Tales From Jabba's Palace

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Tales From Jabba's Palace Page 12

by Kevin J. Anderson


  Gasping, Oola collapsed. Her lekku fell flaccid. Fortuna pulled free

  of them.

  Oola let him drag her to her feet. She hadn't been shot. Neither had

  Fortuna, but Rudd lay facedown and twitching. Sienn was dashing up the

  street. Both of her lekku swung down the back of Luke's too-long cloak.

  She had almost reached the street corner beyond that debris heap. Luke

  followed her, carrying his weird weapon . . . but the glimmering shaft

  had vanished.

  As Sienn dashed out of sight, Luke slowed. He glanced over his

  shoulder, caught Oola's stare, and hesitated.

  Sienn wouldn't survive two minutes alone in these streets. "Go!"

  Oola shrieked.

  Luke raised both eyebrows in a pained expression, as if she had finally

  jabbed him. He spun away, and then he too was gone.

  "So you want Jabba to yourself." Bib pulled her so close to his leather

  chest protector that she could smell rancid breath venting between his

  long, pointed teeth. He dug his blaster muzzle into her stomach.

  "All of the goodies for Oola. No rivals."

  "No rivals," she sneered back, full of adrenaline and bravado. It was

  either that or recoil. She mustn't show fear.

  Fortuna flung her away. Oola caught her balance with a languid

  handspring, turned back to Bib, and waited.

  "My speeder is parked around the corner," he growled. His orange-pink

  eyes glowered. "This way."

  Oola sighed away the memory. She'd lost daylight and hope, and she'd

  never wielded power. But no one could steal her honor. She would never

  again lose her best reason for living.

  "Fortuna hates me now," she murmured. She fingered the hideous leather

  headdress. "Here are my soft cushions." Mocking her own words, she ran

  a finger over the stony lip of Jabba's bed. Her dainties?

  Scraps Jabba tossed when she groveled . . . or food he suspected of

  harboring poison.

  Threepio finished translating her tale for Yarna, then they both shook

  their heads. Beyond Jabba's throne, a scream faded into the floor. Oola

  shuddered.

  She'd seen Jabba feed his stinking, hideous underground monster.

  The rancor usually devoured its prey whole. By the standards of this

  place, it looked like a quick death. She'd rather be next on the menu

  than watch it again, and that was likely enough. She'd choose it over

  Jabba's ardent embrace. How ironic that Sienn, the obvious morsel, had

  escaped . . . but Oola was glad that she had, and proud to have helped.

  "At least you can dance," Yarna pointed out. "Be thankful Jabba doesn't

  have your cubs in his clutches."

  Oola raised her head. "I can dance," she agreed.

  "If I could have one wish . . ."

  "What?" Yarna encouraged, straightening her own headdress.

  "I would dance the perfect dance. Once. It wouldn't matter who

  watched. I would know it was perfect."

  Threepio's head swiveled jauntily over his metal shoulders. "But Miss

  Oola, Master Luke is close by."

  "You do know him?"

  "Oh yes. I--"

  "I wasn't heat-crazy? He can do all those things?"

  "Oh yes. I too was a gift to Jabba." His singsong voice sounded giddy.

  "Master Luke is aJedi Knight, a very important person in the Rebel

  Alliance. He's very good at rescuing people. You should have--"

  "Don't," she groaned. What had Luke tried to warn her? That Jabba

  would . . . k-something. Kill her?

  Surely he couldn't predict the future.

  Threepio touched her shoulder. "He's coming here to rescue me.

  I'll see that he rescues you ladies, too.

  Leave that to me."

  Oola eyed the droid critically. "He used so many hard words in that

  message--the one your friend . . . projected," she finished in

  Twi'leki.

  "Oh, that. Perhaps you should play along with His High Exaltedness just

  a little longer?" Threepio imitated a human shrug.

  Yarna nudged her, her face compassionate. "Listen to Metal Man, Oola.

  If I can survive this, you can."

  "Not for long. Not with my--" The court rang with raucous laughter. At

  any moment, she'd feel the tug at her slave collar.

  "Threepio, help us escape. You must."

  Threepio touched her stout chain and then the greasy round bolt on his

  chest. "Creating a plan," he dithered in Twi'leki, "is beyond my

  capacity. Artoo has a vibro-cutter among his appendages, but he has

  been assigned to the garages."

  Oola forced down her glimmer of temporary hope.

  She mustn't forget bright eternity, nor the Great Dance. Not in here.

  Not for a moment. "That's the difference between us," she muttered.

  "For all of your six million forms of communication, you're faithless."

  "I beg your pardon." Threepio brushed his midsection again. "I have

  every faith in Master Luke. He will rescue me." Since hearing her

  story, he'd called Luke "Master" twice--a term he'd hesitated to use

  before.

  Evidently her story had done him some good, anyway.

  And if "Master Luke" was coming, she might get a second chance after

  all. She eyed her fellow dancer.

  "Perhaps I can survive this," she agreed. And perhaps Sienn was already

  safe somewhere. "I'll do my b" Her collar tugged up and backward. Half

  strangled, Oola yanked her headpiece back on, flailing for balance as

  Jabba hauled her over his side. She dug her fingers and toes into fetid

  flesh. Jabba purred as if tickled by her struggling.

  His jizz-wailers swung into a new dance tune.

  Furious, Oola leaped off her grotesque master's dais. She vaulted into

  the middle of the floor, defiantly landing on the rancor pit's grate.

  Jabba's trap-door had closed again. Maybe he hadn't even opened it.

  Maybe.

  Yarna joined the dance, as did Melina Carniss with her long dark fur.

  Oola kept at the far end of her chain. In one dark alcove she seemed to

  see blue eyes watching from under a roughly woven black hood.

  She would dance for him this time. For a second chance. She kicked

  head-high and higher, powerfully swinging her fleshy lekku. Her grace

  was her glory.

  The physical rapture of dancing swept through her and owned her, freely

  and naturally. Every step and each gesture marked out a melody.

  She'd found perfect sensual poise. At last.

  Evidently Jabba thought so, too. He tugged her chain.

  More angry than frightened at first, she grasped it with both hands and

  yanked back. She didn't care if the Gamorreans beat her againmshe would

  not dance closer. She only knew a few words of Huttese. She shouted

  them. "Na chuba negatorie!"

  Jabba tugged again, drooling.

  Oola braced her feet at the trapdoor's edge.

  Though terror robbed her of poise, she would not yield. "Na! Na!

  Natoota . . ." Let Us Prey: The Whiphid's Tale

  by Marina Fitch and M ark Budz

  Feeding time again. The crunch and snap of bones resonated through the

  walls of the Whiphid J'Quille's room asJabba's "pet" rancor snacked on

  its latest morsel.

  J'Quille paced his stark room. Huntlust vibrated through his tall,

  golden-furred frame, wrinkled his broad snout. His tusks tingled even
/>
  though it had been several hours since Jabba dropped the Twi'lek dancer

  into the rancor's pit. The screams had ceased long ago, butJ'Quille

  couldn't stop salivating. The savory aroma of fresh blood warmed the

  pit of his stomach.

  The warmth wouldn't last long. J'Quille snarled low in his throat. Next

  time it might be J'Quille the rancor feasted on. Jabba grew bored so

  easily. What if the novelty of employing a former lover of the Whiphid

  crimelord Lady Valarian to trret out conspiracies wore thin?

  No doubt the kind of reminder Jabba intended when he gave J'Quille

  quarters this close to the pit. If Jabba suspected J'Quille still

  worked for her . . .

  Owner of the Lucky Despot, Lady Valarian was Jabba's most powerful

  rival. Not only was her nightclub the most successful in Mos Eisley--on

  the entire planet of Tatooine--she siphoned business from Jabba as

  easily as she sipped Sullustan gin.

  As easily as the rancor would sip the marrow from J'Quille's bones if he

  was discovered.

  J'Quille snorted. All he had to do was keep his tusks clean for a few

  more days. Then the rancor and his devoted keeper, Malakili, would be

  gone, free of Jabba. J'Quille had helped arrange their escape with Lady

  Valarian. One of the few good things he'd been able to do behind

  Jabba's back.

  That, and bribing the kitchen boy, Phlegmin, to lace Jabba's snack tank

  of freckled toads with slowacting poison. A little too slow by the look

  of things.

  Another bone snapped.

  J'Quille's claws tensed. He smoothed the fur bristling around his neck,

  raised by the scent of the Twi'lek's blood and the huntlust surging

  through him.

  But was he hunter or prey? Or both?

  He stopped pacing and glanced at the room, barren except for his

  sleeping pallet. Built by the B'omarr monks, the room's stark ascetic

  reminded him of the rock-and-bone shelters of his homeworld, Toola.

  Two ceremonial trophies hung on opposite ,,vails: a necklace of Mastmot

  teeth, dipped in poison; and the skull of a young bantha he had brought

  down one night with his bare claws. He was a hunter, not some weak Ice

  Puppy that sat back and waited for death to come.

  He jerked open the door and slipped into the hallway.

  A pain-filled moan issued from one of the rank cells. A Gamorrean guard

  grunted as he pushed past J'Quille, bleary with sleep or too much

  Sullustan gin.

  J'Quille stroked the spiky hairs along his lower lip.

  Lady gin. If only he were back at the Lucky Despot! Two days ago, when

  it looked like everything was going according to plan, it had seemed a

  possibility. His "falling out" with Lady Valarian would end and they

  could finally stop pretending.

  That was before the note. Someone knew he was bribing Phlegmin.

  He had already paid a hefty ten thousand credits to keep the blackmailer

  silent. But it was only a matter of time before Jabba found out.

  How much time? That was the question.

  The crunch and snap of bones stopped. Blast. Sweat beaded J'Quille's

  forehead and long, broad snout.

  When was the last time he'd been cool? He wiped his face with the back

  of his paw. Strands of fur clung to the sweat. He grimaced.

  Shedding again. Tatooine's dry, sweltering heat sucked the energy out

  of him.

  What he wouldn't give for a couple of minutes in one of the Lucky

  Despot's ice saunas.

  Something scuttled past him---one of those spider-like droids

  enlightened B'omarr monks used to ferry around their pickled brains.

  The glass jar winked in the dim light, then droid and brain disappeared

  around the corner.

  J'Quille snarled in disgust and hurried on, stopping outside the

  rancor's pit. The inner gate stood slightly open, as he'd known it

  would. Malakili was cleaning the outer cage.

  The scent of blood was stronger here. J'Quille closed his eyes and

  breathed deeply. The intoxicating scent soothed his taut nerves, taking

  the edge off his repressed frustration. If he could just track down the

  blackmailer and kill him . . .

  A foot scraped on the stone floor near him. His eyes snapped open. One

  hand jerked up, claws extended, while the other reached for his

  vibroblade.

  "Hey, it's just me," Malakili said softly, Stepping out of the cage's

  shadows. Sweat glazed his bare chest and heavy arms. He patted

  J'Quille's shoulder with a black-gloved hand. "Easy. You're stiffer

  than an Imperial stormtrooper."

  "Been a bad night," J'Quille said, letting go of his vibroblade.

  "Tell me about it," Malakili said, adjusting his black headband.

  His eyes narrowed in his thick, doughy face. "Something's in the air.

  Even my friend here is jumpier than usual."

  "This place is a tomb," J'Quille said. "Even the living are dead inside

  these walls. Might as well stuff our brains in jars."

  "Yeah, but the monk's brains aren't dead." Malakili leaned closer to

  him. "Listen, I heard something I think you should know."

  J'Quille tensed. "What?"

  "This afternoon Bib Fortuna tried to get Jabba to throw you into the

  pit. Thinks it would be an interesting contest."

  J'Quille peered at Malakili. "What did Jabba say?"

  "I tried to talk him out of it. You'd inflict too much damage before my

  friend killed you. ButJabba wasn't convinced. He said he'd give it

  some thought."

  "So I have a little time," J'Quille said.

  Malakili nodded little. With luck, we'll both be out of here soon

  "Alive, I hope," J'Quille said, curling the corners of his lips back

  around his tusks in a smile Malakili smiledI'll let you know if I hear

  more."

  "Thanks," J'Quille said.

  Gnashing his tusks, J'Quille hurried back to his room. Things were

  moving much too fast, forcing his hand. Jabba's increasing coolness,

  the blackmailer · . . and now Bib Fortuna's plotting. Time to get

  Phlegmin to increase the dosage of slow poison sooner Jabba was reduced

  to a vat of gibbering slug jelly, the sooner J'Quille could return to

  Lady Valarian. He'd wanted to increase the dosage earlier, but he'd

  been afraid someone would notice a sudden change in Jabba.

  Now he could no longer afford the luxury of caution.

  J'Quille slipped into his room and went to the string of Mastmot teeth

  hanging on the wall. Lifting the necklace from its pe, he slipped it

  over his head.

  Luckily most people, includingJabba, considered him a mindless brute

  with a taste for crude jewelry suspected the teeth had been dipped in

  poison J'Quille started at a low mechanical warble outside his door. His

  nostrils flared, crinkling at the acrid stench of oil and metal A droid.

  The claws of J'Quille's right hand curled involuntarily around the grip

  of his vibroblade, then slowly relaxedn droid wouldn't announce its

  presence.

  The warble repeated. J'Quille yanked open the door.

  The maintenance droid, a blue U2C1 housekeeping model, chirped and took

  a step back. Both of its flex-tube arms quivered. With a whine, it

  sucked in air through the stiff brush
at the end of its left arm and the

  upholstery attachment on its right.

  "I hope I'm not disturbing you," it said tinnily.

  "I've been instructed to clean this room J'Quille stepped aside,

  allowing the droid to enter Another calculated nuisance on the part of

  Jabba or one of his servants--most likely Salacious Crumb That

  drool-lapping Kowakian lizard-monkey probably scavenged the droid's

  waste tank for between-meal snackseered. He'd love to program the

  cleaning droid to suck up that cackling little rubbish heap.

  "Please close the door," the droid said. "This won't take long J'Quille

  grumbled.

  The droid's right arm snaked out to sweep the floor. The loud whine

  grated on J'Quille's nerves. He reached for the doorknob.

  "I have a message," the droid said.

  J'Quille hesitated. "A message?"

  "From a friendhe droid paused, but left its vacuum runningho's

  blackmailing you. Meet me on the citadel roof at sunrise and I'll give

 

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