Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina
Page 1
STAR WARS
TALES FROM THE MOS EISLEY CANTINA
Edited by Kevin J. Anderson
Scan/OCR/Spellcheck - Demilich (demilich_2000@yahoo.com)
We Don't Do Weddings The Band's Tale
By Kathy Tyers
Jabba the Hutt's cavernous, smoky Presence Room stank of
spilled intoxicants and sweaty body armor. Guards and henchmen,
dancers and bounty hunters, humans and Jawas and Weequays and
Arcona lay where they'd toppled, crumpled under arches or piled in
semiprivate cubicles or sprawled in the open. The inner portcullis
yawned open. Just another all-nighter at Jabba's palace.
That portcullis bothers me-what if we want to leave in a
hurry?-but it keeps out the worst of the riffraff.
Let me rephrase that. The worst of the riffraff, Jabba himself,
paid us well. Crime lord, connoisseur, critic; his hairless,
blotchy tail twitched in rhythm when we played. Not our rhythm.
His.
We are Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes, members in good
standing of the Intergalactic Federation of Musicians, and we
are-or were-Jabba's full-time resident entertainers. I've never
spotted his ears, but Jabba appreciates a good swing band. He also
likes controlling credit and inflicting pain, and he finds either
more therapeutic than our music.
Huddled on the back of the stage, we put away our horns while
Jabba's guests snored. My Fizzz-you symphonic ridgebrows would
call it a Dorenian Beshniquel, but this is jizz-slips into a thin
case in less time than it takes to roll an Imperial inspector and
check his pockets for credit vouchers.
We are Bith. Our high hairless craniums manifest a superior
evolutionary level, and our mouth folds pucker into a splendid
embouchure for wind instruments. We perceive sounds as precisely
as other species perceive color.
Our band leader, Figrin Da'n, was wearily swabbing his Kloo
Horn (there's a joke there, but you'd have to speak Bithian to get
it). It's a longer double-reed than my Fizzz, richer in pastel
harmonics but not so sweet. Tedn and Ickabel were arguing over
their Fanfar cases. Nalan had started disconnecting the horn bells
from his Bandfill, and Tech-we look alike to non-Bith, but you
might've picked out Tech by the glazed gleam in his eyes-sat
slumped over his Ommni Box. Plaster chips from a midnight blaster
skirmish littered the Ommni's reception dish. (The Ommni clips our
peaks, attenuates the lows, reverbs and amps the total sound.
Playing it takes even a Bith's full genius. Tech hates Figrin.
Figrin won the Ommni last season in a sabacc game.)
"Hey, Doikk." Figrin's head glistened. It was going to be a
typical Tatooine scorcher, and Jabba's temp exchanger needed
repair.
I cinched down my Fizzz. My Fizzz. "What?" I had a shot "lip,"
as humans call it. I was in no mood for foolishness.
"Time for a friendly hand of sabacc?"
"I don't gamble, Figrin."
Figrin brushed the sheen off his head with one knobby hand.
"You're thermal, Doikk."
And you're compulsive. "All musicians are thermal."
"You're thermal for a musician. Who ever heard of a bander that
didn't gamble?"
I'm the band's inside outsider, the straight man. I've carried
that sweet little Fizzz through six systems. I peg it when it
cracks and lube it when the keys click. I carve my own reeds. I
wasn't betting it on any sabacc match. Not even to placate Fiery
Figrin Da'n, a bandleader who criticizes every missed note, owns
everybody (else)'s instruments, and isn't shy about giving orders.
"I don't gamble, Figrin. You know th-"
A smoky silhouette rolled in through the main arch. "Figrin," I
mouthed, "turn around. Slowly."
The droid's wasp waist, huge shoulders, and squared-off head
had scalded my memory shortly after Jabba gave us our exclusive
contract his vintage E522 Assassin. Eefive-tootoo had saved my
neck when one of Jabba's human sail-barge tenders accused me of
munching out of Jabba's private snack tank of live freckled toads.
Luckily for me, Eefive-tootoo gave me an alibi. I'd vowed never
again to have more to do with humans than necessary.
But Jabba'd been hot to feed someone to the rancor. Justice
would've suggested throwing in my human accuser, but Jabba and
Justice are not on speaking terms. They dropped Eefive, liberally
smeared with meat juice, through the rancor's trapdoor in front of
Jabba's throne. By the time Jabba's huge, slavering mutant spat
him out, he was beyond repair.
Or so I'd thought. Was he back for revenge?
He wore no restraining bolt. Rolling around a
blaster-scarred column, he headed toward us. Frantically I
looked around. Nobody showed signs of waking up to rescue us.
The droid raised his upper limbs. Both ended at elbow joints.
Somebody'd disengaged his business parts -but that didn't leave
him helpless. Assassin droids carry backup.
"Figrin Da'n?" he asked in a brassy green treble.
"What would you do . . . if you found him?" Figrin sidled
closer to me, trying to sound colorless. I've never carried a
blaster. I wished I had one then, for all the good it would've
done.
"Message delivery," honked the droid. "Do not fear. My
assassination programming has been erased, and as you can see, my
weapons are gone. My new employer saved me from deconstruction by
using me this way."
"He doesn't remember us," Figrin whispered in Bithian. "His
memory's been erased, too."
As I slowed my breathing, my longstanding attitude about
assassin droids resurfaced Never worry about one you can see. He
hadn't fired before we spotted him, so we were safe. And I've
always gotten along better with droids than with most sentients.
Particularly humans. i But as for stripping Eefive of his weapons,
that would be like . . . like saving my life by cutting off all my
fingers.
"Who's your new owner?" I asked.
The droid hissed, shushing me with white noise.
I dropped my voice. "Who?" I repeated sotto voce.
The answer came softly. "Mistress Valarian."
Oh, ho. Val to her friends, Jabba's chief rival in the
spaceport town of Mos Eisley, a tusk-mouthed Whiphid recently
arrived on Tatooine. Gambling, weapons running, information for
sale, the usual . . . but she'd thrived. No wonder she sent a
recycled envoy.
Now that I'd processed the lack of immediate risk, I leaned
back against the stage. "What does she want?"
"She wishes to hire your services for a wedding, to be held in
Mos Eisley at her Lucky Despot Hotel."
I'd heard of the Lucky Despot. Figrin puckered his lip folds.
"We don't do weddings," we
answered in unison.
Please understand. A wedding gig wastes two days (three days,
with some species, plus the time it takes to learn new music).
You're treated like a recording, told to repeat impossible phrases
and lengthen the usual processional, and ordered to play a final
chord as the nerve-wracked principals arrive center stage ... if
they arrive. Someone always brings a screaming neonate. Then the
reception, where they inebriate themselves until no one hears a
note. All this for half pay and full satisfaction You've helped
perpetuate a species.
Eefive swiveled his flat head toward Figrin. Obviously his
recognition circuits still functioned. "Mistress Valarian procured
a mate from her home world," he declared.
Good thing I wasn't drinking. I'd've choked. The only thing
uglier than a Hutt is a Whiphid. I tried to imagine another
gargantuan, rank-furred, yellow-tusked Whiphid arriving on
Tatooine. Valarian had probably promised luxury accommodations and
good hunting. Wait'11 he saw Mos Eisley.
The droid continued. "This job is for their reception only.
Mistress Valarian offers your band three thousand credits.
Transport and lodging provided, and unlimited meals and drinks
during your stay. Also five breaks during the reception."
Three thousand credits? With my share, I could start my own
band-live in the finest habitats-
Figrin hunched forward. "Sabacc tables?" he asked.
Too late, I recovered from my greed attack. Jabba had given us
an exclusive contract. He wouldn't like our performing for
Valarian, and when Jabba frowns, somebody dies. No, Figrin! I
thought
"Except while performing, certainly," the droid answered.
I buzzed my mouth folds for Figrin's attention, but his sublime
vision didn't deal me in. Figrin set down his deck and commenced
negotiating.
We flew into Mos Eisley during first twilight, with one of the
suns dipping behind a dull, murky horizon. Our cramped little
transport skimmed through the decaying southern sector,
chauffeured by an orange service droid. He, like the former
assassin, wore no restraining bolt, which predisposed me to like
their owner. Sentient shadows slipped into darkening corners as we
drove past. The byword in Mos Eisley, which looks like a cluster
of populated sand dunes, is camouflage. If nobody sees you, nobody
shoots you. Or testifies against you in what passes for local
courts.
Three stories above one of Mos Eisley's nameless streets, twin
beacons blinked like ship lamps, and brilliant yellow beams glowed
out of a wide-open entry hatch. The droid maneuvered us closer. A
long curving ramp and straight stairs swooped up from street level
to the elevated main entry. Beneath the stairway, I spotted the
hotel's most notable feature three large portholes.
A group of investors crazy enough to sink their credits on
Tatooine had towed a beat-up cargo hauler here and sunk a quarter
of it under the sand. Debris blown in by a recent dust storm lay
clumped along its near side, which had been starboard. Antenna-
cluster wreckage drooped over what must've been the cockpit. I
mentally saluted the Lucky Despot with the spacer's traditional
appraisal of somebody else's ship What a piece of junk.
Our speeder settled at the foot of the long ramp. "Disembark
here, gentles," droned the droid.
We unloaded our gear from the airbus's cargo compartment onto a
repulsor cart. We'd only brought one change of clothes and our
performing outfits, and left the rest of our belongings at Jabba's
palace. Mos Eisley's odors-ship fuels, rancid food, low-tech
industrial
haze, and the sheer desensitizing smell of hot sand- hung in
sullen air.
Once inside the lobby, We blinked while our eyes adjusted. An
orange-suited human security guard slouched at one corner. No sign
of Lady Val. Mentally I recategorized her. She might trust droids,
but she equated musicians with kitchen help.
"This way." Our droid led us past an extremely attractive front-
desk person, species unknown to me, whose multifaceted eyes
glistened prettily. A long, vast room filled a third of the ex-
ship's top deck. Reflective black bulkheads and a shiny black
floor enveloped several dozen sparsely populated tables, but more
than one table tottered over damaged legs, and here and there
white strips showed through the peeling black bulkhead. In
here-the famous Star Chamber Cafe- we set up and started a number
to get the room's acoustics. Early diners clapped, clicked their
claws, or snapped their mandibles. Satisfied, we repacked our gear
and grabbed an empty dinner table. Within minutes, the show began.
A comet whizzed past Figrin's head. Constellations appeared
beneath the ceiling and reflected in my soup.
Holographic sabacc spreads flickered into existence over
several tables. Now I remembered the rest of what I'd heard Jabba
had made sure the Despot never got her gambling license from local
Imperial bribemeisters, so Valarian had to hide her gaming
equipment until dark. Reportedly Jabba warned Lady Val of planned
police raids . . . for a price.
Figrin ate rapidly, pulled out his deck, and wandered away.
Tonight he would lose. On purpose. My other comrades joined a low-
stakes Schickele match.
I found a bored-looking Kubaz security guard and struck up a
conversation. Kubaz make excellent security staff. Their long
prehensile noses discern scents the way Bith distinguish pitch and
timbre, and a Kubaz's greenish-black skin blends into every
shadow. In exchange for my personal stats, which he probably knew
anyway, and a mug of mildly intoxicating lum, I found out that the
green-caped Kubaz's name was Thwim, that he was born on Kubindi,
and that Mistress Valarian's prospective bridegroom, D'Wopp, was
an expert hunter-common enough profession on their homeworld.
I also spotted a familiar triangular face. Not friendly, but
familiar. Kodu Terrafin pilots Jabba's courier run between palace
and town house. He's Arcona Dressed in a spacer's coverall, he
looks like a dirt-brown snake with clawed legs and arms and a
large, anvil-shaped head.
I kept up my conversation with Thwim as Kodu minced from table
to table, swiveling the anvil head. I watched sidelong. Abruptly I
spotted the yellow-green glitter of his eyes.
Immediately he slithered in my direction. He's got me mixed up
with another Bith, I thought wearily. Thwim pushed back, lifting
one edge of his cape, and made room for Kodu.
"Figrin, ihss it?" The bulbous scent organ between Kodu's
faceted eyes twitched.
"Not quite," I mumbled.
"Oh, Doikk. Hssorry." At least he knew my voice. "Information
for hssale. Want to find Figrin?"
I glanced toward Figrin's glimmering holographic sabacc table.
Our leader hunched crookedly over his cards, feigning
intoxication. Not a good time to interrupt. (Who made Doikk Na'ts
Kodu pushed closer. "I don't want to hsstay," he hissed. "Do
you want to buy? You'd hbetter." He smiled smugly.
"Ten," I offered. Figrin would cover that, if the news was
worth hearing. Thwim watched the Uvide wheel studiously. His
prehensile nose quivered as a cluster of Jawas hurried by,
jabbering rapidly.
"A hhundred," Kodu answered without hesitation. Within three
minutes we'd settled on thirty-five. He aligned his cred card with
mine and we effected the transfer.
"Jabba." Kodu clicked his fingerclaws. "He'ss angry."
"Angry?" I glanced around. "Who, this time? Why?"
"You hsskipped out on your contract."
My stomachs knotted around each other. "We got another band to
cover for us! Not as good as we are, but-"
"Jabba notissed."
It was the worst compliment imaginable. Who'd have guessed the
big slug paid attention? "What'd he do?"
Kodu shrugged. "Fed two guardss to the rancor and promissed
..." He shrugged again, skinny shoulders rising along his brown
neck.
Promised to pay well if someone hauled us back to the palace.
Good-bye, IFM retirement home. "Thanks, Kodu." I tried to sound as
if I meant it. I'd left a sentimental mother at the bubbling pink
swamps of Clak'dor VII. She missed her musical son.
Kodu touched his blaster. "Good-bye, Doikk. Good luck."
Luck. Right. Either we slipped out of Jabba's range fast, in
which case Kodu wouldn't see me again,
I weaseled through the crowd to Figrin's table. Fortunately,
Figrin had just lost big-time. A Duro shuffled the sabacc deck,
scattering and regathering card-tiles with a deft gray hand. I
tugged Figrin's collar. "Finish up. Bad news."
He excused himself droopily and arose. It takes twice as long
to cross a room when you're looking over your shoulder every other
step. Jabba pays well for mayhem.
We found an empty spot at the bar. "What?" Figrin's eyes seemed
to have shrunk spicing already, or faking it well.
I dropped the news on him. "We've got our instruments and two
changes of clothes," I finished.
"But I'm losing. I'm behind."
I flicked my mouth folds. We would also need this gig money to
buy food till we could get another job- or Jabba recovered from
his temper. I explained that to Figrin.
Barlight reflections wobbled back and forth on his head as he