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 that, 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,
foremostm 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 w
ar 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---no-It cannot be; will not. I am I: Dannik Jerriko.
I have never failed.
I am here forJabba's soup.
For all the soup, of all of them.
--soup 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, famous 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.
Jabba the Hutt is extremely angry. I would also be angry if it was me
in his position. The palace is not just a fortress, it is his home, and
individuals take a certain particular kind of offense when they are
annoyed in their own homes. So I am really not particularly surprised,
you see, that he orders that they are to be given to the Sarlacc like
this.
And I might add it is a great honor to be permitted to accompany you
like this. I am sure that Jabba the Hutt intends it as an honor to give
you a personal guard. And besides, I can show you the best place to see
the Sarlacc."
"Yes, Mister Boba Fett, we have always talked about it as "the" Sarlacc
here on Tatooine. If there is another Sarlacc anywhere, I have
certainly never heard about it. I like to thin
k I would have done so,
because I make the Sarlacc a sort of special interest of mine since I am
only a child. You see, my sister Shaara is the only person I know of
who has ever come out of the Great Pit of Carkoon alive. I once heard a
story that Skywalker escaped the pit, but he is a notorious liar, as you
can see for yourself. Jedi Knight? Why, he is not even carrying a
lightsaber when Jabba the Hutt captures him.
Oh, that is a long story. You do not want-- You do want to hear it?
Very well.
It begins with the Imps, as so many things do these days.
Imperial stormtroopers. Half a dozen of them decide to go for Shaara in
a big way. She is three years older than I am, and I am twelve when all
of this proceeds so she is fifteen. She is working in the floor show of
Tales From Jabba's Palace Page 37
