engines dead the TIE fighters would never spot him.
"Solo," he said aloud in the close control cabin, "I owe you a
drink."
BoShek knew right where to find him, too. Whenever the
Millennium Falcon was onplanet, either Solo or Chewbacca-and
sometimes both-would be at the Mos Eisley Cantina, trying to drum
up business. After he'd dropped off the Infinity at the monastery,
leaving instructions for the mechanics to modify its engine
transponders immediately, BoShek headed straight there, not even
taking the time to change out of his flight suit first. The
monastery was south of the city's center; he stopped for a moment
at the ancient wreckage of the first colony ship, the Dowager
Quern, to pass a sealed note from the abbot to one of the street
preachers there, then hurried on.
The streets were lousy with stormtroopers, but they didn't seem
to be looking for BoShek. He saw four of them hassling an old
hermit and a kid and two droids in a beat-up old landspeeder, but
they evidently weren't too interested in them either, because they
let them go after just a few questions. BoShek ducked into the
cantina before the stormtroopers could take an interest in him.
It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the dark interior, but
Chewbacca was easy to spot, towering above the other beings at the
bar the way he did. BoShek wove his way through the crowd and
leaned up against the bar next to him.
"I beat your record," he said without preamble.
Chewbacca grunted the Wookiee equivalent of "Get lost," but
then BoShek's voice registered and he turned his head to ask what
record BoShek meant.
"The Kessel run," BoShek said, grinning. "I beat your time by a
tenth, and I had to take out four TIE fighters when I got here to
boot."
Chewbacca growled appreciatively. He howled a long, ululating
phrase that BoShek translated as "You'd better not let the
customers catch you wringing out their ships, or they'll start
taking their business elsewhere."
"Hey, we're the best there is, and you know it," BoShek told
him. He waved at the bartender, who shot him a surly look and
turned away. "So how's the Falcon holding up? You need another
code job yet?"
The Wookiee shook his shaggy head, then hooted in laughter. He
howled another phrase that BoShek tentatively translated as
"After what you charged us last time, we've been keeping our noses
clean. It's cheaper."
"Think of it as life insurance," BoShek said, echoing the
abbot's favorite sales pitch. He was about to shout at the
bartender when he felt an unmistakable awareness of someone behind
him. It was the strongest presence he'd ever felt.
He turned as casually as he could and saw the old hermit and
the boy in the doorway. The hermit's eyes met his, and just a hint
of a smile showed on his grizzled face. Leaving the boy with their
droids, he walked straight up to BoShek and said in an
astonishingly rich voice, "May the Force be with you, my friend."
The Force? Had he really felt it just now? "I-uh- thanks,"
BoShek stuttered. "How did you know . . . ?"
"Your struggles are as plain as words for someone who is
trained to see them. I could teach you much, but I fear my time
here is short I need passage off the planet. However, since I
believe you have a ship, perhaps we could further both our quests
at once."
BoShek could, hardly believe what he was hearing. This old guy
was practically reading his mind. BoShek had never told anyone
about his fascination with the Force, yet here came this complete
stranger who picked up on it immediately. But he'd gotten part of
BoShek's story wrong. "I wish I did have a ship," he said. "But
I'm just a pilot."
"Ah, that's a pity," said the hermit. "Perhaps when I return we
can discuss the Force anyway."
"Yeah, maybe we can."
Chewbacca growled softly, and BoShek took the hint. "I do know
someone with a ship who might be willing to take on passengers,
though," he said, nodding toward the Wookiee.
"I see. Thank you." The hermit glanced toward Chewbacca, then
looked back at BoShek and said, "I'll leave you with one piece of
advice Beware the dark side. Your role here on the edge of
society has put you in a very ambiguous position, one that you
must resolve before you can continue in your journey. Only the
pure of heart can ever hope to wield the Force's power with any
success."
"Thanks, I think," BoShek said.
"You're welcome."
It was clearly a dismissal, so BoShek bowed out with a nod to
Chewbacca, letting them discuss business-while he went around to
the other side of the bar to get the bartender's attention.
He'd finally managed to get a drink and was casting about to
see if he could spot Solo when the old man pulled a lightsaber on
a walrus-faced Aqualish and an even worse looking human, and
BoShek got knocked over in the rush to give them room. The
Aqualish lost an arm in the fight, and the old man ga ined a wide
zone of respect, but BoShek didn't care about either one of them
at the moment, being occupied with wiping a pint of bitter off the
front of his flight suit.
Bloody brawls were nothing new in the cantina, and aside from
the old man's lightsaber this one was nothing special, but enough
of the other bar patrons had spilled their drinks that it took
BoShek another ten minutes to get served again. By then he'd
spotted Solo, but the Corellian was already deep in conversation
with the old man and the boy, so he sat back down at the bar and
waited his turn. Maybe he could learn something more from Solo
about the old guy after they were done.
While he waited, he tried asking around to find out what all
the stormtroopers were doing in town, but nobody would admit to
knowing. The Imperial troops had simply swooped down from their
Star Destroyers a couple of days ago and set up roadblocks all
over town, and in most of the other towns surrounding the Jund-
land Wastes as well. They were looking for something, but nobody
knew what.
A couple of them came into the cantina, shining conspicuously
in their white body armor. BoShek looked over to see how the
hermit and the kid would react to their presence, but they were
already gone. He stood up to go take their place at Solo's table,
but first the storm troopers, then a long-nosed, green-skinned
Rodian, beat him to it. Solo was a popular guy today.
The Rodian held a blaster pointed straight at Solo's chest.
BoShek slipped his own blaster out of its holster, ready to help
if it looked as though Solo needed it, but then he saw something
that made him reholster his weapon and watch with amusement.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Solo was drawing his own blaster
under the table.
Sure enough, when he got it free of its holster, he gave a
little shrug as if to say "So long, sucker," and fired right
through the table at the Rodian, who collapsed forward on the
smoking remains.
Solo stood up, flipped a couple of credits to the bartender,
and stalked out before BoShek could catch his attention. He downed
his drink and followed him out, but he had barely made it out the
door when he felt someone grab his arm and an authoritative voice
said, "All right, hold it right there, spaceman."
He turned slowly to see a local cop pointing a blaster at him.
"What's the problem?" he asked, keeping his voice as
unconfrontational as he could manage.
The cop scowled. "The problem is, a wanted starship ran an
Imperial blockade, dusted four interceptors in the process, and
landed here in town just a little while ago. Darth Vader's on one
of the battleships and wants somebody's head for it, and yours
looks about the right size to me. You're still suited up; how
'bout you and me have a little chat down at the station?"
Only his years of practice at talking his way through customs
allowed BoShek to keep his expression neutral. Inside, he was
close to panic. If they got him under a mind-probe, they'd know
for sure he'd done it, and there was a good chance he'd blow the
monastery's cover as well. Either way, he was dead.
Forcing himself to sound calm, he shrugged and said, "You've
got the wrong pilot, I'm afraid, and there's a whole bar full of
people in there who can prove it. I've been here all afternoon."
The cop hesitated, looking into the dark doorway, and when he
squinted to see inside, BoShek lashed out with a foot and kicked
the blaster out of his hands. He followed with a punch to the side
of the head, putting all his weight behind it, and the cop
collapsed like a shorted droid.
The blaster clattered to the ground a few steps away. BoShek
lunged for it but lost the race to a pair of Jawas, who scurried
away with their prize and quickly disappeared among the dozens of
taller aliens on the street. BoShek didn't particularly care; he
had his own blaster if it came to that, and as long as the cop
didn't, he was happy. He turned and walked nonchalantly - but
quickly - away from the cantina toward the city's central plaza
and the thickest crowds.
He had only made it across the street and down half a block to
the wrecked Dowager Queen when he heard a shout behind him. Few of
the street's inhabitants even looked up, since shouts from the
cantina were a regular thing, but BoShek quickened his stride
toward the old colony ship's rusted hulk.
Twisted girders arched out over the packed dirt, awnings tied
between some of them providing shade for the crowds gathered to
listen to the street preachers pontificating from the upper
levels. Ruptures in the hull and busted portholes provided
glimpses into the ship's dark interior, from which the red glow of
Jawa eyes peered outward.
BoShek ducked inside the sagging cargo lock. The hold smelled
strongly of Jawas, but he didn't care. The more the merrier, in
fact. He stepped over vagrants and preachers resting in the shade,
pushing past them until he was well hidden from the street. In the
dim light filtering in through holes in the hull, he stripped off
his flight suit and flung it farther into the darkness, keeping
only the tool belt with all his personal belongings. A chorus of
growls and high-pitched chattering erupted as the wreck's
inhabitants quarreled over their new prize.
His gray suit liner was a little less of a beacon for the
police, but it still wasn't very good camouflage. BoShek knelt
down beside one of the vagrants and said, "Ten credits for your
cloak." That was far more than it was worth, and they both knew
it. Without a word the vagrant tugged off his rough brown robe and
handed it over. BoShek paid him and wrapped himself up in the
noxious-smelling garment, then pushed back toward the door.
He had underestimated the cop's tenacity. He had evidently seen
BoShek slip into the wreckage, and was now standing at the edge of
the crowd with a small boot-top blaster in his hand. The crowd had
thinned considerably under the policeman's glare; BoShek didn't
think he'd be able to hide among the few people left.
He turned and reentered the ship. There had to be another way
out of it. He stumbled over more bodies, circumnavigating the
cargo hold, but all he found was a ramp leading up a level.
Thinking maybe there would be a stairway back down over the outer
hull, he climbed the ramp, but it only led to the observation deck
from which half a dozen preachers harangued the crowd below.
From his new vantage, BoShek saw reinforcements coming to the
first cop's aid. He was trapped. They obviously weren't going to
drop it, not with the Empire breathing down their necks. They
needed a sacrificial suspect to deliver to the stormtroopers, and
they weren't about to let him get away now. Which meant they
wouldn't rest until they'd swept through the entire ship. BoShek
looked around frantically, but there was no place to hide. The
observation deck was even more open than the cargo hold. It had
been gutted of everything that could be unbolted or torn loose,
leaving just an empty floor with blasted-out windows spaced evenly
around it. All but one of the window frames had a preacher
standing before it, facing outward toward the people on the street
below. None of the preachers were from the monastery; BoShek won
dered why until he remembered the note he'd dropped off here on
his way to the cantina. The abbot must have called them in for
some kind of conference.
With no place to hide and no friends to help him, he could see
only one possibility. He bent down and smeared his hands along the
floor near the wall, then wiped the grimy black goo he gathered
there on his cheeks and forehead, darkening his complexion and
making his face fit his clothing. Then he stepped to the window
and said in a quavering voice he hoped sounded old and wizened,
"Brothers, sisters, friends, and aliens; beware the dark side of
the Force!"
A few of the people below him looked up, squinting into the
sun, and BoShek realized why this particular window was empty.
Tatooine's twin suns were directly behind him from the vantage of
anyone below; not a good location for a preacher interested in
gathering a following. It was perfect for BoShek, though. He
pulled his hood over his head so nobody could get a good look at
him from the side, then he cleared his throat and began his
sermon.
Despite living at a monastery, he knew almost nothing about the
religion they preached. He spent his time in the underground ship-
alteration complex, not in the cathedral the monks had set up to
establish their cover. He knew their doctrine was all based on the
divinity of banthas or some such crock, and had been borrowed from
a group of true believers who lived out in the wilderness, but he
had no idea how it all tied together. Far better, he thought, to
> preach something he at least knew a little about, though he didn't
sup pose it really mattered. Who listened to street preachers,
anyway?
Remembering what the old man in the cantina had told him, he
said, "Only the pure of heart can ever hope to achieve true
mastery of the Force." A few more faces looked up, then away.
BoShek spread his arms wide. "You must open yourselves up to
salvation. You must cleanse yourselves, make peace with your inner
natures, and accept the Force as your guiding principle."
The preacher to his right had stopped his own sermon to listen.
BoShek smiled nervously at him, then went on. "When you surrender
yourselves to the Force, you deliver your lives unto the greatest
power in the universe. With it you can move mountains, see the fu
ture, and find eternal life." Hah, he thought, this preaching
stuff wasn't that hard. Just string all the buzzwords together,
and you had it.
Another of the preachers fell silent. BoShek wasn't sure he
liked their attention, but the cops had moved to surround the
ship, and he could hear the commotion in the cargo hold as they
began their search. And now, attracted to a scene of trouble like
flying insects to light, a stormtrooper patrol was also heading
toward the ship.
BoShek pulled his robe closer about him and leaned farther out
the window, saying, "Repent! Dig deep into your hearts, and the
truth shall set you free!"
"Be silent," the priest on his right hissed. BoShek noted that
he wore a robe considerably cleaner than his own, and his fingers
and wrists were spangled with gold rings and bracelets. Preaching
was evidently good business.
"Be silent yourself," BoShek told him. He could hear the cops
ascending the ramp now. "On second thought, don't be. Preach, or
we're both going to be saying our prayers in jail." He turned back
to the window and said to the crowd below, "There are disbelievers
among you, people who deny die existence of the Force, or say that
it's weakened with time and no longer useful in these modern days,
but I say to you, every living creature that is born increases die
power of the Force."
The preacher who had shushed him glanced warily down the ramp,
then turned back to his window and picked up where he'd left off,
saying in a voice loud enough to drown out BoShek completely,
Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina Page 34