Star Wars: Tales from Jabba's Palace

by Kevin J. Anderson

  —Han Solo’s soup—

  Mine, when captured. Mine to take, to drink. Mine to sip, to savor: hot, and sweet, and pure.

  Until Jabba stole it from me. Until I was betrayed.

  By Fett. By Calrissian. By Jabba the Hutt himself, goading all of them. Buying all of them.

  Buying me, as well. Promising singularity to the best of the best, forever and ever, amen: Dannik Jerriko, assassin’s assassin.

  For this, Jabba will die. And the others as well: three in Mos Eisley; more yet, like the Weequay, in Jabba’s palace.

  Han Solo, also. And his woman, royal-bred. And the boy of worthless pedigree, yet who promises, unaccountably, to be strong in what was Kenobi’s power.

  It is a power I have known as long as I have lived, and that longer than most; we Anzati know many of the secrets of the multiplicity of universes, of galaxies, of worlds. Such power as the boy’s will be, of Kenobi’s, is Vader’s power also, and the Emperor’s.

  But twisted in the latter, by them, none of it now of Kenobi, of those who were Jedi Knights. Will they twist the boy’s as well?

  Perhaps. No one alive has withstood the Emperor, or Darth Vader.

  Or Jabba the Hutt.

  But none of them know me, save Jabba. They only know of me, of my kind, the lurid tales told. And it is this I will use: ignorance, and rumor. Let them say what they will. This time, I will use it. Its power is pervasive.

  In the palace, which once was a monastery—pure in its existence until polluted first by raiders and later by Jabba himself—there are many for me to peruse, consider, pursue—even to stalk as the stories claim, a manner heretofore disdained but now apropos—and a plethora of races, of species, of soup. From myriad nations, a plenitude of planets. But here nothing matters save the master all of them serve; they are as nothing to him, to me, and as nothing they shall die.

  Except to make a point.

  Jabba, be afraid. Even you may die.

  And the essence of your soup, one may hope, may pray, shall be as rich in its substance as is your flesh in corpulence.

  I have been what I am: perfectionist in my work. All have died. All. None left to tell the tale.

  But now the tale is necessary, and the telling of it. The Weequay, dead of unknown means, will cause consternation, but no certainty. There is a need now for “error”; for what they will take as error. A being left alive. To describe, in infinite horror, of inescapable terror, what monster it was who nearly took its life.

  Thus it is time for me to depart the closet of rumor we Anzati too often inhabit.

  • • •

  There are levels of fear as there is a pecking order of entities within Jabba’s palace. To strike at the Hutt I must strike first at the others, beings whose presence serves much, or very little, but nonetheless the absence thereof makes itself felt in all the small and large ways, the mild annoyances or the doubt, the anger, the abrupt concern for one’s safety. I know all of the levels, as I know how to use them.

  First, those in Mos Eisley, already reported as dead; but Jabba will assume it is of no consequence—or small consequence—until convinced otherwise.

  Next, the Weequay. Jabba will not miss him. But others will. And once enough of them die, enough of the small people, even the elect might be led into true fear.

  A female, now. The dancing girl with head-tails, the Twi’lek, is already dead, thrown down as appetizer to Jabba’s hungry rancor, but there are other females. And so I seek one out.

  She is what many entities, Jabba among them, consider beautiful: lush, plump in flesh, a bounty of breasts, the ponderous movements of a body in motion. Hands waving, six breasts swinging, buttocks never still. But she is stilled, at last, when the revels, ended, devolve into stupor. The woman, an Askajian—they who bear multiple young at one whelping—leaves the audience chamber to seek her rest through the remains of the night until the unyielding sun of Tatooine stands high overhead once again.

  But rest she will not have. Sleep she will not know.

  And it is in the servants’ quarter, where one assumes one is safe, that I pursue the assignation.

  As she walks from the audience chamber, the high, proud step fades into weariness, into scuffing and graceless relief that she may at last seek her bed. She is dulled by the hour, and careless; that she should take care never suggests itself to her, for this is Jabba’s palace, protected by all the dregs of the uncounted universes.

  And so it is nothing to me to allow her to walk past me, unseeing, and into the antechamber, unknowing, intent upon release; and so it is as nothing that I follow, step behind her, whisper an endearment in her native tongue.

  She whirls, multiple breasts wobbling. There is delight at first in her eyes; was she then expecting someone? But it is I, not he, not she, not it; delight shapechanges to fear.

  In her tongue I say she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen; that I have lusted for her, watching from the shadows, the closets of Jabba’s palace, wishing she might so much as glance in my direction. But she has not, and I am bereft, and weak, and cowardly, and only now brave enough, male enough to come forward, to swear to her the truth, to abase myself before her so she will know, must know, how it is with me, a male who sees and desires a female, and such a female as she …

  Almost, she believes. Twin spots of ruddy color glow in fleshy cheeks. Beneath my hands her shoulders lift. Her mouth parts as I slip my hands from shoulders to neck, from neck to the bones of her jaw, hidden beneath heavy flesh. And then I clamp her skull in the Anzat’s embrace and allow her to see the truth of what I am. Legend come to life.

  A whimper. Then rigid, paralyzing fear as I uncoil proboscii. They are discriminating and slower to rouse than usual; their diet has always been soup of the highest sort, and I have profaned them of late with soup of the lower order, from entities who have no courage.

  But they rouse, extrude. And the woman whimpers again, trapped by her horror, my hands, by the knowledge.

  —pleasure/pain—

  —pain/pleasure—

  No. Not this time. Patience is required, and control.

  —pleasure?—

  Later. Later.

  A caress only, the faintest breath of proboscii beneath her nostrils. In my hands she trembles—

  A step. A presence. A voice, flatly mechanical, inquiring as to my presence, to my intent.

  As she whimpers again, I turn. I permit him to see as I permitted her. There is regret that after so many centuries I must allow the truth to be known, the methods, the means to be comprehended, but it is necessary.

  I had meant for her to live. The purpose was for her to see me, to know me, to cry of near-assault. But now he is here as well, armored male in helmet that is also breathing mask; he will do. She will do. They may both tell a tale of terror.

  Anzat, of the Anzati … loose in Jabba’s Palace.

  For time out of mind, I have been what does not exist, save for imagination. I am folklore. Mythos. Legend. A figment, a fragment, a fleeting dream called nightmare. All one and the same, if known by different labels … but the truth is harsher yet, and far more frightening.

  But blighted truth, twisted truth, honesty unknown, can serve a purpose. It has served the Anzati for time out of mind, and me. It serves me still.

  It serves me now.

  Ah, but the promise of soup, of satiation—

  Why wait? I hunger now. For the soup, and victory. The knowledge that I have done what no one else has done.

  Jabba’s soup: the excrescence of what he is, what he has become; what he has made of himself. Soup that no one has spilled before, to drink of its strength.

  To devour the life of the Hutt while the hulking husk putrefies.

  But not so soon, never so soon. He presents a challenge, does Jabba. A wily Hutt well cognizant of how to ward his life. To bring fear into his soul—and set the soup to boiling—will take time. Effort. And the unveiling of my truth.

  But I am hungry now, and for
more than Jabba’s soup. For Jabba’s fear.

  Hear of me, O Jabba, and know yourself afraid.

  I am of the day, but equally of the night; I take my rest when I choose, not because any biological rhythm insists upon it. And so I am free to wander as I will, throughout the labyrinthine corridors of what once was monastery and now is Jabba’s lair. And it is as I wander that I am certain, at once, there are those within the palace who were not here before.

  Abruptly: —soup—

  I have known its like before. But this essence, this essence—

  —soup—

  Oh, it is powerful, overwhelming … I stop where I am in the shadows, transfixed by the awareness, the preternatural knowledge of such soup as I could wish for before all others—

  —soup—

  Proboscii, denied the sort of soup they prefer for too long, twitch frenziedly within cheek-pockets. They know. I know.

  Han Solo. Han Solo, vividly alive; and others nearby, others of similar soup …

  How many? Solo, another, another.

  —soup—

  Through the corridors to the kitchens. Where I find a body, though living still; a small, insignificant being of thin and immature soup, but he will do, will do; in my need there is only the soup, anyone’s soup at all.

  There is no time, no time—

  I clutch him. Turn him. Catch him up in the embrace.

  He struggles briefly, too briefly. Proboscii plunge into nostrils, through to the brain.

  There is so little soup, and all of it weak.

  But it will do. For the moment.

  He is discarded quickly, abruptly, proboscii tearing free. I let him fall in a sprawl, ungainly and lacking dignity, against a broken box nearly large enough for his body.

  There is blood on the boy’s face. I have left evidence of the means, the method.

  There is no time.

  It will suffice. It will serve.

  Anzat, of the Anzati … loose in Jabba’s palace.

  —soup—

  Ah, but it is ecstasy, or will be.

  Who?

  Along the corridors, shadow-cloaked, prowls an Anzat, but shedding habitual wariness in the quest for fact, for truth—

  Oh, rejoice!

  —it is here, is here; all of it, here … Solo’s, another’s. Another’s.

  I catch myself up short at the corner, on the cusp of Jabba’s audience chamber. For it is there, all of it there: Solo, thawed from carbonite, his soup wild and reckless, tinged with fear, with panic: he is blind, blind and untrusting, but all his instincts are to fight, to fight—

  Another’s. Wild and free and boiling.

  Frightened as well, that she—

  —she?—

  —will not be able to get him free despite precautions, despite plans: Chewbacca, Lando, Han; always Han, foremost—

  —Calrissian—

  Then he is the third.

  Solo. The woman. Calrissian.

  Betrayer.

  Rejoice … oh, rejoice!

  But Solo overwhelms them all with his presence, his soup; and in the doing overwhelms me. Proboscii extrude, quivering.

  —soup—

  She has unmasked, the woman. Unhelmed so he knows her, so he will not be afraid.

  No. Let him be afraid, so he might overcome it. And in the fear, in the overcoming of it, the pushing through to awareness and competency and the wild, crazed courage, he becomes what I want, what I need—

  —Han Solo’s soup—

  Oh, let it be mine!

  I will take all of them. One by one.

  No. Wait. There is the task first.

  —soup—

  No! The task.

  Possess yourself of patience.

  But it is difficult. Self-denial is a discipline I have never learned; nor ever had to learn.

  Solo. The woman, royal-bred. And Lando Calrissian.

  All it wants is the boy, so rich in Jedi promise.

  —Han Solo’s soup—

  I fall back. Containment, control is difficult; proboscii rebel as I try to withdraw them, urge them to withdraw. There is war within my skull.

  Have I gone so far? Lost so much?

  Never have I been so close to the edge.

  There must be a death. Now. Soup must be drunk. Now.

  I turn. I scrape myself against the walls and retreat rapidly, hearing the echo of Jabba’s laughter. Are they caught, then? Has the Hutt captured them all?

  —soup—

  Solo. The woman. Calrissian.

  All. I will have them all.

  Or die in the trying.

  It is not sleep, with us. It is stupor, near to coma. A withdrawal from that which is living, to those whose lives are slight; and to a deepness, a darkness, an otherness, where my body repairs itself in the ways both large and small, if necessary. But it has not been necessary for a long time, for I am cautious, and careful, and no one save my victims has ever seen me, except for when I choose to walk among entities without offering threat. It is a lonely life, else; and I choose not to be lonely.

  But that bears its cost. The stupor is deeper than most. The coma nearly complete. So that when roused out of it by something most unexpected, I am as close to walking the edge of madness is as possible, with us.

  And so it is madness, and overwhelming, when I am roused abruptly, too abruptly, by the awareness, sharp and painful, exquisitely demanding, of power beyond reckoning. Like Yoda’s, like Kenobi’s. But young yet, still young, still learning its way.

  And the way, the precipice of the power, is yet to be understood fully by the one who does and will wield it.

  Thus roused, I am angry. And comprehending abruptly, so abruptly: he will be stronger than any in so many lives, this one. Of all of them, nearly extinct. Now alive again, in him.

  That boy. Kenobi’s boy, whom I first saw years ago in Chalmun’s cantina. Who did not then know what he is, but knows now, and plainly; knows enough how to use, how to shield.

  Here, in Jabba’s palace.

  Solo. The woman. Calrissian. The boy.

  All of them here. Now.

  Why has he unshielded? Why do I know him now? A Jedi excretes power when he chooses; to Anzati, it is obvious. But there is control in it regardless. This time there is none. He is wholly open, unshielded, yielding to some purpose I cannot conceive.

  —soup—

  Proboscii rake my nostrils. Roused, no longer stuporous, I walk out of the shadows of the labyrinth and make my way through, passing those who barely see me, but know enough to stop, to stare, to blink; to question what they have seen, albeit in silence, in the interior of their fear.

  Let them see. It serves.

  —Anzat, of the Anzati—

  —loose in Jabba’s palace—

  But that is of no moment. It is plain to me now, too plain; the boy, that boy, has come into the lair intent on his own purpose … it was planned, all of it planned: Calrissian, infiltrating; the princess, clad in costume; the Wookiee, beleaguered bait; and now the boy, Kenobi’s pupil, so rich—so rich!—in power that was before only potential, barely promised—

  And Solo, always Solo … all of them now, together: Solo, the Wookiee, the woman, Kenobi’s boy, and Calrissian—

  And Jabba!

  I have been careless. I!

  —through the corridors, running—

  Running. Running.

  How could I have been so careless?

  —running—

  Closer now. Proboscii twitch, extrude.

  —soup—

  All of them here, at once.

  Somewhere.

  —soup—

  So many dead of my need. But none of them count, none—they are nothing, all of them—the only soup of the moment is here, now, but retreating—

  It cannot be; will not. I am I: Dannik Jerriko.

  I have never failed.

  I am here for Jabba’s soup.

  For all the soup, of all of them.

  —soup�
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  The massive gates stand open. There is no one to guard now, no Hutt to protect. He is gone, is gone; they are all of them gone, are gone—

  The dust from the sail barge, from the hovercraft playing remora, drifts slowly to the ground.

  —are gone, all of them gone—

  —soup—

  Jabba has taken them away. Jabba has taken himself.

  Away. Not here. Apart from me.

  Oh, foul! That I should come so close. That I should let it be known an Anzat is among them. That I should reveal myself to no purpose at all, save to feed the nightmare.

  Oh, foul.

  I am undone.

  Failure is intolerable.

  Among my kind, impossible.

  Oh, the horror. The horror.

  In my body, need cries out. Comprehends. Acknowledges.

  Distant now, so distant, carried across the dunes.

  All of it my soup. And now denied to me.

  Oh, most foul.

  There is nothing to do but wait. Wait for the Hutt’s return. They will none of the others be with him, for he will have disposed of them and wasted all the soup

  —fool! fool!—but there is still Jabba.

  Jabba.

  And Dannik Jerriko.

  O fool. O corpulent, fatuous fool.

  There is yet a chance for me to redeem myself, to permit me success, not failure. Jabba is my task. The others, merely spice.

  Jabba will return. And I will drink his soup.

  Jabba will return.

  He must.

  Or I am undone.

  There are shadows here, always. It is a simple thing to walk into them and put on the raiment they offer.

  I can wait. I have always waited, when necessary. It is a gift. A power.

  I am a thousand and ten years old, and I can wait forever.

  Shaara and the Sarlacc: The Skiff Guard’s Tale

  by Dan’l Danehy-Oakes

  Yes, Mister Boba Fett, this is indeed a very serious matter. There is no other subject of conversation heard anywhere else in Jabba the Hutt’s palace. But this does not surprise me at all, because I have never seen any party work their way beneath the skin of Jabba the Hutt in the way this self-proclaimed Jedi Knight and his friends have done. I mean, just to think of the very gall of their coming in the place and threatening Jabba the Hutt, damaging his rancor, even releasing that two-credit phony smuggler Solo … Well, I certainly admire their courage, but their common sense is some other matter entirely. It is as one might say not entirely smart to annoy Jabba the Hutt in this manner.