Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina

by Kevin J. Anderson

  space that to visit with one another they must travel long

  distance by speedster; their children learn to fly at an early

  age. On most Tatooine farms it would t ake you a day to walk from

  one end to the other, and you'd likely die of thirst first.

  I hate Tatooine. I'm still not sure why I stayed here. It was a

  temporary thing, I recall that. I was following Maxa Jandovar, the

  great-well, for a human, great- vandfillist. I kept missing her.

  She was one of the half-dozen surviving artists I hadn't seen live

  who was worth seeing. I spent half a decade following her around

  through the outback, hitting planet after planet weeks or days or,

  in one instance that gave me ample opportunity to demonstrate

  Grace, a mere half day after she'd left. She didn't leave an

  agenda; she couldn't, very well. The Empire wouldn't go to the

  trouble of hunting her, but if she'd announced where she was going

  next, she'd certainly have found a squad of stormtroopers waiting

  for her at the spaceport when she arrived.

  The Empire doesn't trust artists. Particularly the great ones.

  Politics does not interest them, and they persist in speaking the

  truth when it is inconvenient.

  They arrested Maxa Jandovar on Morvogodine. She died in

  custody. I was on Tatooine when I got the news, getting ready to

  head to Morvogodine.

  Somehow I ended up staying.

  Nightlily, the H'nemthe sitting down at the end of the bar,

  looked bored and horny. I felt sorry for someone.

  "Hey, Wuher!"

  Wuher looked at me from down the length of the bar. "Yeah?"

  "Universal Truth Number One You should never say 'Well, why

  don't you bite my head off?' to a female H'nemthe who is bigger

  than you are."

  He didn't smile. Jerk.

  In the booth next to mine, two humans were trying to talk a

  Moorin merc into helping them rob a bar over on the other side of

  Mos Eisley; I made a note to myself to call the bar's owner and

  sell him a warning about the men. Not that it looked as if the

  Moorin were going to help them; only one of the humans spoke the

  mere's language, his accent was horrific, and his syntax was

  occasionally hysterical. I could see the merc struggling to take

  them seriously. At one point the mere, Obron Mettlo, growled at

  them that he was a soldier, a fighter; he mentioned some of the

  battles he'd fought in. I'd actually heard of most of them-if he

  wasn't lying, he was a serious professional.

  "Hey, Wuher!"

  Wuher looked at me from down the length of the bar. "Yeah?"

  "What do you call someone who speaks three languages?"

  "Trilingual."

  "Someone who speaks two languages?"

  "Bilingual."

  "Someone who speaks one language?"

  He puzzled at it a second. "Monolingual?"

  "Human."

  He almost smiled before he caught himself.

  The day passed slowly. They tend to. I drank enough to keep the

  world slightly out of focus, and waited for the suns to set. I

  moved around a bit, sat at the bar a few times, looking for

  conversation; I even bought two drinks for an off-duty

  stormtrooper, slumming. Wasted; he was more interested in women

  than in conversation, and I doubted he knew anything anyway. That

  is the nature of investments, though; someday he might know

  something, if such a thing were possible for a stormtrooper. And

  then he might think of his old friend and drinking buddy, Labria.

  Brokering information is a chancy occupation, at best.

  Can't say I'm any good at it.

  Long Snoot showed up toward late afternoon. It had been a good

  day until then; Wuher didn't have musicians that day, and I hadn't

  had to wear my ear plugs even once.

  Long Snoot wanted to sell me information.

  I smiled at him, in my corner booth as far away from the stage

  as I could get The sharp smile. "That's a new one. Pass."

  Long Snoot's "name" is Garindan. I had a protocol droid do a

  search on the word once. In five different languages it meant

  "Blessed One," "burnt wood," "dust from a windstorm," "ugly," and

  "toast." None of the five languages were spoken by a species that

  looked anything like Long Snoot's.

  Long Snoot's the most successful spy in Mos Eisley. In a town

  with as many spies as this city has, that says something. He pays

  adequately for information; sometimes I give him information of

  value. Sometimes I even do it on purpose. "But Labria," he

  wheedled, voice low, "this is a subject of particular interest to

  you."

  "Give me a hint."

  He shook his head, trunk waving gently in front of my face. I

  suppressed an uncivilized urge to swat it with a sharpened nail.

  (I often have the opportunity to exhibit Grace in dealing with

  Long Snoot.) "Fifty credits, Labria. You won't regret it."

  I thought about it. I took a sip of the acid gold and swished

  it around my back teeth for a bit. I could feel it helping keep

  them sharp. "Fifty credits is a lot. Resell-able?"

  He scratched under his snout, thinking. "I can't think to

  whom."

  Something of interest to me, but not resellable . . .

  I could feel my ears straighten. "Who is it?"

  "Fift-"

  "I'll pay. Who's onplanet?"

  "Figri-"

  I came up out of my seat. "Fiery Figrin Da'n is on Tatooine?"

  He made an urk noise. "People . . . are . . . looking."

  I looked around. Some of them were, in fact. Odd, having all

  those eyes on me. I let go of Long Snoot, and they turned away.

  "Sorry. Bit excitable."

  He rubbed his throat. "Your nails need trimming."

  "I expect they do." He sat back down again, but I was too

  excited. "The band is with him?"

  "Fifty credits."

  A snarl rose in the back of my throat. I pulled out a fifty-

  credit note and dropped it into his outstretched hand, and tried

  to keep the growl out of my voice when I spoke. "Who?"

  "They're playing for Jabba."

  "All of them?"

  "The Modal Nodes."

  "That's them," I said, unable to keep the excitement out of my

  voice. "Doikk Na'ts on the Fizzz, Tedn Dahai and Ikabel G'ont on

  the Fanfar, Nalan Cheel on Bandfill, Tech Mo'r on the Ommni - "

  "Yeah. Those are the names."

  Oh, my.

  The greatest jizz band in the galaxy was in town.

  I left earlier than usual, as soon as it was dark outside.

  Wuher nodded at me on my way out. "Tomorrow, Labria."

  I nodded at him and went outside into the hot night.

  "Labria" is an extremely dirty word in my native tongue. It

  translates, roughly, as "cold food," though the basic phrase loses

  the flavor of it.

  By my horns, I don't understand humans. I've lived around them

  close to two decades now. The things they swear by! Sex,

  excrement, and religion.

  I'll never understand them.

  There are four hundred billion stars in the galaxy. Most of

  them have planets; about half have planets capable of supporting

  life. About a tenth of those worlds have evolved life of their<
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  own, and about one in a thousand of those worlds have evolved

  intelligent life forms.

  These are rough numbers. There are well over twenty million

  intelligent races in the galaxy, though. No one can keep track of

  them all, not even the Empire.

  I have no idea how many bounty hunters there are in Mos Eisley.

  Hundreds of professionals, I'm sure. Tens of thousands who would

  turn bounty hunter without a moment's pause if the bounty were

  high enough, and if anyone knew of it.

  The Butcher of Montellian Serat has five million credits on his

  horns. But Devaron is halfway across the galaxy, and there may

  only be a dozen sentients on all of Tatooine who even know for

  sure what species I belong to. (There are two other Devaronians

  onplanet, Oxbel and Jubal. I rather like Oxbel; we pretended to be

  brothers once, during a rather involved scam that didn't work out

  the way we'd hoped. We don't look anything alike-his ancestors

  evolved at the equator, mine toward the north pole-but the humans

  we were trying to cheat couldn't tell the difference. I rather

  like Oxbel, but I don't come close to trusting him. He's been away

  from Devaron even longer than I have, and it's entirely possible

  that even he hasn't heard of the Butcher of Montellian Serat-but

  it's best to be safe.

  (There are downsides to being safe, though. The closest Devish

  woman is on the other side of the Core. Just the thought makes my

  horns ache.)

  Most bounty hunters are lazy. If they weren't, they'd be in

  another line of work.

  And research is not their strong point.

  I took the short way home.

  A Reason for Living

  I keep a small underground apartment about twelve minutes'

  brisk walk from the cantina. It's been broken into twice since

  I've lived there. The first time I came back and found the deed

  done; the second time I surprised the burglar in the act. A young

  human. Turns out humans don't taste very good.

  The lights come on automatically as I unlock and let myself in.

  The door leads down a flight of stairs to a cold, sweaty basement

  that costs an indecent amount to cool. The heat-exchange coils

  turn on automatically when I enter; I know from long experience I

  won't be able to sleep until they have been on for quite a while

  -and at that it will not be properly cold until I am done

  sleeping, and it's time to turn them off.

  There's only one thing of value in the apartment; neither of my

  two thieves found it, fortunately. From the outer room you go into

  the sleeping cubicle, and from there into the bathroom. The

  sanitary facilities are human designed, but they suit me well

  enough. In the shower, you push back on the tiled wall, and it

  slides back enough to step through, sideways.

  I step through and into a small eight-sided room. The walls are

  not perfect; they tend to reflect the higher frequencies and

  absorb the lower ones, so virtually everything ends up sounding

  brighter than it should. Some of that can be adjusted for; some of

  it I simply have to live with.

  The wall behind me sighs shut. The room is already cool; it's

  the first part of the apartment to be cooled.

  Along the walls are the chips.

  Some of them are unique, I'm sure. Priceless. Copies of

  recordings that are preserved by no one else in the galaxy. Some

  of them are merely rare and very expensive.

  I have everyone. Or, to be precise, I have something by

  everyone. I have music the Imperium banned a generation ago... by

  musicians executed for singing the wrong lyric, in the wrong way,

  to the wrong person, by musicians who simply vanished, by

  musicians who had the good fortune to die before the Empire came

  to power.

  Maxa Jandovar is here, and Orin Mersai, and Te-lindel and

  Saerlock, Lord Kavad and the Skaalite Orchestra,

  M'lar'Nkai'kambric, Janet Lalasha, and Miracle Meriko, who died in

  Imperial custody four days after I saw him play Stardance for the

  last time. The ancient masters, Kang and Lubrichs, Ovido Aishara,

  and the amazing Brullian Dyll.

  I have two recordings by Fiery Figrin Da'n and the Modal Nodes.

  Da'n may be the greatest Klooist the galaxy has ever seen. As for

  Doikk Na'ts . . . there's something about his playing that's

  always struck me as cautious, careful . . . but sometimes,

  sometimes the fire comes, and. he plays the Fizzz as well as Janet

  Lalasha ever did.

  Most of their backup players could play lead, in a lesser band.

  I settle down in the seat, set just off center for the room,

  where the sound comes together most cleanly, open a bottle of

  twelve-year-old Dorian Quill, and wait for the music to start.

  My people believe that to kill something, you must cherish it

  and love it as it dies. There is no barrier between you and the

  thing you are killing, and you die as you kill.

  Music is the only thing I know that feels the same way.

  The music surrounds me until I cease to exist.

  I die as I kill.

  It's what I live for.

  I'm glad my fathers are dead.

  In the morning I went to see Jabba.

  He had me stand on the trapdoor, and his tail twitched as we

  spoke. That always bothers me. Part of me was frightened by it;

  even carnivores get eaten by bigger carnivores. Another part of me

  wanted to pounce on it.

  He regarded me with those slitted ugly eyes, and laughed a

  rumbling, unpleasant laugh. "So . . . what information does my

  least favorite spy have to sell me?"

  I made it good. I spoke to him in Hutt, which I normally try to

  avoid; it hurts my throat, and I have to use both sets of teeth to

  make some of the sounds. After a long conversation, the front row

  aches from being pulled up and then dropped down again quickly.

  "There's a mercenary in town." I'd learned what I could about him

  before heading over. It hadn't been much, but I'd been rushed. I

  wanted to move on this quickly-if Jabba didn't like Da'n and the

  Nodes, I might never get to see them play. Nor would anyone else.

  "Obron Mettlo. A real professional, fought in dozens of battles,

  often on the winning side, looking for employment. Moorin, has an

  attitude-"

  He made a low, grumbling sound that might have been interpreted

  as interest. Jabba had plenty of muscle, but not always smart

  muscle; and Moorin tend to be bright as well as vicious.

  I forged ahead. "If you like, I could get in touch with him.

  Bring him by to meet you . . . for dinner, perhaps. Possibly some

  entertainment, some music-music is good with Moorin. Keeps 'em

  peaceable."

  His eyelids drooped slightly; either he was bored or he was

  thinking. Finally he gave me a slight chuckle, and said, "Send him

  over."

  I bowed and backed away as quickly as was polite, getting off

  that trapdoor. "As you wish, sir. We'll be by -would first dark be

  appropriate?"

  He smiled at me and it made the fur on the small of my back

  stand straight up
. "Send him by," he clarified. "You are not

  invited."

  I stood frozen at the edge of the trapdoor, mind refusing to

  function. Surely there had to be some way to wangle-

  Jabba made a sound. A familiar sound; I've heard Devish make

  it, too-except that it takes a pack of Devish. It straightened my

  ears and made my front teeth jump out of the way. "You can leave

  now."

  I bowed and got out.

  I spent the evening at the cantina, drinking myself into a

  stupor.

  I just knew Jabba would feed the Modal Nodes to the rancor.

  He'd never had a decent band before, never, not once. The closest

  he'd ever come was Max Rebo's bunch, who could carry a melody if

  you gave them a basket to keep it in.

  But the next morning, I learned that Rebo was out looking for

  work.

  Jabba had a new favorite. It came this close to killing me.

  For four days I couldn't sleep for thinking about it. There

  they were, not a half part's speedster trip from Mos Eisley.

  Playing for him. It ate me alive thinking about it. I lost so much

  Grace in those days that if I had any shame left to me, I'd have

  to use some of it on that period.

  Sometime on the fifth day I drank too much. I awoke lying

  facedown in the alleyway upstairs and behind the cantina, in

  darkness, with someone nudging my shoulder with his toe. I decided

  to take a chunk out of his calf-

  Wuher knelt next to me. "Can you stand up?"

  The cold gravel pressed against my cheek. I had bruises,

  cuts-the memories came back slowly. Several someones had beaten

  me-heavy wood or metal staffs, I vaguely recalled. Just a random

  robbery. My right arm wouldn't move at all. "I don't think so."

  "Come on." My body is denser than humans'; he staggered,

  helping me to my feet The strain sent a jolt of astonishing pain

  through my shoulder. ' 'Where do you live?"

  He half carried me to my apartment, and stood at the opening

  while I fumbled with the interlock. "Do you need medical help?"

  I don't remember if I answered him or not. It was a stupid

  question. No doctor on Tatooine knew anything about Devish

  physiology-or if they did, I didn't want to know them.

  I made it to the shower before I collapsed. I got the cold

  water turned on and sat in it until morning, trying to decide how

  badly I wanted to live.