Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Wimateeka shook his head so that his hood jerked from side to

  side. "We have lost all contact with them. They sent no

  explanation of their delay. We are concerned. Perhaps the Sand

  People attacked them, too." Het Nkik scowled. "We can't simply run

  and hide all the time, especially now that the Imperials are

  growing more aggressive. We could all work together. Many small

  ones can make one large force. Now that the Jawas have gathered

  for the swap meet, clan leader, will you discuss my ideas with

  them?"

  Wimateeka and Eet Ptaa tittered with nervous laughter.

  Wimateeka said, "Now you're sounding like one particular human

  moisture farmer I know! He wants Jawas and humans and Sand People

  to work together and draw maps separating our territories." "Is

  that such a bad idea?" Het Nkik asked. Wimateeka shrugged. "It is

  not the Jawa way." Het Nkik felt as if he were talking to a droid

  with its power pack removed. Nothing would ever change until the

  Jawas saw how things might be different-until someone set an

  example. He walked along between the tables, kicking up occasional

  billows of dust. The smell of roasted hubba gourd made his mouth

  water. Looking up, he searched the rim of the dunes for any sign

  of Jek Nkik's sand-crawler. As he passed a table from the Kkak

  clan, he heard a conspiratorial whisper, unlike the entreaties by

  other merchants.

  "Het Nkik!" the Kkak clan member said, clicking the hard

  consonants and sharpening his name.

  He turned and saw the other Jawa reach beneath his table to a

  private stash of wares. "Are you Het Nkik?" he repeated. "Of

  Wimateeka's clan, the one who is always talking about empowering

  the Jawas, about making us fight? Hrar Kkak salutes you and offers

  an exchange of wares."

  Het Nkik felt a ribbon of cold inside him like a long drink of

  rare water. "I am Het Nkik," he said, letting suspicion curl

  through his body odor. It was good to let a salesman see healthy

  skepticism. "The opportunity for exchange is always welcome, and

  the time for opportunity is always now."

  "I have something for you," the tradesman said. "Come closer."

  Het Nkik took a step to the table, and now he was honor bound

  to listen to the sales pitch. The Kkak clansman looked around

  furtively and then hauled out a blaster rifle, scarred but

  magnificent. A Blastech DL-44 model, more power than Het Nkik had

  ever held in his own hands.

  He took a step backward in alarm and then forward in

  fascination. "Jawas are forbidden such weapons," he said.

  "I have heard rumors of such an Imperial decree from Mos

  Eisley, but I have received no confirmation of it," the salesman

  said. "We of the Kkak clan have been wandering the far fringes of

  the Dune Sea, and sometimes communication of such things takes a

  long time."

  Het Nkik nodded in admiration of the smooth excuse. "Does it

  function? Where did you get it?"

  "Never mind where I got it."

  Het Nkik felt ashamed for his breach of Jawa protocol. "If I'm

  going to purchase this . . ." He removed his pouch of barter

  credits, knowing instinctively that he had to have the weapon. He

  wanted it no matter what the consequences - and the salesman knew

  it, too. "I need to know if it works."

  "Of course it functions." The salesman popped out the power

  pack. "You'll see that the charge is on three-quarters."

  Het Nkik saw that it was a standard power pack of the type that

  could be used in many sorts of equipment. "Let me try it in that

  portable illuminator," he said, "just to make sure."

  Both of them knew Het Nkik could not fire the blaster with all

  the other Jawas present. The Kkak salesman slipped the power pack

  into the portable illuminator and switched it on. A bright beam

  stabbed skyward toward the two suns. "Satisfied?"

  Het Nkik nodded. "My resources are meager, though my admiration

  of your wares is great."

  The two haggled over price for an acceptable amount of time,

  though the price didn't change much. Het Nkik hurried away with

  only a few barter credits left to his name - but the proud owner

  of a highly illegal blaster hidden under his brown robes. For the

  first time in his life, he felt tall. Very tall.

  He spent the rest of the swap meet looking for his comrade Jek

  Nkik, but the last sandcrawler never arrived.

  After the swap meet disbanded, the sandcrawlers toiled across

  the Dune Sea in different directions, laden with new treasures

  each clan had obtained through hard bargaining.

  After an hour of relentless jabbering, Het Nkik convinced the

  pilot to detour along the path Jek Nkik's vehicle might have

  taken, to see if they could discover what had befallen the missing

  Jawas. They headed toward the oudying moisture farms among which

  his clan mate's group often traded.

  Het Nkik worked in the engine room, coaxing the faltering

  reactors to function for just a few more months until the storm

  season when the sandcrawlers would be parked next to Jawa

  fortresses in the badlands. Wimateeka's old mechanics would have

  to give the ion pumps and the reactors a full overhaul. Het Nkik's

  companions were much more focused on their tasks now that the swap

  meet was over.

  At about midday, the lookout sounded an alarm. He had seen

  smoke. Normally the sight of burning wreckage made Jawas ecstatic

  at the possibility of a salvage claim, but Het Nkik felt a deep

  foreboding; none of the others noticed the change in his scent.

  He left his post and took the lift platform to the bridge. In

  front of the wide viewport, he climbed on an overturned equipment

  box and stared. The smoke grew thick. His heart sank inside him as

  if he had just lost all his possessions in a bad trade.

  He recognized the oxidized brown metal of an old ore hauler's

  hull, the trapezoidal shape. The sandcrawler had been assaulted,

  blasted with heavy-weapons fire, and destroyed.

  Het Nkik knew his friend and clan brother was dead.

  The lookout chittered in terror, expressing his fear that

  whatever had struck the sandcrawler might still be around to

  attack them. But the pilot, seeing the enormous wealth of

  unclaimed salvage, overcame his uneasiness. He used the comm unit

  to transmit a message to Wimateeka's fortress, establishing his

  salvage rights.

  Greasy tatters of smoke curled up in the air as the sandcrawler

  descended toward the destroyed vehicle. Het Nkik felt a resurgence

  of anger bubble within him. He recalled how stormtroopers had

  assaulted Jawa fortresses for practice. He thought of Eet Ptaa's

  settlement raided by the Sand People. Yet again, someone bigger

  had attacked helpless Jawas, perhaps out of spite, or for sport,

  or for no reason at all.

  The only thing Jawas ever did was take their beatings, flee,

  and accept their helplessness. Nothing would ever change until

  somebody showed them another way.

  He thought of the blaster he had purchased at the swap meet.

&
nbsp; The pilot brought the sandcrawler to a halt facing the best

  escape route if attackers reappeared. The hull doors clanked open,

  and the Jawas scrambled out, ducking low for cover but eager to

  dash toward the treasure trove of scrap. The pilot scrambled

  forward to apply a claim beacon to the ruined sandcrawler, warning

  away other scavengers. Jawas swarmed into the half-open door of

  the wreck, scurrying to see what treasures had been left

  undamaged.

  Several Jawas squealed as they realized they were not alone by

  the damaged sandcrawler. A bearded old human in worn but flowing

  robes stood off in the shade beside two droids that he seemed to

  have claimed for himself. He had built a small, crackling pyre.

  Het Nkik sniffed, smelled burning flesh; the old man had already

  begun the ritual disposal of Jawa carcasses in the purging flames.

  The human raised his hands in a placating gesture. Some of Het

  Nkik's cousins speculated that the old human had killed the other

  Jawas, but Het Nkik saw this was obviously absurd.

  A protocol droid walked stiffly beside the old man. Its gold

  plating was a bit scratched, and it had a dent in the top of its

  head; but all in all the droid seemed to be. in good functioning

  order. The other droid, a barrel-shaped model, hung back and

  bleeped in alarm at seeing the Jawas. Het Nkik automatically began

  to assess how much he could get in trade for the droids.

  The protocol droid said, "I offer my services as an

  interpreter, sir. I am fluent in over six million forms of

  communication."

  The old man looked calmly at the droid and made a dismissive

  gesture. "Your services won't be needed. I've lived in these

  deserts far too long not to understand a little of the Jawas'

  speech. Greetings!" the old man said in clear Jawa words. "May you

  trade well, though I sorrow for your tragedy here today."

  Three Jawas bent close to the rock-strewn ground and spotted

  bantha tracks. They set up a wail of panic, suddenly convinced

  that the Sand People had declared an all-out war.

  But something did not seem right to Het Nkik. He looked at the

  tracks, at the crude weapons fire that had struck the most crucial

  spots on the enormous ore hauler. He sniffed the air, sorting

  through layers of scent from molten and hardened metal to the

  burning stench of bodies, to the heated sand. He detected an

  undertone of plasteel armor, fresh lubricants, a mechanized

  attack, but he could find none of the musty smells of the Tusken

  Raiders or the dusty, peppery scent of their banthas.

  Het Nkik pointed this out, and the other Jawas snapped at him,

  impatient, as usual, with his contradictory views. But the old man

  spoke up for him. "Y our little brother is right. This was an

  Imperial attack, not a strike by the Sand People."

  The others chittered in disbelief, but the old man continued.

  "The Imperial occupying forces would like nothing better than to

  see a war among Sand People and Jawas and human moisture farmers.

  You must not allow yourselves to believe their deceptions."

  "Who are you?" Het Nkik asked him. "How do you know our funeral

  customs, and why have you claimed no salvage for yourself?"

  The old man said, "I know of your customs because I try to

  understand the other people who share my desert home. I know the

  Jawas believe that all their possessions are forfeit to the clan

  at death, but your bodies are borrowed from the womb of the sands,

  and their elements must return to pay the debt you owe for your

  temporary life."

  Some of the Jawas gasped at his eloquent recital of their own

  intensely private beliefs.

  "If you understand us so well," Het Nkik said brashly, "then

  you know that no Jawa would ever strike back at a Tusken Raider,

  even for such a blatant assault as this. The Jawas are all

  cowards. Nothing will make them fight."

  The old man smiled indulgently, and his pale blue eyes seemed

  to bore through Het Nkik's robe, seeing deep into the hooded

  shadow of his face. "Perhaps a coward is only a fighter who has

  not yet been pushed far enough - or one who has not been shown the

  way."

  "General Kenobi," the golden droid interrupted, "Master Luke

  has been gone far too long. He should have had ample time" to get

  to his home and back by now."

  The old man turned to the Jawas. "Your salvage claim is safe

  here, but you must warn the others of the tricks the Imperials are

  playing. The garrison in Mos Eisley has just been reinforced with

  many more storm-troopers. They are searching . . . for something

  they will not find."

  The two droids stood huddled together.

  "But the Prefect and the Imperial Governor will continue to

  foster turmoil between the Jawas and the Tusken Raiders." Then the

  human turned and looked directly at Het Nkik. "The Jawas are not

  powerless - if they do not wish to be."

  Het Nkik felt a lance of fear and realization strike through

  him. A memory returned to him like a stun bolt. He recalled with

  the vividness of a double desert sunset a time - less than a year

  before his coming of age - when he had scanned a crashed T-16

  speeder out in the rocky twists of an unnamed canyon. Wanting to

  claim the salvage for himself, Het Nkik had not asked for Jawa

  assistance, not even from Jek Nkik.

  When he found the ruined vehicle, he spotted a young human male

  sprawled dead on the rocks, thrown there by the crash. Apparently,

  the T-16's repulsorlifts had been unable to counteract a sudden

  thermal updraft; the landspeeder had crashed and skidded, leaving

  a knotted tongue of smoke in the otherwise empty air.

  Het Nkik had pawed at the mangled controls, ignoring the broken

  body that had already begun to attract moisture-seeking insects

  from crevices in the rocks. He had suddenly looked up to discover

  six young and vicious Tusken Raiders, their faces swaddled with

  rags, hissing through breath filters. They were angry, ready for a

  heroic adventure they could tell about around the story fires

  throughout their adulthood. The Sand People raised their sharpened

  gaffi sticks and uttered their ululating cries.

  Het Nkik knew he was about to die. He could not possibly fight

  even one of the Sand People. He was unarmed. He was alone. He was

  small and defenseless -a weak, cowardly Jawa.

  But as the Sand People attacked, Het Nkik had found the T-16's

  still-functioning security system, and triggered it. The sonic

  alarm sent out a pulsating screech loud enough to curdle dewback

  blood. Startled by the noise, the Raiders had fled.

  Het Nkik had stood trembling in his brown robes, paralyzed with

  fear and astonishment. It took him many moments to realize that he

  alone had scared off the Tusken Raiders. A weak Jawa had driven

  back an attack by bloodthirsty Sand People!

  It had been a warming revelation to him Given the right

  equipment and the right attitude, Jawas could be different.

  And now he had a blaster rifle.

  "I know we
are not powerless," Het Nkik said to the old man who

  continued to watch him, "but my clan members do not realize it."

  "Perhaps they will," the old man said.

  As the other Jawas scrambled over the wrecked sand-crawler, Het

  Nkik knew what he had to do. He went to the pilot and forfeited

  his entire share of salvage in exchange for a single functional

  vehicle that would take him alone across the desert to the human

  spaceport . . . where the Imperials were headquartered.

  Het Nkik's sand vehicle broke down twice on his trek to the

  sprawling, squalid city of Mos Eisley. Standing under the pounding

  heat of the suns as the burning wind licked under his hood, he

  managed to use his skill and meager resources to get the vehicle

  limping along again over the rocky ground.

  Inside his cloak the DL44 blaster felt incredibly heavy, cold

  and hot at the same time. The weight inside his chest seemed even

  heavier, but burning anger drove him on.

  On the dust-whipped streets of Mos Eisley, Het Nkik kept the

  sand vehicle functioning until he spotted another Jawa-a member of

  a distant clan who had been in town for some time-and offered the

  used-up vehicle for sale. Though he drove a poor bargain, Het Nkik

  did not expect to live long enough to spend the credits; but his

  nature forbade him giving anything away.

  On foot, Het Nkik trudged through the rippling midday heat,

  clutching the blaster close to his chest, looking at languid

  creatures dozing in adobe doorways waiting for the day to cool.

  The streets were nearly deserted. He walked and walked, feeling

  his feet burn; the pale dust caked his garment.

  He knew what he intended to do, but he didn't quite know how to

  go about it. He had a blaster. He had an obsession. But he had yet

  to find a target-the right target.

  He noted an increased Imperial presence in the city, guards

  stationed by docking bays and the customs center; but no more than

  two at a time. Het Nkik knew that life was cheap in Mos Eisley,

  and killing a single Imperial trooper would not cause enough

  uproar. He had to go out in such a blaze of glory and heroism that

  the Jawas would sing of him for years to come.

  In the town center he found the large wreck of the Dowager

  Queen spacecraft, a mess of tangled girders, falling-apart hull

  plates, and all manner of strange creatures, vagrants, and

  scavengers lurking inside the hull.