Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina

by Kevin J. Anderson

  his species very confrontational mode for expressing supreme

  contempt. Wuher's nostrils were immediately assaulted by a

  stronger dose of the odor he'd noticed before. He cringed

  backward.

  "Pah. Coward!" The Rodian spat on him. "And be it known to you,

  'bartender,' that I, Greedo, am highly valued in my employ by none

  other than Jabba the Hutt. I shall also make my complaint to him,

  after I take care of the business I have come to this lice-ridden

  cantina to deal with. Now. My bottle of pure water, please. And

  snap to it before I have to come and get it myself."

  The odor vas so strong that Wuher was momentarily stunned. Even

  as he reached down, pulled up a bottle of water, clicked off the

  top, he was in a fog.

  That smell . . . Something about that smell ...

  Pheromones, surely. But unique pheromones, unlike any other

  that Wuher had sniffed. The bartender had a big nose, with highly

  trained and sensitive olfactory capabilities. This was one of the

  reasons he was such a good bioalchemist Something about this

  Greedo-

  The Rodian snatched the bottle away, contemptuously dumped a

  handful of credit chips on the counter, and marched away into a

  dark corner booth. Even though he'd had this kind of treatment

  before, it still stung Wuher. He felt like a pile of womp rat

  guano, and the fact that he could do absolutely nothing to avenge

  his slighted feelings made it all the worse. This, mixed with that

  smell. He could smell that smell to the corns on the soles of his

  feet. It touched him to the very core of his being, and he was not

  entirely sure why.

  For the next moments, he was in a kind of reverie as he went

  about his work, serving. He worked up some nice drinks for the

  band, whose music had actually helped make working in this dump

  bearable. He served an Aqualish and the Tonnika sisters. He

  whipped up a gaseous delight for the blues-loving Devaronian. All

  the while in a sensory smog of anger and confusion.

  He barely noticed the new arrivals until his assistant tugged

  on his tunic.

  "Wuher. We've got a positive on the droid detector."

  Alarm swept away the mental images as Wuher turned away and

  looked down at the little Nartian creature, two of his four arms

  still busy washing glasses.

  "Thank you, Nackhar."

  Wuher turned his attention to the entranceway, to where an old

  man and a young towheaded fellow were making their way into the

  light-speckled smoky darkness of the tavern, followed by a

  sparkling, mincing protocol droid and a rolling R2 model.

  "Hey!" called Wuher in his best gruff voice. "We don't serve

  their kind in here."

  There was some confusion.

  He had to make his position clear. "Your droids. We don't want

  them here."

  The droids left.

  He got particular satisfaction from booting the droids out. It

  was one of the only exercises of power that Wuher truly felt

  comfortable with-it was a clear and free area in which he was sure

  he would offend no one else. Nonetheless, even as he watched the

  droids leave, something bothered him. The memory of that lone

  droid, stranded in that alley, pleading for assistance. Somehow,

  the pang of that memory merged with the strong scent of Greedo's

  pheromones to create a jarring unease and yet odd excitement in

  the bartender.

  A young man in desert duds shook him and asked for some water.

  It took a couple of shakes to get a reaction out of Wuher, but

  finally the drink was served and Wuher went about his business,

  serving yet another squeaky ranat.

  He was so immersed in his own particular funk that it took him

  a while to realize that an altercation was building. Wuher looked

  over to see that Dr. Evazan seemed to be having a confrontation

  with the young man. The older man stepped in and spoke. The next

  thing Wuher knew, there was a blinding flash.

  Alarmed, he cried out. "No blasters! No blasters!"

  A light sword swashed through the air. A chop, a flop -and the

  gun arm of Evazan's Aqualish companion separated from his body.

  The old man and young man stepped away and after a moment of

  silence, the band struck up again.

  "Nackhar," said Wuher to his assistant. "Please clean that up.

  I have work to do."

  Even though the doctor had stood up for him, Wuher felt no

  kinship. The man was an ugly, bent, and demented creature.

  Nonetheless, there was no reason to litter the floor with blood

  and groans of the doctor's associate for an overlong time.

  The Nartian scurried away.

  Wuher went back to work.

  A day's shuck, a day's buck.

  Business as usual at the Mos Eisley Cantina.

  Too bad Chalmun wasn't around. His imposing figure usually

  discouraged these kinds of shenanigans. That Wookiee that had been

  talking to the old man looked a bit like his employer, only taller

  and younger. He'd been hanging around before, with that larcenous

  smuggler Han Solo. The spacer had burbled something yesterday

  about the Wookiee being his first mate. Dangerous profession,

  that. Perhaps there were worse things in the universe than being

  dumped on by Rodi-ans in the Mos Eisley Spaceport Cantina.

  Still, it rankled, and Wuher could feel his anger and hatred

  roiling and coiling like a stepped-on sandsnake.

  The next thing he knew, a pair of stormtroopers had come

  through the doors and immediately stepped to the bar.

  "We understand there's been a ruckus here," said one in a

  muffled electronic voice through his white skull-like helmet.

  "You bet," said Wuher. He looked around, saw the backs of the

  perpetrators at a table at the far end of the establishment.

  Curiously enough, sitting across from them were none other than

  Han Solo and his Wookiee first mate. "The old guy and the young

  guy over there."

  He pointed. The sooner these troopers got out of here, the

  better. They made him nervous. The place had plenty of trouble

  enough as it was. Besides, storm-troopers were terrible tippers.

  Wuher's mind dipped back into his musing as he went on

  automatic pilot, making up barium frizzes and frosty sulphates and

  even serving the odd shot and a draft. He even poured himself some

  of his own homebrew ale, to take some of the edge off the mild

  headache that sulked at the back of his skull. .However, during

  all this he was still haunted by two things that smell that still

  clung to his nostrils, and that squeaking droid. What was going to

  happen to it? Why should he care? And what did it say its

  specialty was?

  His musings were suddenly interrupted by a loud blast.

  All heads swung toward its origin, the table where Han Solo

  sat. The jaunty smuggler was rising up and walking toward the bar,

  sticking his gun back into its holster.

  Wuher could not believe what he was leaving behind.

  "Sorry about the mess," Solo said, flipping a two-credit chip

  toward Wuher. Normally, Wuher would have immediately slapped a<
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  palm down onto the coin to prevent its appropriation. However, he

  was far too stunned by what he saw to think about money.

  There, flopped over at the table, was none other than Greedo

  the Rodian bounty hunter, a shred of smoke rising up from a

  blasted abdomen.

  Greedo, dead as a starship rivet.

  A kind of chill satisfaction moved through Wuher, a transection

  of reality and dream that did not occur often enough. True,

  creatures got killed in here a ll the time, and it would have given

  Wuher far more satisfaction to have actually been behind the

  trigger of that blaster, seen its power rip through that

  obnoxious, smelly-

  A kind of transcendental realization flashed through the

  bartender. Thought processes meshed thunderously in his head, and

  it was as though the heavens had opened and the light of Cosmic

  Wisdom poured down upon him.

  That droid . . . that odd, frightened droid . . .

  He had to get it out of harm's way. He had to save it!

  "Nackhar!" he called.

  The little creature scuttled up. "Did you see that, sir? I say

  that Chalmun should take all guns at the door. I say-"

  "Are you going to be the one to do the body searches, Nackhar?"

  The assistant bartender was stunned speechless at the notion.

  "Take over for me. There's an urgent task I must attend to. I

  shall be back soon. In the meantime, do not allow the body of the

  Rodian to be moved a centimeter. Don't let those Jawas trying to

  bag it take it out of here. Do you understand?"

  "Yes. Of course-but if the police-"

  "They can examine it all they want to, and there's no question

  about who did it. However, claim it in the name of Chalmun. It's

  officially our property now."

  "But why can't you-where are you going?"

  "I am embarking on a mission of mercy!"

  Thus saying, Wuher left.

  The droid was not amongst the refuse cans.

  Alarm filled Wuher. The thing had said that it would be here

  until nightfall. Its absence could only spell foul play.

  Wuher bent and examined the sandy floor. Sure enough, tracks.

  Fresh tracks, leading down the alley in the other direction.

  Without a further thought, either for caution or self-protection,

  the bartender hurled himself after them.

  The droid must be saved.

  He puffed through the twisting alleys, following the tracks.

  The ground told the story clearly enough. Droid tracks. A pair of

  small shoe tracks. A Jawa had scoped the metal being out, as it

  had feared. As he moved along, Wuher removed the club from the

  back of his belt. Within moments, he heard the telltale beeping

  and chitter the sounds of the droid and its new master.

  Wuher slapped himself against a wall, peered around the corner.

  Sure enough, there they were, waddling along. The Jawa had clamped

  a restraining bolt on the odd-looking droid. They were within

  yards of a main thoroughfare.

  He must move quickly.

  Without hesitation, Wuher the bartender leaped out from his

  concealment, ran up behind the Jawa, and fiercely and conclusively

  brought down his club upon the back of its hood. Thunk. The Jawa

  went down like a bag of smunk roots. Speedily, the bartender

  dragged the hooded creature back to a darker part of the alley,

  trailing a slight seepage of blood.

  He went to the droid, examined its body, and found the

  restraining bolt. He pulled it off and tossed it after the downed

  Jawa.

  The droid came alive.

  "Sir! You have saved me. You have delivered me from my

  enemies!"

  "That's right, Ceetoo-Arfour."

  ' 'You have undergone a change of heart. I knew it, I knew it,

  I could tell that deep within you there beat a heart of gold. That

  is why I risked my encounter with you. Why, diis is marvelous.

  This is what they write stories about! A hard soul, changed for

  the better. Thank you, kind human. Oh, thank you!"

  "You're welcome, Ceetoo-Arfour. Yes, I realized that you were a

  wronged droid. The squalor and sadness of my life made me realize

  that I should do something good and worthwhile for once." Wuher

  smiled. "However, we shouldn't just stand here and banter. There

  are doubtless more Jawas about. We should get you back to where

  it's safe."

  "Oh, my lucky stars shine this day. Sir, you have redeemed my

  faith in the true pure spirituality of the human soul. For you

  see, we droids, though of metal, possess consciousness and thus

  spirituality as well."

  "Oh, good. I'm sure we've got a lot of philosophy that we can

  discuss. First, though, we should hurry on," said Wuher

  solicitously. "Is there anything that I can do to ease your path?"

  "You already have, kind sir. And here I was thinking myself the

  poorest, most bereft soul in Mos Eisley. There is indeed room for

  growth in the purity of the human soul."

  ' 'Yes, I have had a complete turnabout in my attitude toward

  droids," said Wuher. "I am bringing you back to the cantina. I

  will hide you in the basement, where there are no droid

  detectors."

  "Oh, oh!" said the droid, clearly enraptured by this stunning

  turnabout. "Finally, I experience the milk of human kindness."

  "Oh," said Wuher, with a wry grin. "I don't think I'm

  particularly interested in milk today."

  The drop depended, a jewel of promise.

  Dropped.

  The usual pain, of course. Too bad, but that was the price you

  paid for system incompatibilities. Still, Wuher bore it stoically,

  even gladly, awaiting the news his taste buds would bring.

  Already, his quivering nostrils were behaving in a positive

  fashion as the familiar wisp of steam rose to tickle them.

  Around Wuher, as though hovering expectantly, were all the

  trappings of his experimental alcove, along with its two new

  additions . . .

  Yes, yes, this was new!

  He detected a hint of bergamot!

  Better, something more. . . . and it struck him with such

  tremendous power, it was as though someone had kicked him in the

  head.

  The taste of two bloody aliens arut in a tangle of erupting

  spice pods and mud mushers.

  He fell off his stool, a spasm racking him.

  "Master! Master!" cried Ceetoo-Arfour. "Are you all right?"

  Wuher shivered.

  He shuddered.

  He arose, a silly smile on his face.

  "Wow!"

  He looked over at his still, at the larger beaker, already

  almost half full of this deadly elixir, and with so much more

  still bubblingly in the works in the coils and guts of his

  makeshift lab.

  "It's even better than I'd hoped," he said. "This is exactly

  the liqueur that will appeal to Jabba the Hutt"

  "Jabba the Hutt, Master?" said the droid. "Is he not the

  criminal gang lord of this territory?"

  "Nonsense," said Wuher. "He is wronged by his enemies. He will

  not only be my benefactor, but ultimately yours as well."

  "Indeed!"

  "Yes. Of course. We're going into business toget
her, Ceetoo-

  Arfour. First we shall work for Jabba the Hutt. Then we shall

  shake the miserable dust of this detestable planet from our heels.

  Greatness, Ceetoo. We are destined for greatness!"

  The rough bartender beamed at his new collaborator.

  Ceetoo-Arfour stood in the very center of the alcove. Below a

  new item that extruded from his barrel side- a spigot-was a small

  bottle full of an emerald-gray liquid. Just a few small drops of

  this stuff had been sufficient to give Jabba's liqueur its new and

  wonderful kick into the territory of greatness. Wuher,

  bioalchemist extraordinaire, was going to be able to keep Jabba

  the Hutt happy a very long time.

  From die droid grill-jaw extruded a naked green alien foot,

  pausing for a moment before it too was processed to remove every

  last bit of precious juice in Ceetoo-Arfour's excellent chemical

  extractors.

  Hanging on a spike by the bubbling still was the other new

  occupant of Wuher's bioalchemical alcove the head of Greedo the

  Rodian. Nackhar had had to fight hard with those Jawas to procure

  the body. It had cost him several rounds of free drinks, but it

  had been worth it.

  "Here's to your pheromones, Greedo," said Wuher the bartender,

  hoisting his dropper in toast. "Han Solo did both Rodian females

  and yours truly a vast favor." The head glared back blankly. "I

  must say, the creature was a gnarly, gristly thing," the droid

  said. "I'm afraid that my grinders shall be needing a sharpening

  after this arduous effort."

  Wuher grinned and winked. "Nothing's too good for you, Ceetoo.

  Believe me, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

  For, indeed, now Wuher the bartender had an entirely new

  attitude toward droids.

  Nightlily The Lovers' Tale

  by Barbara Hambly

  "Madam, I am most sorry." Feltipern Trevagg switched off the

  computer screen above his desk with the air of being anything but.

  "If you don't pay your water impost there isn't anything I can do

  about your water line being shut. I don't make the taxes."

  As it happened, he had made this one, or at least made the

  suggestion to the City Prefect of the Port of Mos Eisley that the

  water impost be raised twenty-five percent. But, Trevagg reasoned,

  rubbing his head cones as he listened once again to the Modbrek fe

  male's frantic plea for more time, she probably wouldn't have been