Shortly after the entrepreneurs went bankrupt, the Lucky Despot hotel and casino was taken over by a new crimelord on Tatooine, an upstart rival to Jabba who had great dreams, modest capital, and a mean streak wider than her yawning, tooth-filled mouth.
The Lady Valarian lounged back in her contorted chair, relaxing in her plush office. She looked as suave as was possible for a horse-faced, tusk-mouthed, bristle-haired Whiphid female. As she spoke her smooth syllables, it seemed as if she were trying to purr—but to Malakili, it sounded like an overgorged gundark gargling with its own bodily fluids.
“I know you are from Jabba’s palace,” Lady Valarian said with a grunt deep in her throat. Her peglike tusks shoved forward from her underjaw as she leaned closer. She batted long eyelashes at him.
Malakili whiffed her heavy perfume that attempted to mask the rank, musky smell of Whiphid fur; he thought this was a worse odor than anything he had smelled in the cages at the Circus Horrificus.
“Yes, I am from Jabba’s palace,” Malakili said, stroking his black headdress, “but Jabba can’t always provide everything I need. So I’ve come to you, Lady Valarian.”
She hunched her shoulders and lifted her brutally ugly face. Her body trembled in what Malakili took to be an expression of mirth. “And how do you expect to pay for this favor you ask of me?”
“I know that Jabba is your enemy, Lady Valarian,” Malakili said. “I know that you might wish to have full schematics of the palace. The B’omarr monks who built it have kept the layout secret. You might wish to learn some of the hidden entrances to the lower levels. You might wish to know some of Jabba’s habits and weaknesses.”
Lady Valarian snorted. “Don’t you think I have my own operatives inside Jabba’s palace?”
Malakili showed no expression, although he was terrified. “I said nothing about your operatives. I merely offered my own services. If you intend to challenge Jabba the Hutt, you must be very careful, indeed.”
He hoped he had said the right words. He, who had spent seven seasons taming the wildest creatures in the Circus Horrificus, now felt completely out of his depth in a plush room with a perfumed female who could squash him with a snap of her fingers.
“I’m not saying that I have any personal interest in doing harm to Jabba,” she said. “In fact, he and I have a limited partnership. He owns a token percentage of the Lucky Despot. But, information is sometimes incalculably valuable, difficult to estimate its worth. It is unwise to dismiss an opportunity to increase one’s knowledge.” She raised a bristly eyebrow. “Would you care for a drink? Then you may tell me about this favor I can grant you.”
Malakili nodded dumbly as she brought him one of Tatooine’s most expensive beverages in a frosted glass: clear, chilled water with two ice cubes floating in it. Malakili sipped his drink, licked his lips as the cold liquid danced down his throat.
“I’ll need a ship—a cargo ship with a specially reinforced cage chamber.”
Lady Valarian widened her nostrils with a hefty sniff of curiosity. “A cage? What are you going to transport?”
“A live animal,” Malakili said. “And myself. I intend to take Jabba’s pet rancor with me. I need to find a deserted world, preferably lush, a jungle moon perhaps or a backwater forested planet where a resourceful person could eke out a living, and where a large creature could have his freedom and enough prey to hunt to his own satisfaction.”
Lady Valarian growled in stuttering low bursts, which Malakili interpreted as delighted laughter. “You want to steal Jabba’s rancor? That would be hilarious! Oh, this is too good to miss. Yes, yes, I will provide the ship you need. We can set the time and the date.”
“As soon as possible,” Malakili said.
Calmly, Lady Valarian waved a clawed hand across the glowing sheen of her antique desktop. “Yes, yes, as soon as possible. The most important thing, I think, will be to install a tiny spycam in Jabba’s throne room—just so I can watch the expression on his bloated face when he finds out what’s happened!”
Valarian tapped some unseen marker on her desk, and a melodious chime rang out. The door whisked open, and two heavily polished protocol droids marched in. “Yes, Lady Valarian?” they said in unison.
She directed one of the droids to take Malakili to another room where he would provide “certain information.” The other she instructed to arrange for a ship, to find a suitable world according to Malakili’s specifications, and to arrange all the details of the passage.
“My gratitude, Lady Valarian,” Malakili said, stumbling over his words, still unable to believe that he had stepped down the irrevocable path.
Valarian chortled again as Malakili got up to follow the protocol droid into the corridor. “No, thank you,” she said. “This is worth any number of investments.” The door closed behind her while she was still chuckling.
Bad Timing
Malakili tried to remain calm and behave normally as he counted the days to the appointed hour of his rescue.
He watched with furtive eyes, suspecting spies in every shadow—but Jabba and his followers above in the throne room seemed oblivious to Malakili’s actions. Jabba was caught up in the troublesome details of running his new cantina, and he also boasted that his bounty hunters would shortly bring him a krayt dragon—which meant that the Hutt limited the violent challenges upon the rancor, not wishing the monster to be injured before its titanic battle. The most recent fresh and kicking meal the rancor had devoured was a mere Twi’lek dancing girl, which the rancor savored, consuming her in three delicate bites rather than the customary one large gulp.
Malakili tried to relax, hoping that perhaps his plan would come off smoothly after all. But, as he was wheeling the meat-laden cart of the rancor’s lunch to the cell gate, pallid-faced Gonar stepped out of the shadows with an idiotic, devilish grin.
“I know about you, Malakili!” Gonar said in a hushed, hoarse whisper. “I know about you and the Lady Valarian.”
Malakili stopped the cart and turned slowly, trying to keep from showing his shock—but he had never been good at hiding his emotions. “And just what do you know about me and Valarian?” he asked.
“I know you’re spying for her. You were traced going into Mos Eisley, into the Lucky Despot. I know you saw her in her private chambers. I don’t know what your game is, but I know that Jabba won’t like it.”
Malakili couldn’t hide. His eyes flitted from side to side. Inside the cage the rancor sensed his keeper’s alarm and let out a low growl. “What do you want?” Malakili said.
Gonar heaved a relieved sigh, as if pleased that he wasn’t going to have to argue any more. He swiped a greasy strand of hair out of his eyes. “I want to take care of the rancor,” he said. “I’ve been around him as much as you have. He should be my pet.”
Gonar flicked his eyes toward the cage. “Either you flee now and leave me to take care of the monster,” he said, “or I’ll report you to Jabba, and he will kill you, and I will still claim the rancor as my reward. Either way, I get what I want. The exact manner is up to you.”
“You don’t leave me much choice,” Malakili said, whimpering.
“No,” Gonar said, drawing himself up, puffed with his own triumph. “No, I don’t leave you much choice.”
Malakili grabbed a heavy femur from the rancor’s lunch pile. Without pause, he swung the blood-wet bone with all the strength behind his bulging muscles. He brought the knobbed club smack against Gonar’s forehead. His skull crushed like a soap bubble. The young red-haired man slumped to the floor. His last sound was merely a squeak of surprise.
Inside its cage the rancor stirred and made a rumbling, hungry noise. This had not been as difficult as killing the Tusken Raider out in the canyon, Malakili thought, but it seemed more satisfying somehow. More of a personal triumph.
He picked up Gonar’s limp body. It seemed to have acquired a dozen more joints from the way his arms and legs and spine flopped in all directions.
Just as Malakili was
hauling the body onto the cart, he heard thumping footsteps and a clank of armor as one of Jabba’s plodding, not-too-bright Gamorrean guards came around the corner carrying another dead body on his shoulder. He blinked his porcine eyes and curled his lower lip to push protruding fangs out. The guard shoved his helmet down against the horns on his head and squinted at the scene with Malakili and the fresh body.
“What this?” the guard asked, using one of the few Basic phrases it knew.
Malakili stared at him, holding the body of a man he had just murdered. The bloodied club still lay on top of the pile. He couldn’t possibly make up a good explanation. “I’m feeding the rancor. What does it look like I’m doing?”
The Gamorrean stared at the dead body along with the butchered remains from the kitchen. He grunted and nodded again. “Need help?”
“No,” Malakili said. “No, I’m doing just fine.” He looked meaningfully into the dimness of the rancor’s cage and at the Gamorrean’s burden. “You want to unload him, too?”
“No! Evidence of crime!”
The Gamorrean waddled off humming to itself, unchallenged by life and delighted to be doing his tedious job to the best of his ability.
That day the rancor enjoyed its lunch even more than usual.
The pickup from Lady Valarian was scheduled for just after dawn, before Jabba and his minions could rouse themselves from the lethargy brought upon them by wild parties all through the night.
As far as Malakili could tell, no one had mentioned the disappearance of Gonar, but other clingers had taken the young man’s place as standby observers during feeding time and training: each one in awe of the beast, each one wanting to share a bit of its power just by being close to it.
Malakili went inside the rancor cage and made sure the locks on the heavy outside door had been freshly cut so that the escape would be easy once Valarian’s ship arrived.
He looked at his chronometer, double-checking, counting down. Less than an hour to go. His heart pounded.
The rancor was tense and restless in its cage. It knew something was up, and it made questioning, snorting noises every time Malakili came within view of the outside doors.
“Just a little while longer, my pet,” Malakili said. “Then we can both be free of this place.”
Above, he heard only the dull silence and the drowsy sounds as Jabba and the others slept, even the scantily clad new human wench whom he kept chained to the dais.
Malakili heard footsteps skittering about like spiders above, those few who remained awake to build their own plans against Jabba. He heard the rattling of a grate above. Other footsteps. Malakili cursed the disturbance.
He looked at his chronometer again and was alarmed to hear Jabba stirring, others talking, the minions awakening. A visitor had appeared. Not now!
Malakili hissed and paced up and down the dank corridors. He couldn’t have Jabba waking up now. Perhaps Jabba could take care of the new business quickly and decide to catch another hour or so of sleep.
He heard Jabba’s booming voice. Something that might have been an argument. An outcry—and then from above the trapdoor opened, and two more bodies tumbled into the rancor pit.
Malakili moaned, kneading his fists together. “Why now?” He looked at his chronometer again. The rescue ship would be coming any moment.
Several of Gonar’s replacements pressed forward next to Malakili to watch the new victims die in the pit. He couldn’t remember any of their names. He couldn’t care about them now. He whispered a message he knew the rancor could not hear. “Just eat them. Hurry, my pet!”
He saw a young, thin human male—nothing to worry about there—and one of the stupid Gamorrean guards. Malakili cringed when he saw the guard still had his wicked vibro-ax, which could hurt the rancor—but the guard seemed too terrified to remember his weapon.
The piglike brute turned to flee, but the rancor was upon him in a second, grabbing him up and jamming the entire body into its mouth. It chomped down, then slurped the still-twitching legs down into its throat. The rancor turned to the human male and strode forward.
Malakili looked at his chronometer. Lady Valarian’s ship would be approaching even now, drifting silently across the sands, creeping to the secret rendezvous. “Come on!” he whispered.
Up above, the spectators cheered and cackled wildly. Jabba’s deep-throated laugh echoed into the pit. The watchers seemed to be giving the spectacle more importance than it should have had. Malakili wondered who this victim was.
The young man ran to the other side of the pit, snatching one of the discarded bones on the floor just as the rancor grabbed him in its claws and lifted him up to the jagged jaws.
The human thought fast and jammed the long bone like a support strut into the rancor’s mouth, and the monster dropped him as it bit down on the splintery bone, snapping it.
Malakili winced, remembering the shards from the combat arachnids that had caused so much pain to the soft inner lining of the rancor’s mouth. “My poor pet,” he said.
Malakili calmed himself. No matter. Once they escaped, he would have all the time in the worlds to take care of his monster, alone and at peace on their own world.
The young man ran in panic like a spooked Jawa, slamming against the open grille of the access door trying to get out. Malakili batted him back, and the others pushed the young man away.
“Hurry up and get eaten!” he said, glancing yet again at his chronometer. There wasn’t much time.
Inside the den the young human ran straight between the rancor’s legs, beneath the monster and to the other side.
Malakili slapped his forehead in dismay. The same silly trick the combat arachnids had used, but the rancor had still not figured out how to defend against it.
The rancor turned and lumbered toward the human again, arms outstretched. The human ran into a low chamber where the rancor frequently slept, ducking under the heavy jagged door that could be closed off when others needed to clean the cage.
Malakili felt his heart pounding, and he hissed in a cold breath. Above, the others shouted and cheered even louder than before. Even if the rancor ate this human in the next few seconds, the spectators would not settle down for some time yet. He let another moan escape his throat. Now what was he going to do? Lady Valarian would not wait.
The rancor had the human trapped now, and it hunched low to pass into the sleeping den. The human grabbed up a round ivory boulder—no, a skull—and hurled it at the controls just as the rancor leaned under the jagged door.
The skull triggered the switch, and the massive durasteel door crashed down like a guillotine blade. The jagged end slammed into the rancor’s head and spine, hammering the monster down to the floor and smashing open his skull, splitting his hide.
The rancor snorted and whimpered once in stunned pain, as if calling out for Malakili, and then it died.
Malakili stood like a statue. His jaw dropped open as his ears filled with a roaring white noise of disbelief and utter anguish. “No!” he wailed.
The rancor was dead! The pet he had tended and cared for … the creature that had rescued him from the Tusken Raiders … who had allowed him to sit on its knobby foot as Malakili ate his lunch.
Other guards opened the cage as angry shouting came from above. They whisked the young struggling human away, but Malakili was too much in shock even to notice.
Moving like a droid, unable to stop himself, Malakili staggered into the cage where he stood in front of the carcass of the dead monster. Most of the other hopefuls, the ones who had wanted to take care of the rancor, melted away, seeing their chances for advancement erased. Only one man, tall and swarthy with dark hair, followed him in.
Malakili watched the ichor ooze across the slimy flagstone floor. The rancor lay still, as if sleeping. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Malakili let loose his tears like a flashflood on Tatooine. He wailed in grief, ready to faint, not knowing what he was supposed to do now.
The man next to him
—Malakili could not remember his name, no matter how hard he tried—put a grimy hand on Malakili’s shoulder, patted him and tried to comfort him, but he stumbled away through a blur of tears. All he could see were his own memories of wonderful days with the rancor.
He heard Jabba’s angry pronouncement echo through the grille, ordering that the human captive be taken out to the Great Pit of Carkoon and fed to the Sarlacc. Jabba didn’t care that the rancor was dead: he was merely disappointed that his anticipated great battle with the krayt dragon could not now take place.
The tears continued to flow down Malakili’s chubby cheeks, tracing clean rivers across his grimy skin. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, trying to strangle further sobs.
Malakili thought only of how much he hated Jabba, how the crimelord had ruined everything. Even before the grief began to fade, Malakili found ways to replace it, vowing that he would get even with Jabba the Hutt. He would find some way to make the sluglike gangster pay.
Outside in the blistering heat of afternoon, Lady Valarian’s rescue ship circled, and waited, and waited, and finally slipped back toward Mos Eisley, empty.
Valarian did not care. She already had the information she wanted.
Taster’s Choice: The Tale of Jabba’s Chef
by Barbara Hambly
It started the day Jabba the Hutt acquired his two new droids.
Not that the arrival of new slaves in the isolated desert palace of the Bloated One made a great deal of difference to Porcellus, the crimelord’s harassed chef; his only question, when informed of the new additions by Malakili, keeper of the Hutt’s rancor, was, “What do they eat?”
“They’re droids,” said Malakili. He was perched on the end of the long and massive kitchen worktable at the time, picking through two cubic meters of dewback offal and eating a beignet. Minor religions had been built around Porcellus’s beignets in Mos Eisley—scarcely the oddest objects of veneration in that port, it should be added. Porcellus had a huge pot of them going on one of his four stoves, and the heat in the long, low-vaulted kitchen was tremendous.
Star Wars: Tales from Jabba's Palace Page 4