shook it. "We'll get offjplanet," he said.
"What about your . . . stash, back at Jabba's?"
"Nothing irreplaceable. We'll leave tomorrow afternoon, after
.the wedding. I'm ready for bigger crowds again."
I agreed. "Even if gigs aren't so regular, out there in the
competition." We've always had a following, but you can't eat
"esoteric."
"Richer tables, too," he added, gilding his voice. "Somebody'd
better stay awake tonight. Did I hear you volunteer?"
So the spicing act was just that . . . an act. "I'll take the
first shift," I said.
Our band set up bleary-eyed the next morning in the Star
Chamber Cafe. After breakfast, wedding guests started prancing,
oozing, and staggering into the Lucky Despot's lounge. Waiting in
the cafe, we tuned. I tried to imagine a Whiphid wedding (Did they
osculate, lock tusks, or shout battle cries at the climactic
moment?). I'd spotted two turbolifts, a kitchen entry, the main
entry, and a small circular hatch that must've once been an
emergency airlock. My caped, long-snouted friend Thwim staunchly
held up one end of the bar. Around ten banqueting tables, Lady
Vat's staff laid out food, programmed bartend droids, and hung
garlands, making the Star Chamber as classy as it could be, given
its state of disrepair.
Beyond the big tables lay a dozen little ones. I could almost
feel Figrin's mouth folds twitch, anticipating a wealthy crowd in
the mood to celebrate.
A red-raucous cheer erupted in the lounge. "They must be
married," Figrin mumbled. Beings streamed out into the cafe.
Figrin swung into our opening number. Before we finished, I'd
started to sweat . . . and not from the heat. Several of Jabba's
toughs had ridden the wave of that stream into the cafe. Were they
invited guests? Or had Jabba set us up a one-way trip to the
Great Pit of Carkoon?
One more time, I looked around at Valarian's security. Eefive-
tootoo stood beside her back hatch, gleaming new blasters and
needlers retrofitted for the occasion . . . and a shiny new
restraining bolt dead center on his massive chest. Evidently she
only trusted droids so far.
A young human tottered up to our stage, wearing clean,
unpatched clothing and a slouch. "Play 'Tears of Aquanna.' " He
tugged Figrin's pant leg where it gathered above his boot. Figrin
pulled his leg free.. The human repeated his request, then headed
toward,, me.
I didn't want my pants stretched. "Got it," I said toward him,
then took a fast breath and hit my E flat entrance.
How were we to know that a local gang had adopted one of our
numbers as their official song? The slouch and several friends
huddled at the foot of our stage and caterwauled lyrics they'd
obviously invented.
Several other humans lurched toward the stage, glaring. I
elbowed Figrin. He took an unorthodox cut to the coda. We finished
playing before the gang finished singing. Several of them
glowered.
One newcomer, a darkly tanned female, shoved a nonsinging
bystander aside. "Now play 'Worm Case,' " she growled in a voice
that matched the shade of her skin. "For Fixer and Camie."
"Got it," said Figrin. I have a six-bar intro into "Worm Case."
I cut it to four.
When you've played a piece six hundred times from memory, you
lose track of where you are during the six hundred and first. This
time through, it became a crazy game of cut-and-patch. I don't
remember having so much fun with that moldy jump tune. This group
didn't try to sing.
Thwim and another security guard accompanied both gangs away. I
rechecked Jabba's toughs. They'd gathered near the bar, just
killing time ... for now.
At the end of that set, Figrin headed for a sabacc table. I
lingered onstage, up out of the congealing smokes and odors.
One of the ugliest humans I'd ever met, with a diagonal sneer
for a mouth, sauntered over carrying two mugs. "You dry?" he asked
in a surly black tone. "This one's lum, that one's wedding punch."
"Thanks." Despite my distaste, I seized the mug of punch and
put down half of it.
"You're welcome." My plug-ugly sat down on one edge of the
reflective bandstand, then stared out over the crowd. Not wanting
to turn his back. Probably a native. I wondered if he'd consider
it polite to ask his name, or if he'd take a swing at me. "Good
band," he muttered. "What're you doing on Tatooine?"
I set down my mug beside the Ommni. "Good question," I said
stiffly. "We've played the best palladiums in six systems."
"I believe it. You're excellent. But you haven't answered my
question."
I began to warm toward him. "You're looking at it." I nodded
down toward Figrin's gaming table. "We were passing through and
got stuck. You work around here?"
"Yah." Sounding blue-gray, he picked up my mug. "I tend bar up
the street. Rough living, but somebody's gotta keep the droids
from taking over."
I hissed softly in a range humans find inaudible. Droids
improve life. I was getting ready to remind him when he said "Keep
your reed wet, my friend," and hustled away.
Was he one of the rare, approachable types? Had that been a
warning? I looked for Thwim by his green cape and twitching snout,
but I couldn't spot either.
Soon Figrin rejoined us on the bandstand. "Losing?" I murmured
as he plugged in his horn.
"Naturally. Give me an A." We swung back to work. At the table
just below us, something changed hands with infinitesimal, micron-
per-minute movements a normal Mos Eisley business deal.
Something else-something huge-lumbered into
view. Two gargantuan Whiphids-two and a half meters of tusk and
claw and pale yellow fur, lashed together with a garland of
imported greenery-danced toward our stage with their long furry
arms draped around each other. I stood on a platform, but their
heads towered over mine.
D'Wopp stared rapturously into the broad, leathery, tusk-
bottomed face of his bride. Without seeing the surreptitious
traders already occupying the closest table, the Despot's owner
and her professional hunter sank onto empty chairs. They started
untwisting greenery.
I held my head at an angle that made it look as if I were
staring out over the dance floor, but actually, I was watching one
of Jabba's toughs, an anemic, gray-skinned Duro, glide in our
direction . . . alone.
A trio of Pappfaks twirled past, entwining their turquoise
tentacles in something that looked like a prenuptial embrace of
their own. They nearly tripled over a mouse droid wheeling toward
Lady Val. Seeing the droid, our hostess bride excused herself from
D'Wopp with a fond pat of his lumpy head. She followed the droid
toward her kitchens.
The Duro's red eyes lit. He edged along the dance floor,
approached D'Wopp, paused, and bowed. "Gooood hunting, Whiphid?"
Jabba's Duro shouted, gargling through rub
bery lips. He extended a
thin, knobby hand.
D'Wopp's massive paw closed on the Duro's arm, dangling a
ribbon of leaves. "Explain that remark, Duro, or I shall serve
your roasted ribs to my lady for breakfast."
"No-o, no-o." The Duro rocked his head, cringing. "I do not
signify your lo-ovely mate. I am addressing D'Wopp, bounty hunter
of great r-repute, am I not?"
Placated, D'Wopp released the gray arm. "I am he." He tilted
his head back. "Is there someone you want splashed, Duro?"
I breathed a little easier, too. Playing by memory means
occasional boredom and backflashes, but sor times it saves your
neck. I kept listening and playing. 1
"Has the lovely br-ride offered any game yet?" asked the Duro.
D'Wopp flicked one tusk with a foreclaw. "What is your point?"
I strained to hear the Duro answer. "There is a bigger-r boss
on Tatooine, excellent one. Lady Valarian pays him protection
money. A Whiphid who truly looves the hunt doesn't settle for
small bait. My employer just offered a r-record bounty. You're
probably not looking for work at the moment, but opportunities
like this come r-rarely."
So the toughs were baiting Lady Val through her bridegroom-and
not us! Goggle-eyed, I hit a string of offbeats and reminded
myself that Jabba had plenty of time to come for us.
D'Wopp clenched his paws over the table. "Bounty? Is it a
fierce bait?"
The Duro shrugged. "His name is Solo. Small-time smuggler-r,
but he made the boss big-time mad. Jabba has man-ny more enemies
than Lady Valarian has, reputable D'Wopp." The Duro's red eyes
blinked. "May I sponsor-r you to the mighty Jabba?"
The Whiphid's leathery nose twitched. "Record bounty?"
At last the Duro dropped his voice. I missed the numbers that
clinched the deal, but D'Wopp sprang up. "Tell your employer that
D'Wopp will bring in the corpse. I shall meet him then."
Solo . . . Figrin had mentioned him as a tolerable sabacc
player, for a human. Now he was my fellow bait on Jabba's short
list. The Duro whined, "Ar-ren't you staying for the celebration?"
"Later," said D'Wopp. "My mate and I shall celebrate my
glorious return. She is Whiphid. She will understand."
Lady Val reappeared out of the crowd. Jabba's Duro melted back
into it like an ice cube on a sand dune. I held my breath. Figrin
counted off another song, one I
didn't know so well. I had to concentrate. Something rumbled at
the foot of the stage. A deep voice shouted "fickle" in Basic. A
gruffer one called "dishonorable."
My reed squeaked. Two bellows boomed out in an unidentifiable
language. Our loving couple attacked each other tusk and claw,
right below the bandstand. I stepped back and almost tripped over
Tech's Ommni. Figrin missed tipping the Fanfar by millimeters.
A crowd gathered instantly. Mos Eisley being what it is, and
with Jabba's brutes cheerleading, this brawl would spread like a
sandstorm. I took advantage of a five-beat rest and blurted out
the danger signal. "Sundown. Sundown, Figrin."
"I'm still losing," Figrin hissed. "We can't leave yet."
At the foot of stage left, Lady Val careened sideways into a
knot of onlookers. Regaining her balance, she dragged three of
them back into the multicolored melee. D'Wopp whistled twice. Two
young Whiphids charged in. Jabba's toughs stampeded their side of
the onlookers from behind. Lady Val shrieked. Every off-planet
gangster in town, and every passerby who'd had too much of Jabba,
rushed in on Lady Val's side. Chairs flew. One crashed into the
bulkhead, offstage left.
Figrin bent over the Ommni. "End of set, thank you very much,"
he announced vainly over the bedlam. Tech, wide awake for once,
broke down the Ommni. I couldn't find my Fizzz case. Glancing
frantically around, I spotted white armor at the grand entry.
Stormtroopers? Not even Valarian could've called in Enforcement
that quickly! All sabacc projectors shut down simultaneously, but
the gang at the uvide table got caught with its wheel spinning.
Just this once, I guessed, Jabba hadn't tipped off Lady Val.
I'd've even bet that he sent the Stormtroopers himself, but I
don't gamble.
"Back door!" Figrin leaped off one end of the stage, barely
missing a bulky human's murderous backswing. We followed Figrin
along the bulkhead, clutching our instruments-our livelihood. I
spotted my new friend Thwim bashing heads. "Help us! We're
unarmed!" I shouted.
His nose swiveled toward us. He leveled his blaster into the
midst of us and fired. Tedn shrieked and dropped his Fanfar case.
Appalled, I ducked. "Get the instruments!" Figrin cried. Nalan
dove into a scrum and emerged carrying one arm at an odd angle-and
two Fanfar cases. I grabbed Tedn's unwounded arm and pulled him
closer to the hatch, mentally promising anything and everything to
any deity listening, if only I could escape with my fingers
unbroken and my uncased Fizzz undamaged.
Eefive stood his post, calmly blasting every being that
approached him. Figrin stopped running so suddenly that Tech
almost bowled him over.
I glanced back over my shoulder. No use heading that way.
Imperial and unlicensed weapons popped off all over the Star
Chamber Cafe.
Well, I reminded myself, I've always had better relations with
draids than with sentients. I marched straight toward Eefive.
"Doikk!" Figrin cried. "Get back here! Get away-"
Eefive didn't shoot. Just as I'd figured, he still had us on
his recognition circuits. "Let us out," I pleaded. Something
whizzed'over my head from behind.
"Shut the hatch behind you," he honked.
"Go!" I shouted at Figrin, motioning him past me.
Figrin ducked under my arm and cranked the hatch open. I stood
rearguard. As daylight appeared through the hatch, beings of all
shapes and sizes charged at it. I spotted the slash-mouthed hu man
bartender among them.
I hesitated. If nothing else, I owed him for a sweet mug of
punch. "Come on!" I shouted, then I ordered Eefive, "Don't shoot
that human."
Eefive may have recognized me, but he didn't take my orders. He
pointed his needier straight at the bartender. Plug-ugly dropped
to the floor, surprisingly agile for such a big human. "High
register," he cried. "Do a slide!"
It sounded crazy, but I raised my uncased Fizzz and let out a
squeal, pushing it higher with all the breath I could muster.
Somewhere along the squeal, I must've hit the control frequency
for that brand-new restraining bolt. The droid shut down.
The barman sprang up and rushed past me. We squeezed into the
airlock together. "Stinkin' droids," he muttered, wiping blood off
his nose. "Stinkin', lousy droids."
I emerged on a narrow duracrete ledge, three stories up. The
bartender leaned back, sandwiching my Fizzz between his gray-
belted bulk and a pitted bulkhead. "Careful! That's my horn!" I
cried, teetering as I
glanced down. Figrin jumped off the foot of
a precipitous steel escape ladder and dashed away, dodging filth
and leaping sandpiles.
An anvil-shaped Arcona head poked out the airlock. Clutching my
Fizzz in one hand, I backed down the ladder. The human almost
stomped my head in his hurry. "Come on," he grumbled. "Move." The
ladder swayed from his weight. I barely held on, wishing I'd never
met the guy. As more escapees piled on, the ladder's sway became a
terrifying oscillation.
I kept dropping. Once down, I spotted another half-dozen
stormtroopers trotting up the main ramp in formation.
Another hot morning in Mos Eisley.
Ignoring the trickle of escapees behind us, we ran. "Now what?"
wailed Nalan, cradling his arm against his chest. "Without the
credits from that job, how are we going to get offplanet?"
"Three thousand credits," Tech moaned, wagging his large, shiny
head. "Three thousand credits."
I glanced down to examine my Fizzz. It looked undamaged. "Not
only that, but Figrin gambled away our reserves, seeding the table
so he'd win today. Didn't you, Figrin?"
The barman changed directions without even slowing down, and I
almost got left. "This way," he called.
"We can't pay you for a bolt hole." I hustled to catch up.
"Thanks, but we're broke."
"This way," he repeated. "I'll get you a job."
He led us up street and down alley. I followed, thinking, I'll
do anything - shovel sand, polish bantha saddles - but I won 't
work for humans!
But his boss wasn't human. The cantina owner, a beige and gray
Wookiee named Chalmun, offered us a two-season contract.
No, I thought across the Wookiee's office at Figrin. It's too
public, and that's too long. Jabba will find us for sure.
"Sounds good," Figrin answered. In Bithian, he added, "Once we
find a way offworld, the Wookiee can keep our severance pay. Say
yes."
I almost walked back down the back stairs, but loyalty is
loyalty.
We found crash space at Ruillia's Insulated Rooms. We emerge
daily to play in the cantina where my only human friend, Wuher,
tends bar. Solo beat Figrin at sabacc yesterday, so he's still
alive, but D'Wopp was shipped home in pieces. Lady Val is single
again and looks to stay that way.
And every time we tune up, I check the crowd. Just now, I
spotted Jabba's swivel-eared green Rodian... Greedo. He's not
Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina Page 2