Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina

by Kevin J. Anderson

  prefecture had been properly shielded. The Tellivar Lady lifted at

  1400, and he knew Captain Fane was punctual.

  But an hour wouldn't be enough.

  "Trevagg ..." The officer's voice halted him as he reached for

  the door. Trevagg turned, mostly from a desire to legitimately

  waste time - he'd have to walk very slowly indeed to actually miss

  the Tellivar Lady's lift. "You're a hunter. You ever hear of the

  Force?"

  Trevagg went absolutely cold inside. He only said, "No."

  "It's supposed to be some kind of magic field ..." Balu shook

  his head. "The old Jedi were supposed to have it." He lifted a

  hand to indicate the Imperial communique, tacked to the discolored

  plaster of the wall behind him, offering fifty thousand credits

  for "any members of the so-called Jedi Knights." Ten thousand for

  information leading to the capture of.

  Unless, of course, it was the captor's or informant's job to

  capture or inform. Then they just got their salaries. And a nice

  letter of commendation from the local Moff.

  "I heard rumors the Jedi have been seen on Tatooine," said

  Balu. "I've had a watch on Pylokam's stand - figuring the one

  place a Jedi might show up. Someone's got to drink that herb tea.

  But I wondered if you'd run across anything - strange."

  "Only what Pylokam serves at that stand of his," grumbled

  Trevagg, and made a far more precipitate exit than he'd planned.

  It still took him a great deal of dawdling on the way to reach

  Docking Bay 9 too late to stop the liftoff of the Lady.

  Nightlily was dazzled to be taken to luncheon at the Court of

  the Fountain, the closest thing to a high-class restaurant Mos

  Eisley boasted. It occupied one of the sprawling stone-and-stucco

  palaces that dated from Mos Eisley's long-ago boom days;

  reflective solar screens had been stretched over the many

  courtyards where fountains trickled and gurgled among exotic

  plants and gemlike tiling. It was small, of course, and catered

  mostly to the tourist trade, but Nightlily was a tourist, and she

  was enchanted. Jabba the Hutt-because, of course, Jabba owned the

  place-boasted that there wasn't an appetite in the galaxy that

  couldn't be catered to by his personal chef, Porcellus.

  Porcellus, who only operated the Court of the Fountain during

  those few hours not spent in preparing the Bloated One's

  gargantuan repasts, knew perfectly well that he'd be fed to

  Jabba's pet rancor if the Hutt ever grew bored with his menus, so

  he was an enthusiastic chef, indeed. And, in a way, he took great

  pride in his work. The filet of baby dewback with caper sauce and

  fleik-liver pate was the best Trevagg had ever eaten, and when

  Nightlity hooned, with modestly downcast eyes, that virgins of her

  people were only permitted fruits and vegetables, Porcellus outdid

  himself in the production of four courses of lipana berries and

  honey, puptons of dried magicots and psibara, a baked felbar with

  savory cream, and staggeringly good bread pudding for dessert.

  And a great deal of wine, of course.

  "Nothing is too expensive for you, beautiful one," responded

  Trevagg, to her hummed protest about the expense. "Or too good.

  Have another glass, my darling." He would definitely, he thought,

  have to have a chef who could cook dewback like this when he col

  lected his reward. "Don't you understand that fate has brought us

  together, fate in the form of a stupid ruling by a venal

  official?" He took her hand in his, loving the satin texture, the

  smooth eroticism of the way the knots on its back tightened and

  swelled at his touch. "Don't you understand what I feel for you?

  What I felt for you the moment I entered the office, the moment I

  heard your voice?"

  The moment I sensed in you the ultimate prey, the most

  beautiful of conquests to be vanquished?

  She turned her face aside, confused. The long sil ver serpent of

  her knife-pointed tongue ran nervously out to pick at the remains

  of the bread pudding in a gesture he found almost unbearably

  sexual. It had to be muscled to those three sets of cheekbones on

  the inside - what could he not persuade her to do with that

  tongue!

  He wasn't sure exactly what inner vibrations he should transmit

  to convince her of his overwhelming desire for her - she obviously

  didn't have the civilized sensitivity of a Gotal, maybe couldn't

  pick up anything at all and was operating entirely at the face

  value of his words. Judging by her conversation, she was either

  barely sentient or truly stupid, and in any case, Trevagg had very

  little interest in females' thoughts or desires.

  He cradled the side of her face with his hand, reveling in the

  daintiness of the cheekbones under his clawed strength. He felt

  her timidity, and with it, a dawning wonderment, a surge of

  glowing excitement in her heart.

  "Don't you understand that I need you?"

  "Are you proposing . . . marriage?" She stared up at him, awed,

  dazzled, halfway to surrender.

  Softly he nuzzled the side of her face. Stupid as a brick, he

  thought. But he'd get this one into his bed before the day was

  through.

  "Trevagg, leave the girl alone." Balu spoke in a low voice, so

  that Nightlily, in the outer office, would not hear. The security

  officer slouched in the doorway of Trevagg's cubicle while the

  Gotal keyed through a credit transfer and ticketing information on

  the Star-swan, leaving early tomorrow morning.-The least he could

  do, he reflected, was give the girl passage out of here-third

  class, naturally-to wherever the hell she was going. Besides, once

  he'd had her he certainly didn't want her hanging around under the

  impression that he was actually going to go through with marrying

  a semisentient alien bimbo, wondrous though she might be between

  the sheets.

  "Leave her alone?" Trevagg turned around disbelievingly,

  staring at the human. He kept his voice quiet, still excluding

  Nightlily, who was just visible through the doorway past Balu's

  shoulder, sitting at an empty desk with her head bowed in shy

  ecstasy and her veils half drawn about her face. "You can be

  anywhere within four meters of that-that love morsel, and you say

  leave her alone?"

  Balu turned his head to consider her. Trevagg could tell from

  the man's temperature and the vibration of his pulses, even at

  this distance, that he found her no more sexually stimulating than

  he'd have found a Jawa. Disgust flooded him at the sheer, galling

  insensitivity of humans.

  "Trevagg," said the officer, "most species-most civ

  ilizations-ostracize members who bear hybrid children. If you find

  her attractive there's probably enough enzyme compatibility for

  you to get her with child. You'd be ruining her for life."

  Trevagg emitted a sharp, barking laugh. "I can't believe you.

  You're within two meters of that, and you're talking to me about

  enzyme compatibility? Man, grow some gonads! If she was worried

  about that she shouldn't be
traipsing around the galaxy in that

  flimsy little head-veil in the first place."

  Balu put his hand on Trevagg's arm warningly, and the Gotal

  halted in surprise. Balu seldom showed any disposition to care

  about anything, but there was a definite threat in his dark eyes.

  Patiently, Trevagg promised, "All right. I'm only taking her

  out for a walk. She can always say no."

  But after three drinks at the Mos Eisley Cantina, he reflected,

  as he entered the outer office again and took Nightlily's arm -

  not to mention the prospect of marriage that seemed to push every

  switch on her board - it wasn't at all likely that she would.

  "I can't believe that you would . . . would truly love me

  enough to wed," crooned the girl, as they crossed the brazen

  burnish of dust and sunlight in the street. "The males of my

  species . . . fear that commitment. That giving of all for love."

  "The males of your species are fools," growled Trevagg, gazing

  deep into her eyes and drinking in the heady perfume of her

  sexuality. As far as he was concerned that went for the females

  too, but he didn't say so. He glanced back from the shadows of the

  buildings opposite, just in time to see a flicker of dusty robes,

  the trailing brightness of an orange scarf...

  Pylokam the health-food seller. Crossing the street to the

  government offices.

  The Gotal' s mind seemed to click, all things falling into

  place with a hunter's cutting instinct. Balu. Pylokam had seen

  thejedi.

  His first reaction was sheer annoyance. He'd already told

  Nightlily he'd booked passage for her on the Starswan, and she'd

  flung her arms around him, asking if he had booked his own

  passage, to come to H'nemthe to marry her with due ceremony before

  her mother and sisters. He'd gotten out of that one by promising

  to embark within a few days-"I am an official of the Empire, you

  know. I can't just leave everything all in a moment, though,

  believe me, I will be counting the days." But it meant that there

  was no putting her off.

  There was no reason for Pylokam to come to the impost offices

  other than to report to Balu, and he knew Balu, for all his world-

  weary slovenliness, was not one to waste time. He'd

  investigate-and he'd report.

  And that meant Trevagg would have to find someone to

  assassinate Balu this afternoon.

  Ordinarily, of course, he'd have gotten in touch with Jub

  Vegnu, set up a meeting, made an appointment with Jabba the Hutt,

  and arranged for payment ...

  But of course he knew-everybody knew-that freelance assassins

  were ten for a half-credit in Mos Eisley and most of them were

  supposed to hang out in the Mos Eisley Cantina. It couldn't be

  that difficult to meet one. The encounter would presumably be

  short and sweet-that's what assassins were for, to make life easy

  for those who had other things to do-leaving him plenty of the

  afternoon and all of the evening to conclude an encounter of

  another kind with Nightlily in the Mos Eisley Inn.

  If entering the government offices from the noon street was

  like passing into a (more or less) cool grotto, transition from

  the late-afternoon dust and glare into the near-darkness of the

  cantina was comparable to being swallowed by a bantha with

  indigestion. Trevagg's hunter eyes switched almost instantaneously

  from day vision to night as a great drench of vibration hit him

  overlapping electrospectrum fields, personal magnetic auras

  buzzing like a hive of bees, halos of irritation and annoyance

  swollen by the proximity of strangers and exacerbated by every

  sort of psycho- and neural relaxant known in the galaxy.

  It was like the marketplace, only more sinister, without the

  bright spiciness of making a living. The thoughts and emotions

  swirling through the gloom were darker, more dangerous, against

  the brassy twirling of the little dark-clothed, insectoid band.

  "Are you sure it's safe?" hummed Nightlily, clinging once more to

  his arm, and Trevagg patted her hand. Her fear reacted on his

  hunter's instinct as her anxiety and distress had earlier-prey

  signals that read as an invitation to conquest. He felt an almost

  overwhelming desire to crush her in his arms.

  Instead he cradled the back of her exquisite coned head in one

  hand, said, "With me, you're safe, my blossom. With me you'll

  always be safe."

  They took one of the small booths to the left of the raised

  entry vestibule, Nightlily gazing around her, fearfully marveling.

  In addition to being a virgin, she had confessed to Trevagg over

  lunch, she had never been away from her home planet before, had

  never seen anything like this. As well she hadn't, thought the

  Gotal, amused at the way she relaxed under the influence of Wuher

  the barkeep's drinks computer. In another booth a completely

  illegal card game was in progress between a ghoulish Givin, a

  giant one-eyed Abyssin, and a big fluffy white thing of a species

  even Trevagg had never seen; in another a shaggy, ferocious-

  looking Wolfman sipped his drink alone. While Nightlily sighed,

  and giggled over her second drink, and asked him, "Are you truly

  sure, beloved? Mating is such a solemn thing, such an awe-

  inspiring thing..." Trevagg was searching the crowd with his eyes

  and, more importantly, with his cones, seeking out the vibrations

  of danger and blood, the vibrations of another hunter, as he had

  once been.

  "It is as nothing," Trevagg said. "No sacrifice is too great

  for what I feel for you." The fact that she couldn't even detect

  him in a lie-that she didn't have that much sensitivity to the

  vibrations of his mind- only redoubled his contempt for her. So

  desirable-so innocent-so stupid . . . No wonder they don't let

  virgins travel off her planet. She'd told him that, too. They'd

  never make it home.

  Not as virgins, anyway.

  Meantime, his hunter senses roved the dark forms, seeking

  another hunter.

  The two tall human females drinking by the bar were a maybe

  They sparkled with danger, a flamelike brightness that some

  assassins had. But the color of their aura wasn't quite right. The

  Rodian at another card table, with his small earlike antennae

  swiveling nervously in the noise of the room-yes. Definitely a

  killer, though Trevagg wasn't certain he could take on Predne

  Balu. The Wolfman, yes; he looked big enough, tough enough, to

  take on the human and win. The brown-haired human talking quietly

  with an enormous Wookiee at another bo oth-maybe. The edge was

  there, but not the darkness. The thin man smoking a hookah at the

  bar-absolutely. His aura was dark, terrible, but there was a

  coldness about him that made Trevagg wonder if he could be

  approached at all. That was one, he thought, who killed for a huge

  sum . . . or for his own pleasure. Nothing between.

  For the rest, they were locals the foul Dr. Evazan and his

  disgusting Aqualish friend were well known to Trevagg, dangerous

  but not for hir
e; the horned and sinister-looking Devaronian

  swaying his fingers dreamily to the music of the band was much

  less dangerous than he appeared. The old spacer in most of a

  flight suit Trevagg recognized as a smuggler who worked for the

  monastery, probably involved in something illegal -like most of

  the religious brothers of that organization-but he would stop far

  short of murder.

  And then he felt it. The rushing, buzzing sensation in his

  cones, the strange humming confusion, almost like the presence of

  a high-energy machine . . .

  And the Jedi came into the cantina.

  He was a nondescript old human, his beard gone white as the

  hair of humans did with age, his robes shabby with wear and desert

  dust. He was trailed by a human youth-a back-desert moisture

  farmer, by the look of his clothes and the way he stared around

  him, as Nightlily had, awed by what he thought was the Big

  City-and by a couple of much-battered droids whose power cells

  made Trevagg's cones prickle. Wuher the barkeep swung immediately

  around. "Hey, we don't serve their kind here!"

  "What?" said the boy, and the taller of the droids, a dented C-

  3PO, looked as disconcerted as it was possible for a droid to

  look.

  "Your droids. They'll have to wait outside. We don't want them

  here."

  Trevagg, sitting only a few feet away, heartily concurred. It

  was difficult enough to think in here, to determine what he should

  do, with Nightlily so soft and vulnerable and giggly on one side,

  and the dark vibrations of the assassins on the other.

  "Listen, why don't you wait out by the speeder," the boy said

  quietly-an unnecessary courtesy, in Trevagg's opinion. A C-3PO

  only looked human, and an R2-D2 didn't even do that. "We don't

  want any trouble."

  The old man, meanwhile, had gone to the bar, and was deep in

  murmured conversation with the elderly monastic spacer in the

  flight suit; Trevagg stretched his hearing to pick up their words,

  but over the music of the band it was not easy.

  Even less easy was it to hear something besides Nightlily's

  soft voice, slightly flown with unaccustomed substances, asking

  yet again, humbly, how he could truly love her so much.

  "Of course I do, of course," said Trevagg, watching the old

  Jedi move into conversation with die towering Wookiee. He looked