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 line 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 stormtroopers, 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 stormtroopers, 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 qu
irked 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 Jawa 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 well 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 the 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 Reegesk began discreetly displaying the items he was willing to trade. Het Nkik showed a mild interest in the stormtrooper helmet, but when Reegesk brought out the bantha horn carved in the shape of a Tusken battle talisman, Het Nkik’s excitement was unmistakable. Reegesk, quickly searching his memory for anything he knew about such objects, managed to remember something of interest. The Sand People, he explained, believed a battle talisman brought them the physical strength of a bantha in battle and gave them the courage to face death, if need be. Het Nkik asked to hold the talisman, turning it over and over in his hands, uttering exclamations in a dialect Reegesk did not recognize.
Reegesk hid a triumphant smile. This would be almost too easy. It was unusual for a Jawa to show so much enthusiasm for an item being traded, since it might skew the bartering to indicate that the item had value to him. Reegesk closed in to begin the negotiation. “The talisman is indeed of great value. The exchange must measure up to its worth.”
Het Nkik’s reverent expression turned to one of chagrin. “I have little with me today that is suitable for this exchange.”
Reegesk’s heart began to beat rapidly as he smelled his chances improving. The Jawa definitely wanted to make a trade. Reegesk slyly lowered his eyes to indicate the blaster that Het Nkik held in his lap, hidden by the table. “The time for opportunity is always now.”
The Jawa’s hands clutched convulsively at the weapon, and for a moment he seemed at a loss. “I cannot meet such a high price,” he answered carefully, “… today.” His eyes did not meet Reegesk’s. He negotiated for a while longer before finally agreeing to an amount far higher than Reegesk had expected to get.
“You know that I am a skilled trader,” Het Nkik said. “Here are a few credits to show my good faith. If you will give me until morning, I will meet your price.”
Success! But could the Jawa be trusted? Reegesk ordered himself to use caution. “Then I will bring you the talisman tomorrow morning,” he said in a calm voice. He did not want to give away his own impatience, and he hoped the Jawa could not smell it.
But the Jawa was firm. “No. I must have the battle talisman today.” Het Nkik’s voice grew agitated as he spoke. “I will pay the rest in the morning, but I cannot wait until tomorrow.” He stopped, as if searching for a way to convince Reegesk of his serious intentions. At last he said, “If you wait until morning, I will let you have the use of this blaster.”
Reegesk could feel his eyes light with intensity at the very thought of having such a fine weapon.
Het Nkik’s eyes burned into Reegesk’s as he nodded to the weapon he held beneath the table. “Yes, I will let you hold it and use it. I am not afraid to arm a Ranat. Let me leave with the talisman today, and you will have what you need by morning.”
Unable to pull away from the fervor of the Jawa’s glowing gaze, Reegesk reached out one paw to touch the weapon. Did he dare take a risk on the honor of this Jawa? Always pay close attention during a trade, he reminded himself. Finally, he came to a decision.
At that moment, a commotion broke out across the cantina from them. Light and sparks filled the air, along with the sharp smell of singed flesh. When the air finally cleared, Reegesk was able to make out the form of Greedo the bounty hunter slumped over an otherwise deserted table.
Dead? Yes, definitely dead. This was indeed a lucky day for Reegesk. He felt a surge of excitement and his whiskers quivered with glee. “Yes. I accept the trade,” he said to the Jawa, who was still staring at the scene across the room. “Keep the talisman for now. Bring me the price we agreed on by morning.”
Het Nkik suddenly turned his attention back to Reegesk. Without a word, he pulled the blaster away from Reegesk’s paw and stalked away.
“Both traders received the better bargain this day,” Reegesk called after Het Nkik, but the Jawa did not seem to hear him.
Reegesk smiled as he watched Het Nkik walk with such confidence toward the entrance of the cantin
a. He was pleased to have made such a fair deal. The Jawa threw challenging glances around the room as he left with the DL-44 concealed beneath his cloak, one hand fingering the precious battle talisman.
Reegesk emptied the remaining brew from his cup and stood to leave, inhaling deeply. The smell of the scorched Rodian bounty hunter still hung in the air. Very satisfactory, he thought with a contented sigh.
Moments later, he stepped back out of the cantina into the parched streets of Mos Eisley. Reegesk patted the pocket inside his cloak that held the power pack he had slipped from Het Nkik’s blaster. They had both gotten the trade they wanted today. He had paid very close attention.
And now Reegesk had the perfect power supply for the Ranat tribe’s new ’vaporator.
When the Desert Wind
Turns:
The Stormtrooper’s Tale
by Doug Beason
It took Davin Felth all of thirty seconds on the military training planet Carida to decide that serving in the Emperor’s armed forces was not as romantic as he had thought.
Davin hoisted his deep blue duffel bag containing his worldly possessions onto his back and queued up with the rest of the hundred and twenty other recruits. They filled the Gamma-class shuttle’s narrow steel corridor. Davin was nearly overwhelmed by the diverse cut of clothes, colors, and unusual smells that wafted from the youths. Nervous chatter ran up and down the line of eighteen-year-olds, most of whom were away from home for the very first time. A blast of noise reverberated through the shuttle and the door to the outside sighed open.
Fresh air tumbled in, untouched by atmospheric scrubbers present on the ship; unfiltered light splashed against the gleaming deck, reflecting down the hallway, and for a glorious thirty seconds it seemed that all the hype and rumors about Carida, the planet used by the Emperor’s own guard as a training base for his military, were suddenly magnified. This must be the most exciting place for a ship of eager eighteen-year-olds to begin their new lives.
Tales from the Mos Eisley Cantina Page 24