a Hutt. He got us marooned on a planet that is antithetical to Bith. He gambles like a drunken uncle with bad luck.
The reason should be obvious: Figrin D’an is the best composer and bandleader you will ever find this side of the galaxy. We knew that if we left, we’d never be able to find another leader quite like him. When we’re getting thrown into shackles or washing sand out of our eyes, it’s hard to appreciate him. When we’re playing, nothing in all the worlds is better.
We found two cheap rooms to keep all eight of us, and played a game of hiller dice to decide who would be stuck sweeping the filthy place, who had to cover the windows, and who was able to sit and relax from the horrible travel we’d suffered. I was stuck with the window duty, and as I unrolled the black fabric to protect us from the glare, I caught the sight of a slim green snout sticking out from a cloak scurrying down the road.
Uh-oh.
I secured the fabric and then asked if anyone knew where D’an and Tech had gone. The rest of them shrugged, and I grabbed my cloak, left the apartment, and headed back into the Tatooine heat.
Now that we’d had a bit of a rest and some not-so-brackish water to drink, I was able to take a look at the new town we inhabited. It was…well it was better than Jabba’s palace, but that’s not saying much. Hot, sandy, run-down, and no one would look you in the eye.
Also, stormtroopers patrolled the streets. One stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “We’re looking for two droids.”
“I haven’t seen anything,” I said, and then realized I had an opportunity. “Around here, anyway. But I just spent some time at Jabba the Hutt’s palace, and I’m pretty sure he brought in at least two new droids recently.”
“What did they look like?” he demanded.
“Um, one was green? Or maybe blue,” I said, guessing.
He stood back on his heels, and although I couldn’t see his face, he exuded a mood of either disbelief or reluctance. A trooper with an orange half sleeve came up to him. “What have you found?” he asked.
“She says she saw a droid like
that in the area of the Hutt’s domicile,” his companion said, as if not wanting to deliver the information.
“Check it out,” he said, and left.
The remaining trooper took another look at me, and I could feel the dislike radiating off him.
“Good luck,” I said, and scurried away. I had kept an eye on Greedo as he headed with purpose down the street. I wish I’d known where D’an had gone, but I had to think that he was looking for a gig, so he would be searching for bars and dance halls.
Mos Eisley didn’t look like a place with many dance halls. But it did look like a place people would need a drink. I inquired of a passing woman where the closest bar was and she pointed me a few doors down. Luckily Greedo had already passed this bar, so I ducked in.
D’an and Tech were inside, speaking with a large Wookiee. A disgruntled Rodian, taller and darker-skinned than Greedo, was packing up a flute and making a big production out of it. He pushed by D’an rudely, shouting that no one fires Doda Bodonawieedo. D’an didn’t make things better by shouting after him that Chalmun just had fired Doda Bodonawieedo.
D’an spied me. “Ickabel, this is Chalmun, owner of—”
“—Chalmun’s Cantina, I get it,” I said. “Can we talk for a second?”
D’an sent Tech to talk to me while he palled around with our new boss.
“What a pit, huh?” Tech asked, looking around the cantina.
“Better than Jabba’s,” I said. From then on, “better than Jabba’s” would be how we would describe anything that was terrible. “And speaking of which, I saw Greedo sniffing around outside. If he finds us in here, we could have a problem.”
Tech grinned at me. “The Wookiee says he comes in all the time. But this is the safest place on the planet.” He pointed to the signs on the wall listing, in several languages, the rules of the cantina.