Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Nadon stared in shock, realizing belatedly that the captain had

  not wished to convene a tribunal. He simply needed a scapegoat.

  "I will expect your testimony to be recorded," the captain

  said. Momaw Nadon stood blinking, unable to move, and the suns

  seemed to have gone cold. He wavered, feeling faint. The

  stormtroopers all began walking away, apparently heading toward a

  transport so they could leave Tatooine. The Law of Life kept run

  ning through Nadon's mind like a litany. "For every plant

  destroyed in the harvest, two must be cultivated to replace it."

  Nadon knew that his act would require penance. The blood of a

  man was on his hands, and such a stain could not easily be

  removed. But surely the Bafforr would understand. Surely they

  would forgive him.

  At last, before the Imperial medics could arrive, Nadon forced

  his legs to move. Numbly, he went to the warm corpse, leaned over,

  and took two golden needles from his belt. He inserted the needles

  and removed the genetic samples. On Ithor were cloning tanks that

  would allow him to create duplicates of Alima. For his penance,

  Nadon would nurture Alima's (win sons. Perhaps in their day, they

  too would grow wise and kind, serving as Priests on Ithor,

  promoting (he Law of Life.

  Nadon packed the needles in his utility belt, then headed

  toward his biosphere. There would be so much to do before he left

  Tatooine-depositions to give the Imperials, plants to be uprooted

  in preparation for the move, hubba gourd seeds to be sown in the

  wilds.

  A stiff wind kicked up, and stinging sand blew in from the

  desert. Nadon closed his eyes against it, and allowed himself to

  become lost for a moment in the memory of his wife's final embrace

  as he was banished from Ithor, and in the memory he relished the

  scent of his young son. "I will be waiting here for you if you

  ever return," she had said. And for the first time in ages Momaw

  Nadon walked free and his steps felt light. He was heading home.

  Be Still My Heart The Bartender's Tale

  by David Bischoff

  On his way to work, Wuher, after-double-noon shift bartender at

  the Mos Eisley Spaceport Cantina, was accosted. To make matters

  worse, the accoster was his least favorite of the many things that

  congregated in this most egregious of congregations of

  intergalactic scum.

  An extensor whipped from the pale shadows of the alley,

  wrapping around his ankle lightly, yet with enough strength to

  detain him. Automatically, Wuher reached to the back of his belt

  for his street-club. A weapon of some kind was always a necessity

  for those who strode the byways of a haven for cutpurses and

  cutthroats like Mos Eisley. However, the pathetic voice from the

  juncture of walls and garbage cans gave him stay.

  "Please, sir. I mean you no harm. I humbly request asylum."

  Wuher blinked. He rubbed his grimy sleeve over his puffy eyes.

  He'd drunk too much of his own barbrew last night and overslept.

  He had a faint growl of hangover nagging him; he was in no mood to

  deal with riffraff begging for shelter or alms.

  "Get off me," he snarled. "Who the hell are you?" Wuher was a

  surly sort who preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. He also

  had a rather aggressive curiosity sometimes, though. This was a

  trait that his employer, Chalmun the Wookiee, found- to be a re

  source in the chemical experimentation aspects of Wuher' s work,

  but claimed would ultimately cause him grief.

  "I am Ceetoo-Arfour," squeaked the voice, accompanied by a

  curious blend of whistles and clicks. "I have escaped from the

  Jawas, who intend to utilize me for spare parts, despite extreme

  functional utility if I am left in one piece - to say nothing of

  the value of my consciousness. Through sheer good luck, the Jawas

  used a corroded restraining bolt, which fell off, allowing me to

  escape."

  Wuher moved farther into the shadows, his eyes adjusting

  farther away from the ambient, anguished brightness that was one

  of the planet Tatooine's charming qualities. There, amongst the

  stacked refuse and plastic and metal containers, squatted one of

  the oddest things that Wuher had ever laid eyes upon. And Wuher

  had laid eyes upon far too many of these scuttling tech-rats for

  his taste.

  "You - you're a blasted droid!" he spat.

  The metallic creature released what little tension was left in

  the extensor and cr inged back with the vehemence of Wuher's

  accusation.

  "Why, yes sir, I am indeed. But I assure you, I am no ordinary

  droid. My presence on Tatooine is a mistake on a veritable cosmic

  level."

  The droid's body was low and rounded, similar to the

  streamlined contours of R2 units. However, this was where the

  similarity ended. Bulbs and boxy appendages hung like balconies on

  the robot's sides, amidst an array of two whiplike metal extensors

  and two armatures invested with digits. In the very middle of its

  sensor-node "face" was an opening with a grill, set with what

  appeared to be jagged, sharp teeth. The whole affair looked

  cobbled together, as though the droid had indeed begun its life as

  an R2 unit, but had been sent onto other paths with the help of a

  demented mechanical mind owning a half-baked electronic and

  welding talent.

  "Wait a minute. You look like a souped-up Artoo unit, but you

  sound like one of those pansy protocolers!"

  "My components include aspects of both units, as well as

  several more. However, my specialties include meal preparation,

  catalytic fuel conversion, enzymatic composition breakdown,

  chemical diagnostic programming, and bacterial composting

  acceleration. I am also an excellent blender, toaster oven, and

  bang-corn air-popper, and can whip up an extraordinary meal from

  everyday garbage."

  Wuher goggled at the plasteel contraption in disbelief.

  "But you're a droid. I hate droids."

  "I would be of extraordinary use!"

  Wuher wondered why he was even giving the droid the time of

  day. Damned curiosity, that must be it. He needed a blasted brain

  scrub, that's what he needed. "Look, machine excrement. I despise

  your kind, as does my boss, for good reason. Even the lowliest

  Jawa knows what tribe he's from, even if he's stabbing that tribe

  in the back. You droids-who knows who you are or where you're

  from. You look like bombs, and nine times out of ten you blow up

  in the face of your owners, doubtless just to spite them." Wuher

  lifted a foot, planted it squarely on the thing's head. "Now get

  out of my way. I have work to do!" He gave the thing a shove. It

  rolled back, beeping, into the recesses of its corner as Wuher

  proceeded on his way.

  "Sir! Kind sir! Forgive my offense! Reconsider! I shall be here

  all day, recharging my batteries. I dare not emerge in sunlight,

  for the Jawas will find me. Grant me asylum, and you will not be

  sorry, I swear."

  "Pah! The word of a droid. Useless!" the man snarled in
/>
  contempt.

  With grand, elevated disgust, Wuher hurried away. Just one more

  proof that he should not be so free about strolling through alleys

  to save a scant few seconds. He avoided the darker, cooler ones,

  since they tended to attract crowds. This one, though, was lighter

  and Wuher had thought it would be a safe shortcut.

  The normal byways of Mos Eisley were a dusty cloud through

  which double suns beat beat beat hot radiation upon ugly buildings

  and hangars. Occasionally a roaring beast of a spaceship would

  propel itself into the brightness of the sky, or descend shakily

  to hunker down in hiding. The place smelled even more strongly of

  its usual blend of noxious space fuels and heated alien body

  effluvia, touched with the occasional whiff of exotic spice, or

  rather more mundane rot or urine. Wuher noticed amidst the urban

  burblings a larger number of speeders than usual, as well as a

  discomfiting percentage of stormtroopers.

  Something odd was afoot, that was certain.

  Oh, well. It just meant that maybe he'd be busier at the

  cantina today. Another shuck, another buck, as Chalmun so

  eloquently stated.

  Still, as the human bartender bustled through the busy streets,

  sun hood up, squinting, he was bothered by that droid who had

  accosted him. Wuher was well aware that droids were essentially

  harmless. To hate them was like hating your latrine or stove or

  moisture vaporator if they'd somehow been overlaid with innocuous

  consciousness. True, droids tended to be essentially faithless,

  with no ethical or racial structure. So were a lot of biological

  aliens that Wuher had met. The truth, the bartender knew, was that

  droids were an easy target.

  Wuher had been abandoned on Mos Eisley in early youth, a human

  amidst peoples who disliked humans. He'd been kicked about and

  spat upon all his squalid, hard life. His boss hated droids

  essentially because they didn't drink and thus took up necessary

  room in the cantina that might be occupied by paying customers.

  Wuher hated everyone, but droids were the only creatures he could

  actually kick with impunity.

  He was a bulky, middle-aged man, Wuher, with a constant late-

  afternoon-shadow beard, dark bags under his eyes, and a surly

  attitude from the top of his greasy head to the depths of his low

  stony voice. His eyes were hard and dark, and it was impossible to

  see anything but quotidian amoral stoicism in them. However, a

  small fire flickered in his heart, a dream that he kept alive with

  hard work through years of drudgery. At night, shuffling back to

  his grimy hovel, often as not a little tipsy from his own spirits,

  Wuher would gaze up at the night stars in the blessed cool and it

  would seem possible to actually reach up and touch them, possible

  to live out his fantasy.

  Perhaps then, when that dream was achieved, he would no longer

  have to kick helpless, imploring droids to bolster his own

  pathetic self-esteem. Perhaps then he could give something to

  lesser creatures than he.

  The lumpy mushroom shape of the cantina billowed before him.

  Wuher stumped around to the rear entrance. He took out his ID

  card, unlocked a door, and walked carefully down dark steps. He

  turned on lights. It was not dank down here in the cellar. There

  were no dank basements on a world like Tatooine. However, a dry,

  earthy smell was the foundation for all the other scents that

  fought for attention here, smells that hung upon the rows of

  laboratory equipment, barrels and tanks and vats that rose from

  tables and the floor like ridges of metal, plastic, and glass

  mold.

  Chalmun imported a minimum of drinking materials, the cheap

  bastard. The rest of what the Mos Eisley Cantina served was either

  made in the city, or down here.

  Wuher had little time. His shift topside started soon.

  Nonetheless an urgent sense drove him to a small alcove in the

  rear section, a portion of the large basement where the other

  employees seldom ventured. He turned on a small light there,

  revealing a machine coi*-sisting of coils, tubings, dials, and

  glass beakers. In the largest of these beakers, a small amount of

  dark greeo fluid had collected. Wuher examined the dials detail

  ing gravity and chemical composition. A kind of acrid effluvia

  hung over the enclosure, like moldy socks. Sweet music to Wuher's

  nostrils! And the dials and digital readouts-why, they displayed

  almost exactly the ratios of contents that Wuher had calculated

  was necessary. A shiver of excitement passed over him. This could

  be the stuff. His elixir! His perfect liqueur, suited expressly to

  the biochemical taste buds of no less a personage than Jabba the

  Hutt, for all intents and purposes lord and slave master of the

  criminal element of Tatooine.

  Wuher contained his trembles, took a deep breath, and found a

  sterile dropper tube. He lifted the stopper of the beaker,

  inserted the tube, and sucked up a minuscule amount. Carefully, he

  withdrew the jade treasure.

  Ah! If this distillation was the right stuff, the drink that

  Jabba the Hutt deemed to be the perfect liqueur, then what else

  could Jabba do but name him his own personal bartender, distiller,

  brewer, winemaster? Thus elevated in position, the lowly Wuher

  might gain reputation and monies that would allow him to ship off

  this anal juncture of a desert snotworld to some bright, pristine

  bar on a paradisal planet.

  Wuher brought the tube toward his mouth. A dangle of fluid

  sparkled diamonds in the amber light. He let a touch drop to his

  tongue. A flash and sizzle. A sliver of gas slithered off. The

  pain was immediate, but he bore it. He allowed the flavoids to

  creep upon his palate like death marchers with cleated boots. He

  winced and cringed and endured. Rotwort. Skusk. Mummergy. Bitter

  and fiercely aromatic with a kicker alcohol afterburst.

  Damn it, though. Not quite right. His bioalchemist instincts,

  having studied carefully Jabba's other favorite drinks, had

  synthesized a theoretical perfect amalgam, a liqueur that would

  delight the huge wormthing.

  This was not quite it. A certain element was lacking. A certain

  gagging whisper of illusive yet ineffably attractive decadence.

  Damn.

  The bartender went to get his apron, and to trudge wearily up

  the stairs to where his smoky den of work awaited.

  "Water!" demanded the green alien in its annoying language.

  "Bottled distilled water, bartender, and make no mistake! I've got

  the credits for the real stuff. This nose can tell if it's

  anything more or less!" The alien touched its absurd proboscis

  with one of its green digital members.

  Wuher's nose twitched. Was it him, or was the stench in this

  pangalactic hole worse than ever? "Well, buddy. It's your call,

  but you look as if you could use something a little stronger."

  The alien's jewellike eyes glittered with fury and its ears

  seemed^ to flap indignantly. "How dare you cal
l me by a familiar

  name, you piece of human trash. Believe me, I am a valiant drinker

  of all manner of manly, po werful drinks. However, I make it a rule

  to accept such only from real bartenders."

  A mangled face pushed itself across the underlit bar and into

  the conversation. "Actually, this guy makes some damn fine drinks

  for a lousy dung-eating native. Take it from me-Dr. Evazan. I've

  had many drinks in all twelve systems in which I've obtained a

  death sentence and these drinks here pass muster!"

  Wuher nodded surly thanks. However, the arrogant alien would

  have none of it. This guy was a Rodian, Wuher knew-and a bounty

  hunter from the boastful affront of him. A particularly egregious

  combination.

  "Nonsense," said the Rodian, tiny satellite addenda atop his

  head turning back and forth as though searching for some

  television channel. Disdain dripped from his tone. "Humans don't

  have what it takes to be a proper bartender. The two terms are

  mutually exclusive!"

  This was the song that Wuher heard all too often. From the very

  first day that he'd graduated from his chemistry kit to a taste

  for interesting drinks and had parlayed that knack into a

  successful application to a sleazy but effective bartender

  correspondence school, he'd been dumped upon for wanting to take

  on the duties of serving drinks to an array of peoples from

  different planets, biomes, ecologies, what have you. Bartenders in

  these sorts of places, frequented by different and unique

  biochemistries, were more xenoalchemists than simple pourers of

  drinks. You had to pay attention to what you were doing. Wouldn't

  do at all to serve up a nice glass of the variation on sulfuric

  acid that Devaronians enjoyed to, say, a Gotal. Likewise, a simple

  beer could make a Jawa shrivel up like a slug. It really wasn't

  that humans couldn't handle the challenge, it was generally that

  most of them didn't care to bother. Indeed, there were a few in

  old xenophobic Republic days who used the opportunities to slowly

  poison enemies.

  "Hey, greenie," snarled Wuher defensively. "You go to Chalmun's

  office. My certification is right on his wall."

  "I shall! And I shall make every effort to have you fired from

  this post. Your kind doesn't belong here." The Rodian leaned over

  the bar with its wide orby eyes and stared directly into Wuher's