Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina

Home > Science > Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina > Page 27
Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina Page 27

by Kevin J. Anderson


  To Het Nkik it looked like the perfect place for an ambush.

  His instincts told him to feel helpless, but he firmly squashed

  those thoughts. He had the strength, if only he could find the

  will to make an example of himself. It could change the lives of

  Jawas forever ... or he could just get himself foolishly killed.

  Panic welled up within him as he considered the folly of an

  insignificant Jawa planning something so preposterous. He wanted

  to hide in a shadowy alley. He could wait for darkness, scurry out

  of the city and find someplace where he could be safe and cower

  with the other Jawas, afraid of every threatening noise. Afraid to

  fight ...

  Bracing himself, Het Nkik slipped inside the bustling cantina

  right across the dirt thoroughfare from the wreck of the Dowager

  Queen. Conflicting scents overwhelmed him strange smells of a

  thousand different patron species, chemicals that served as

  stimulants for an untold number of biochemistries, the smell of

  amorous intentions, of restrained violence, of anger and laughter,

  food and sweat. Strains of music drifted out, a mixture of noises

  chained to a melody.

  He had credit chips. He could get a stimulant, something to

  help him focus his thoughts, brace up his courage.

  Het Nkik moved with quick steps down the stairs, hugging the

  shadows, trying not to be noticed. Deep inside the folds of his

  garment he gripped the precious blaster. He placed a credit chit

  on the bar counter, straining to reach the high surface. He had to

  repeat his order three times before the harried human bartender

  understood what he wanted. Nursing his drink, Het Nkik hunched

  over a tiny private table, smelling rich volatile chemicals

  wafting from the surface of the liquid. The scent was just as

  intoxicating as the drink itself.

  He tried to plan, but no thoughts came to him. Should he resort

  to a spontaneous action, an angry gesture, rather than a

  methodically orchestrated scenario? His plan required no finesse,

  merely a large number of targets and the element of surprise. He

  thought of the burning Jawa corpses at the wrecked sandcrawler and

  the old human hermit who had given him the courage.

  He felt a warm rush of surprise as the old hermit entered the

  cantina with a young moisture farmer. The bartender made them

  leave their droids outside; at another time Het Nkik might have

  plotted a raid to steal the two unguarded droids, but not now. He

  had more important things on his mind.

  The old hermit didn't notice him, but Het Nkik took his

  appearance as a sign, an omen of strength. He gulped his drink and

  sat up watching the old man talk to a spacer at the bar then to a

  Wookiee, and when the moisture farmer boy got into trouble with

  one of the other patrons, the old man came to the rescue with the

  most spectacular weapon Het Nkik had ever seen, a glowing shaft of

  light that cut through flesh as if it were smoke.

  Seeing the lightsaber made him suddenly doubt his mere blaster.

  He pulled ou t the weapon and held it on his lap under the table,

  touching the smooth metal curves, the deadly buttons, the power

  pack snapped into the end. He was startled by another creature

  joining him at his table a furry, long-snouted Ranat who smelled

  of dust and eagerness to make a trade.

  Jawas and Ranats often competed with each other in , the

  streets of Mos Eisley. The Jawas tended to roam the empty areas of

  sand, while Ranats stayed within populated areas. They traded at

  times, but generally viewed each other with suspicion.

  "Reegesk salutes Het Nkik and offers an exchange of tales or

  wares," the Ranat said in the formalized greeting.

  Het Nkik was in no mood to talk, but he made the appropriate

  response. Sipping his drink, listening to the Ranat chatter about

  his wares, he tried to find a way to gather his own courage. But

  when the Ranat offered him a Tusken battle talisman, he suddenly

  sat up and listened.

  The Sand People were great warriors; they fought creatures many

  times their size, slaughtered entire settlements, tamed wild

  banthas. Perhaps a Tusken charm could give him the advantage he

  needed after all. And what did he have to lose?

  The Ranat seemed to realize how much he wanted the talisman, so

  Het Nkik offered a high price-provided he could pay a few credits

  now and the rest later -knowing full well that he would never be

  around for the second installment.

  Against his better judgment, Het Nkik passed his blaster

  surreptitiously under the table so the Ranat could look at it.

  With the talisman in his hand and the blaster rifle under his

  fingertips, facing the burning intensity in the Ranat's eyes, Het

  Nkik felt inspiration return, felt his need for revenge. He

  thought again of his clan brother Jek Nkik, how the two of them

  had done the almost impossible, repairing the assassin droid-and

  then he remembered the smoking wreckage of the sandcrawler.

  Imperials had done that. Imperials had attacked other Jawa

  fortresses. Imperials continued to tighten their grip on Tatooine.

  Perhaps his gesture would stir up not only the Jawas, but bring

  about a general revolution. Then the planet could be free again.

  That would be worth any sacrifice, would it not?

  A loud explosion and a sudden commotion across the cantina

  startled him. He wanted to duck under the table, but he whirled to

  see a human sitting at a booth. Smoke curled up from a hole in the

  table in front of him and a strong-smelling Rodian lay slumped on

  the table. Het Nkik was paralyzed for a moment in terror, though

  the Ranat seemed amused at the Rodian's death. Het Nkik stared as

  the human slowly got up, avoiding the dead bounty hunter and

  tossing a coin at the bar.

  Life was indeed cheap in Mos Eisley, but he wanted to sell his

  own for a high price. Other Jawas in the cantina scrambled to

  claim the corpse; at another time he too might have fought for his

  share of the remains, but he let his brothers take what they

  needed.

  He looked down to see the Ranat fondling his DL-44 blaster, and

  Het Nkik snatched it away. He sensed determination and enthusiasm

  pouring through his muscles. The intoxicant buzzed through his

  brain. The weapon felt light and powerful in his hands.

  He would never be more prepared.

  Without saying good-bye to the Ranat, he took the blaster,

  squeezed the Tusken battle talisman, and scuttled out of the

  cantina, across the bright streets to the wreckage of the Dowager

  Queen.

  As soon as he was there, Het Nkik knew he had been meant to do

  this. Pressing the blaster against his side, he scrambled up the

  hot metal hull plates of the wreck, finding handholds and

  footholds to get himself to a higher position, a good place to

  fire from.

  His pulse pounded. His head sang. He knew this was his time.

  His entire life had been focused toward this moment. He found a

  shaded place. A good spot for his ambush.

  A li
ne of stormtroopers on patrol rounded the corner, marching

  toward the cantina as if searching for something. They marched in

  lockstep, crushing dust under their white heels, intent on their

  goal. Sunlight gleamed from their polished armor. Their weapons

  clicked and rattled as they walked, their helmets stared straight

  ahead. They walked quickly, coming closer and closer.

  He counted eight in a row. Yes, eight of them. If he, a single

  weak Jawa, could mow down eight Imperial stormtroopers, that would

  be the stuff of legends. No Jawa could forget that their brother,

  Het Nkik, had struck such a blow against the Empire. If all Jawas

  Could do the same thing, the Empire would flee from Tatooine.

  He clutched the blaster. He bent down. He watched the

  stormtroopers approach. His glowing yellow eyes focused on them,

  and he tried to determine the best plan of attack. He would strike

  the leader first, then the ones in the middle, then behind, then

  back to the front in a sweeping motion. There would be a shower of

  blaster bolts. It would take them a moment to discover his

  location. For some of them, that would be a moment too long.

  There was even the ridiculously small chance that he could kill

  them all before they managed a shot in his direction. In the

  ruined ship he had a bit of cover. Maybe he could survive this. He

  could live to strike again and again. Perhaps he could even become

  a Jawa leader, a warlord. Het Nkik, the great general!

  Stormtroopers stepped in front of the ship, looking toward the

  cantina, not even seeing him. Arrogant and confident, they ignored

  the Dowager Queen.

  Het Nkik gripped the blaster. His knees were ready to explode,

  springloaded, waiting, waiting until he couldn't stand it a

  moment, an instant longer-and uttered a chittering ululation of

  rage and revenge in a conscious imitation of a Tusken cry. In his

  life's single moment of glory, so close to the end, Het Nkik

  leaped up and swung the blaster rifle at his targets.

  Before they could even turn in his direction, he squeezed the

  firing button-again, and again, and again.

  Trade Wins The Ranat's Tale

  by Rebecca Moesta

  Dodging a pair of potentially meddlesome storm-troopers,

  Reegesk clutched his treasures and scurried with rodentlike

  efficiency into the narrow alley beside his favorite drinking

  establishment in Mos Eisley. Ah, yes, his favorite. Not because

  their drinks or performers were of superior quality, but because

  he could always find someone there who wanted-or needed-to make a

  trade. And in the small Ranat tribe that scratched out a larger

  place for itself each day on this arid outpost world, that was,

  after all, his job Reegesk the Trader, Reegesk the Barterer,

  Reegesk the Procurement Specialist Par Excellence.

  Whiskers twitching with satisfaction, he sat against a sun-

  washed wall, curled his whip-hard tail loosely around him, and

  opened his bundle to examine the day's prizes. An oven-hot breeze

  carried the not unpleasant scents of decaying garbage and animal

  droppings to Reegesk from farther down the alley. He had started

  the morning with little more than a handful of polished rocks and

  a few tidbits of information and had made a series of successful

  trades to collect the much more valuable items that he now spread

  out in the dust beside him. A small antenna, some fine cloth with

  very few holes in it, a bundle of wires for the tiny 'vaporator

  his tribe was secretly building. These he would keep.

  But he had more bargaining to do yet. He still needed many

  things a power source to complete the bootleg 'vaporator unit

  that could make his tribe less dependent on local moisture

  farmers, a length or two of rope, scraps of metal for making tools

  or weapons.

  From his perspective, he always managed to trade up.

  Fortunately, he still had a few items left to trade from his most

  recent bargain a cracked stormtrooper helmet, a packet of field

  rations, and a Tusken battle talisman carved from bantha horn. All

  this for only some day-old information and a discarded restraining

  bolt. He supposed the heat and dust could dull anyone's judgment.

  Perhaps the Imperial officer-a Lieutenant Alima, who was

  definitely not a local-should have paid more attention to the

  deal. Well, the officer had gotten what he wanted. Reegesk

  shrugged.

  Of course, the old warning to buyers was valid Always pay

  close attention during a trade. Less scrupulous traders tricked

  customers or tried to convince them to make useless purchases, but

  not Reegesk. This, despite the "semisentient" status the Empire

  had conferred on the Ranat race, had gained him a reputation on

  the streets of Mos Eisley for being shrewd but fair.

  In fact, aside from the bothersome local storm-troopers, there

  were few potential customers in the port who would refuse a trade

  with Reegesk if he had just what they "needed."

  Reegesk's furry snout quirked into a dry, incisor-baring smile.

  Well, he knew what he needed, and he knew where to conduct his

  next trade.

  The interior of the cantina was relatively cool, and the

  dimness was a relief from the moisture-stealing intensity of

  Tatooine's twin suns. The air smelled of musky damp fur and baked

  scales, of nic-i-tain smoke, of space suits that had not been

  decontaminated in months, and of intoxicants from dozens of

  different worlds,

  Reegesk stepped to the bar, ordered a cup of Rydan brew from

  Wuher the bartender, and scanned the room for a likely customer. A

  Devaronian? No, Reegesk had nothing to interest him. One of the

  Bith musicians who was just taking a break? Perhaps. Ah. Reegesk's

  glance fell on the familiar figure of a Jawa.

  Perfect.

  Reegesk pulled the hood of his cloak loosely over his head as

  he started toward the Jawa's small table. Jawas were private folk

  who believed in being fully covered, even indoors, and in

  Reegesk's experience, finding common ground with the customer

  always helped a trade. He was relieved to note by the scent as he

  approached the table that he knew the Jawa, Het Nkik, and had

  traded with him before.

  When Reegesk saw the bandleader Figrin Da'n signaling an end to

  the musicians' break, he hurried to get Het Nkik's attention

  before the next song could begin. "Reegesk salutes Het Nkik and

  offers an exchange of tales or wares," he said, giving his most

  formal trader greeting to the Jawa, who seemed preoccupied and had

  not yet noticed Reegesk's presence.

  Het Nkik did not react immediately, but when he did look up,

  Reegesk thought he saw a look of relief, as if the Jaw were happy

  to be distracted from his thoughts. 'The opportunity for exchange

  is always welcome, and the time for opportunity is always now,"

  Het Nkik replied with equal formality, but the pitch of his voice

  was higher than usual and his eyes darted furtively about the

  room.

  "May both traders receive the better bargain." Reegesk finished


  the ritual greeting with irony, knowing full w"ll that Jawas were

  seldom concerned with whether their customers were satisfied.

  Well, that was not his way. Cunning as he was, Reegesk traded only

  with customers who needed (or believed they needed) what he had,

  and he bartered away only items the tribe did not need.

  Reegesk's nose wrinkled briefly as he tried to identify the

  scent that hung about Het Nkik. Sensing what he could only

  interpret as impatience or anticipation, Reegesk decided against

  any further delay and swung smoothly into the trading process. He

  began with glowing descriptions of the bargains he had made that

  morning. Strangely, Het Nkik was not very enthusiastic as he spoke

  of his own trading and showed Reegesk a charged Blastech DL-44

  blaster in excellent condition. Reegesk did not need to feign

  either admiration or jealousy over the trade; since it was still

  illegal to arm a Ranat in tie Outer Rim Territories, it was

  difficult for Reegesk to bargain for anything that might be used

  as a weapon, And the DL-44 was a particularly fine weapon.

  Seeming to take little notice of Reegesk's approval of his

  bartering, Het Nkik allowed the trading to move to an alternating

  exchange of increasingly valuable information. The two traders

  were so engrossed in their interchange that Reegesk did not notice

  the Rodian bounty hunter until he had bumped backward into their

  table. An obnoxious new arrival named Greedo. Reegesk made a grab

  for his brew and caught it as it teetered precariously at the edge

  of the table. He felt his nostrils contract in annoyance, as they

  would at an unpleasant odor.

  Greedo turned, apparently ready to excuse himself for his

  mistake, but he stopped when he noticed the table's occupants. The

  greenish tinge of his skin deepened and the lips on his snout

  formed a sneer as he looked at Reegesk. "Womp!" he spat out,

  giving the table another sharp shove as he delivered the epithet,

  and then moved off in the general direction of the bar. Reegesk

  bristled, hurling venomous thoughts after the sour-smelling green-

  skinned bounty hunter. The outrage of it! The insult. After all,

  Ranats were no relation whatsoever to the nonsentient Tatooine

  womp rats! Greedo was one person he would not mind seeing cheated

  in a trade.

  When he was calm again, the trading moved to the next stage and

 

‹ Prev