Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina

by Kevin J. Anderson

  By morning (he apartment half reminded me of home. I stayed in

  it and did not go out, kept the heat-exchange coils running all

  day. Around midday I found the strength to pull a slab of womp rat

  the length of my arm from the freezer, heat it to blood

  temperature, and drag it into the shower with me. I sat under the

  water, nude, eating until my stomach bulged, and when there was

  nothing left but bones on the floor of the stall, turned the water

  off and staggered to my bedpit.

  It took me some time before I felt safe going out in public

  again. Several times someone came to my door; I didn't open it.

  Some information travels Mos Eisley faster than light. Mos Eisley

  is like a living creature It eats the sick and weak. I'd survived

  all these years without having to kill more than a few of my

  fellow residents. They'd have heard by now of the attack on me-

  the humans who'd robbed me might have boasted of it, in which case

  I'd have them in my freezer, whoever they were, before the month

  was out.

  But in any event I dared not go back to the cantina until my

  strength was returned.

  The arm took longest to heal; weeks laterJt was still stiff and

  it hurt when I moved it wrong. But I was almost out of food, so I

  had no choice. Early one morning I dressed, set my alarms, and

  headed for the cantina.

  Wuher looked up and nodded at me when I entered. First one in

  the door. He put a glass on the counter and poured a shot of

  golden liquid. "On the house. Drink it before someone else comes

  in."

  I looked at the drink, and then at Wuher, almost as much at a

  loss for words as I'd been when Jabba told me to send the mere

  over by himself. "Many thanks," I finally got out. He nodded and I

  lifted the glass-

  And stopped. Predators have better noses than leaf eaters.

  There was something wrong with the alcohol. It was-

  He poured himself a shot while I was staring at my glass,

  raised it to me, and knocked it back.

  Merenzane Gold. The real stuff. Precious, pure, real Merenzane

  Gold.

  Wuher corked the unlabeled bottle while I was still staring at

  him, put it away under the bar, and wandered away from me to

  finish opening up.

  I took the glass to my booth, sat and drank it very slowly. I

  hadn't known there was a bottle of real Gold on all of Tatooine.

  I'd almost forgotten what it tasted like.

  I wondered how many years he'd had that bottle down there

  without saying anything about it.

  By the Cold, I'm a lousy spy.

  That's something to be proud of.

  I spent the morning listening to the talk throughout the bar.

  I'd been out of touch . . . and interesting things had happened

  while I'd been hidden away from the world. Last night an Imperial

  battle cruiser had fought in orbit with a Rebel spaceship, and

  today stormtroopers were looking all over Tatooine for someone, or

  something, that had escaped them.

  And a piece of horrifically bad news The damn mercenary I'd

  recommended to Jabba had picked a fight with a pair of Jabba's

  bodyguards and shot them both up before getting himself fed to the

  rancor. There was some rumor that perhaps the mere had been an

  assassin paid by the Lady Valarian, whose real target had been

  Jabba himself-

  Maybe Jabba had forgotten who had recommended him.

  And maybe Long Snoot would give me my fifty credits back.

  It came to me in a vision .

  Okay, that's not true, but it's close. Long Snoot stopped by

  and mentioned something interesting The Lady Valarian was getting

  married. Max Rebo and band were going to play at the wedding.

  I barely noticed when Long Snoot left. I stared straight ahead,

  through the noonday crowd come to escape the heat, not seeing

  them, not seeing the cantina. Just thinking.

  "Wuher."

  He turned away from a conversation with a pair of human females

  who looked like clones; the Tonnika sisters, they'd introduced

  themselves as. He did it grudgingly; they were attractive, by

  human standards. "Yeah?"

  "How's business?"

  He stared at me suspiciously. "It stinks. It always stinks."

  "How would you like entertainment by real musicians?"

  "Rebo? Can't afford him, and his bunch don't draw what they

  cost anyway."

  I gave him the polite smile. "Figrin Da'n and the Modal Nodes.

  They're Bith. They're good, Wuher. I mean really, really good."

  "What would they cost me?"

  "Five hundred a week."

  He gave me the suspicious stare again. If something sounds too

  good to be true, someone's being screwed. "Really. A band better

  than Rebo's will work here for less than his."

  "I think I can arrange it."

  "How?"

  I told him. When I was done he said in a somber voice, "You are

  one twisted puppy, Lab."

  "Is it a deal?"

  He shook his head no, said "It?s a deal," and wandered away,

  shaking his head and muttering to himself.

  The Lady Valarian is the closest thing to competition that

  Jabba the Hutt has on Tatooine. That's not saying much; Jabba

  tolerates her because it keeps all the discontents in one place.

  She's a Whiphid, which means she's stupid, huge, ugly, has more

  muscle on her than I do, and smells worse than Jabba. I wouldn't

  eat her even after a long hunt.

  I went to see her at her hotel, the Lucky Despot. The Lucky

  Despot isn't much of a hotel, truth told; just a spaceship that

  won't ever lift again.

  "That's right," I said. "Modal Nodes. Lead is Figrin Da'n. I

  know you want the best for your wedding, Lady Valarian. This group

  makes music so glorious, your wedding will be the talk of this

  corner of the galaxy. People for dozens of light-years will speak

  with envy and longing of the entertainment provided at the wedding

  of the great Lady Valarian and her handsome consort, the daring

  D'Wopp, of the romantic mood set by the finest musicians this poor

  galaxy has ever seen."

  She glared at me-well, I think she glared at me; with those mad

  little eyes Whiphids have, it's hard to tell-and said skeptically,

  "Better than Max Rebo? I love Max Rebo."

  She would. And she deserved to have the ugly little runt play

  her wedding, for all of me. "Fair mistress, your taste is as that

  of your tongue, and none would dare say otherwise." I gave her the

  polite smile. "But Modal Nodes is currently Jabba the Hutt's

  favored entertainment. Would you have it said that the entertain

  ment at your wedding was provided by the musicians Jabba deemed

  too poor to play for him?"

  It took her a bit to work through it. I'd gotten a little

  carried away with my syntax; Whiphids have a working vocabulary of

  only about eight thousand words. "No! No, I won't have it! I want

  the Nodal Notes!" She looked briefly uncertain. "Do you think

  they'll come?"

  "They'll be expensive, madam. They'll be braving Jabba's

  displeasure to play for you. It might cost . . . two, or three
/>
  thousand credits, perhaps. If I can have the loan of a messenger

  droid, I would be most happy to begin making the arrangements . .

  ."

  The morning of the wedding I called Jabba.

  He laughed with, I think, real amusement on seeing me. "My

  least favorite spy!" he boomed. "Perhaps you should come visit me.

  We can have dinner together, and talk about the mercenary you

  introduced to me."

  "I have information, Jabba."

  "Hmmm."

  "Do you know your musicians are missing? Figrin Da'n and the

  Modal Nodes?"

  "Hmmmph!" He made a bellowing noise and rocked himself off

  camera. I heard shrieks, steel clanging, things breaking ... I

  stood patiently in front of my comlink's pickup and waited for him

  to come back, if he was going to. After a bit he did. "Hoooo," he

  muttered, shaking his head. "Where are they, least favorite spy?"

  "The Lady Valarian is getting married today. She's hired them

  to play at her wedding, at the Lucky Despot Hotel."

  The eyes narrowed to slits. "And what does my least favorite

  spy want for this information?"

  I spread my hands. "Let us forget a certain unfortunate

  introduction . . ."

  He looked at me through the slitted eyes for a second, and then

  gave the booming laugh. "Least favorite spy, call me again

  sometime."

  He broke the connection.

  Cold sweat trickled through the fur on the small of my back.

  Wuher had dressed for the wedding. He'd changed his shirt.

  The cantina was dark and silent; I'd never seen it like this

  before, except the first few minutes in the morning. I gave Wuher

  my invitation; the Lady Valarian had given it to me in gratitude

  for acquiring the "Nodal Notes" for her wedding, while hinting

  that, in the future, I might find it better business to share

  information with her rather than with Jabba.

  Someone'll kill Jabba, someday, but it's not going to be

  Valarian.

  "You're sure the wedding's going to be broken up," he repeated.

  "I'm sure the Modal Nodes aren't going to want to go back to

  Jabba after this. All you have to do is offer them a place to lie

  low for a while, play a few gigs, pick up a few credits. They're

  going to be broke; Valarian won't pay them after her wedding is

  broken up."

  He shook his head, tucking his shirt in again. "You think

  they'll go for it?"

  "I think they'll jump at it."

  Wuher stood there, studying me in the gloom. "Lab . . . if you

  put this kind of effort into anything else, you could be a wealthy

  being."

  I shook my head, and said gently, "My friend, this is all that

  I want."

  It's hard to outthink Jabba. Also dangerous.

  I sat in the shadows of a building down the way from the Lucky

  Despot, watching the crowd arrive for the wedding. A scummy lot,

  all around. I recognized several of the "guests" as Jabba's

  people. I hoped there wasn't any shooting. I didn't see enough of

  Jabba's troops to make that likely; if he'd decided to wipe out

  Lady Valarian for her theft of his musicians, he'd have sent more

  soldiers. That was a good sign.

  I could hear, so faintly that my ears twitched, a song that

  might have been "Tears of Aquanna." It was followed by what was,

  quite definitely, "Worm Case." Odd choices for a wedding. Maybe

  they were playing requests.

  And then the bad news arrived.

  Stormtroopers.

  Two squads. They set down out of the night, quietly and with

  running lights doused, in full combat armor. One squad covered the

  entrance to the hotel, and the second squad went in. From the

  moment they set down I doubt it took them twenty seconds.

  Oh, the noise was awful. From where I sat, I could hear it.

  Screams, blaster bolts, yelling, another round of blaster fire-one

  of the stormtroopers near the entrance went down. I lifted my

  macrobinoculars and watched the building through them. Windows

  opened and the scum of a dozen different races came squirming out

  through them, I moved the macrobinoculars up, scanning across the

  structure of the half-buried ship . . . Toward the top of the

  ship, three stories above the dirty sand, an emergency airlock

  clanged open. The first head through it was a Bith. I couldn't

  guess who All Bith look alike, even when you're not looking

  through macrobinoculars. More Bith followed, and then the

  unmistakable squat form of my friend Wuher. They took off across

  the sand together, Wuher and the Bith, and ran straight by me in

  the darkness without pausing.

  I'd never have guessed that Wuher could move that fast . . .

  and a moment later I saw why he was managing it. A pair of

  stormtroopers came charging after them, weapons at the ready. I

  shed a little Grace by tripping the one in the lead. The second

  stormtrooper tripped over him. I bent over them and picked up

  their rifles. I hadn't handled an assault rifle in-well, in a very

  long time, but they hadn't changed. I pulled the charge cages from

  them and handed them back to the two stormtroopers as they

  recovered their feet.

  "You appear to have dropped these, gendes."

  One of them immediately jumped backward, rifle pointing at me,

  and shouted, "Don't move!"

  The other one looked at me, and then at his rifle, and then at

  me again.

  "Come now," I said gently. "We're reasonable beings. You

  tripped and I helped you up again. No need for anyone to get

  upset. If you got injured in the fall, perhaps, I'd be more than

  happy to compensate you for it . . ."

  I let my voice trail off and the three of us watched each other

  for a beat.

  The one pointing the useless rifle at me said in a strained

  voice, "Are you trying to bribe us?"

  I drew myself up to my full height and stared down at them, and

  gave them the sharp smile. "Not," I said, "if you're going to be

  snotty about it."

  In the morning, when I reached the cantina, I found the Modal

  Nodes already there, setting up.

  Wuher scowled at me. "I got shot at. By a stinking droid."

  "I'm sorry." He didn't seem that angry, though . . . "You heard

  them play."

  He nodded grudgingly. "Yeah. They're pretty good."

  "They're the best," I said softly. "And I think you know it"

  He just snorted.

  "About my fee."

  "Yeah?"

  "Free drinks for a year."

  He snorted again. "Not bloody likely. We won't get a year out

  of this lot; they'll jump planet as soon as they can find some

  idiot to run the lines for them."

  He had a point. Still-

  "Their stay might be longer than that," I pointed out. "Jabba

  will want to keep them from leaving the planet. He might even want

  diem back someday."

  He actually smiled at me; I like him better scowling. "Seven

  free drinks a day as long as they keep playing. As soon as they

  sneak out of here, you pay again. You pay for every drink over

  seven anyway."

  I grinned at him b
efore I remembered myself, with the sharp

  teeth. "Deal." I got up and walked over to where Figrin was

  setting up with the band, and introduced myself.

  I swear, Biths look contemptuous even when they're not trying

  to. The fellow had obviously heard of my reputation Labria the

  drunk. The half bright, half sly, half sober. He barely glanced at

  me. "Oh, yes. Jabba's least favorite spy."

  The fellow was a notorious gambler. "Interested in a few hands

  of sabacc? The crowd doesn't start showing up here until later

  afternoon anyhow."

  "I don't think so."

  "Twenty-credit minimum bid."

  His head swiveled as though it belonged to a droid. "Oh? Can

  you back that up?"

  I gave him the sharp smile, on purpose. Bith know they're food.

  "Are you trying to insult me, Figrin Da'n?"

  There may have been a deck somewhere, somewhen in the history

  of time colder than the one we used, but I wouldn't bet on it.

  Bith come from a warm, bright world. Devaronians, by the way, see

  farther into the infrared than practically anyone. It's useful to

  be able to see heat, when you evolve in the cold.

  Buried in the black border along the edges of the cards were

  markers sensitive to low-spectrum infrared light. I knew every

  card he held, all that morning.

  They were already broke By the time we were done I owned their

  instruments, except for Doikk Na'ts's Fizzz.

  And what a day that turned out to be.

  For the life of me it seemed the universe had conspired to keep

  me from enjoying the music. First the band squabbled with each

  other, and then when they, finally got going, with a nice upbeat

  rendition of "Mad About Me," some old fool chopped up another

  fool- with a lightsaber, of all frozen things-and interrupted it.

  That psychotic Solo actually showed his face in the cantina just

  after that, and then of course had to kill a miserable excuse for

  a bounty hunter named Greedo. If I'd had a blaster on me I might

  have shot Solo in the back as he left, but well, opportunities

  slip by.

  Besides, it's best not to draw attention.

  Afternoon slid into evening, and I nursed my drinks and watched

  them play. It took them a while to get into it; at first Figrin

  couldn't stand looking at me, and every time he saw me watching

  them it threw him out of his game. But it's hard to stay