Muftak got a faraway look in his eyes as he sipped his drink. “Home.”
“These Imperial stormtroopers that questioned you,” Nadon asked, “what were they after?”
“I have heard,” Muftak said, “that they are searching for two droids who evacuated a Rebel ship and dropped into the Dune Sea. The Imperials are conducting a door-to-door search, even now.”
“Hmmm …” Nadon considered. He couldn’t tell what the Imperials were really after. Often they would visit a planet, pretend to investigate a minor infraction as an excuse to bully the locals, then leave a garrison of gunslingers to “ensure the peace.” A small force of stormtroopers had been onplanet for some time. Now it looked as if the Empire were raising the stakes on Tatooine. At this very moment, all over the planet, residents of the underworld were scurrying to hide illegal drug shipments, forging documents. Nadon saw worried faces in the crowded bar. There was no telling how long the new Imperial forces might stay or what direction their investigations might take.
Muftak laid a heavy claw on Nadon’s arm in warning. “There is something more that I must tell you, my old friend. The Imperials that stopped us were led by a commander named Lieutenant Alima, an older human from the planet Coruscant.”
At the mention of Alima’s name, Momaw Nadon’s blood went cold and the muscles of his legs tightened, preparing him to run. “It would be a great favor,” Nadon said, “if you could discover if this man once led the Star Destroyer Conquest in its attack against a herdship on Ithor.”
“I have already begun asking around,” Muftak answered. “I noticed that the men in Alima’s command did not respect him—they looked away when he gave orders—and even his subordinates retained a healthy distance from him.”
“Which means?” Nadon asked.
“This Alima is an outcast among his own men—probably recently demoted, on his way down in the ranks. There is a good chance that he is the one who betrayed your people. If he is, what will you do?”
Nadon stopped his digestive processes for a moment, sending extra blood to his brains as he considered. Alima was a vicious man. Contacting him would be dangerous, but Nadon knew he could not resist confronting the man who was responsible for his exile. “I don’t know what I will do,” Nadon said. “If this Alima is my old foe, tell him that you know of an enemy to the Empire who may be harboring the droids. Sell him my name.… And make sure he pays you well.” It was an ironic moment. For years now, Nadon had spied for the Rebellion and had sought to hide this affiliation. Now he was asking a friend to sell him out.
“One more thing,” Muftak said with a note of warning. “This Alima was brought in by Lord Vader as an interrogator. Word from the desert is that he’s already killed fifty of our citizens.”
“I know the type of man I am dealing with,” Nadon said heavily.
That evening, as the lavender- and rose-colored suns of Tatooine dipped below the horizon, Nadon felt restless. His sympathies for the Rebellion were widely known, and he did not doubt that the Imperials would soon come to question him—probably even torture him.
Over the years, Nadon had used his share of his family fortune to invest in farming ventures on a hundred worlds. His investments were paying such handsome dividends that he had gained a fortune, and usually at this time of night he would have been hard at work, managing his wealth. But tonight he was ill at ease.
To calm himself, Nadon decided to engage in an ancient Harvest Ceremony, so he took his hovercar to a nameless valley in the mountains north of Mos Eisley. There, Nadon had planted leathery, shade-giving Cydorrian driller trees. With their far-reaching root systems, the driller trees had quickly formed a thriving grove.
Nadon went to the healthiest specimen and pulled a series of thin golden needles from a pouch at his belt, then inserted the probes into the tree bark so that he could harvest gene samples. As a part of the gene-Harvest Ceremony, he talked softly to the tree as he worked. “With your gift, my friend,” he told the tree, “I will splice the DNA for producing your long root systems into the native Tatooine hubba gourd. The hubba gourd serves as the staff of life to Tatooine’s wild Jawas and Sand People. And so, because of this little pain I have inflicted, many people will be served. For this harvest I thank you. And I thank you for the greater harvests to come.”
When he had collected his samples, Nadon lay back on the warm sand, watched the stars burning in the night skies, and remembered home. Nadon had a flawless memory, so he replayed incidents in his mind, and as he remembered, the sights and smells and emotions all came to him new again so that he was lost to the present. He relived the time that he and his wife Fandomar had planted a small, gnarled Indyup tree to commemorate their son’s conception. For a moment in his memory, Nadon knelt beside his wife digging beneath a sun-splattered waterfall in the steaming Ithorian jungle, then cocked his head to listen to an arrak snake that burst into song from the heights of a nearby cliff.
Then he recalled being a child, gently inhaling with both mouths the sweet smell of a purple donar flower.
After the rush of memories, Nadon felt frail, wasted. Home. Nadon could not go home. Once, he had been revered among his people as a great High Priest, an Ithorian renowned for his knowledge of many agricultural ceremonies. But then Captain Alima had come with his Star Destroyer and forced Nadon to reveal the secrets of Ithorian technology to the Empire.
Nadon’s people had banished him. As his punishment, Momaw Nadon had chosen to live on this dreary world of Tatooine—the equivalent of an Ithorian hell. Where once he had led his people in caring for the vast forests of Ithor, Nadon now tended the barren sands of Tatooine. As penance for his crimes, he struggled to develop plants that could thrive in these deserts, hoping that someday Tatooine would become a lush and inviting world.
Nadon replayed his first memories of Alima, captain of the Imperial Star Destroyer Conquest. Alima had been a young man with dark hair, a craggy face, and fierce eyes. Nadon had been newly married, High Priest of the Tafanda Bay.
On his native Ithor, Nadon’s people lived in immense floating cities called herdships, which used repulsorlift engines to constantly sweep over the forests and plains, and the Tafanda Bay was the largest and finest of Ithor’s planetary herdships. Inside each herdship, hundreds of biospheres were painstakingly reproduced down to the microscopic flora and fauna of the topsoils. The Ithorians harvested plants from the biospheres of the ships, but particularly on their huge groundships, they also harvested from the abundant forests of Ithor—taking nourishment from fruits and grains, creating medicines from saps and pollens, using plant fibers to create fabrics and ultrastrong porcelains, harvesting minerals and energy from otherwise unusable roots and stems.
The study of plants and their uses was the lifework of most Ithorians, and the greatest of the students became priests who guided others, prohibiting the people from harvesting plants that could think or feel. Only those plants that slept, those that were not self-aware, could be harvested, and then only under a rigid law: For every plant that was destroved in the harvest, two must be planted to replace it. This was the Ithorian Law of Life.
As a High Priest, Nadon had spent decades in the service of life, until Captain Alima came seeking excuses to board the Tafanda Bay, then demanded to know the secrets of Ithorian technology. At first Nadon had refused to reveal his secrets, until Captain Alima trained his Star Destroyer’s blasters on the sentient forests of Cathor Hills. Thousands of the Bafforr died, trees that had been Nadon’s teachers and friends in his youth. Neither the trees nor the Ithorians had the weapons to fight the Empire.
When the forest was destroyed, Captain Alima had turned his weapons on the Tafanda Bay and ordered Nadon to surrender. In a last-ditch effort to save his own people, Nadon had no choice but to relinquish the secrets of Ithorian technology to Alima.
As punishment for revealing the Ithorian agricultural ceremonies, Nadon could still hear the elders’ judgment ringing in his ears, “We banish you from Ithor a
nd from our mother jungles. Go and consider your evil actions in solitude.”
Home. Nadon found himself both envying Muftak and feeling gratitude that perhaps the hairy creature would find joy.
Nadon was interrupted from his reveries by a comlink call on his personal channel.
“Nadon,” Muftak said over audio, “I just sold your name to this Lieutenant Alima. You had better get home to meet him. Be careful, my old friend.”
“Thank you,” Nadon said.
When Momaw Nadon reached Mos Eisley, his house was quiet. With the suns down, many of the townspeople were on the streets, enjoying the cool evening. Out across the Dune Sea, winds raced over the sand, raising clouds of dust. Static discharges in the dust clouds made the night growl with the sound of distant dry thunder.
Nadon unlocked his door, checking the doorjamb for any sign that someone might have forced their way in before him. The air in his house was rich with the smell of water, and dreeka fish chirped among the reeds of the pond in his living room. Everywhere in the dome, creepers climbed the pourstone walls toward the skylights. Small trees shivered under the weight of a breeze produced by fans.
Nadon made his way over a paved trail into one of his many side domes, to a small grove of Bafforr trees that glowed pale blue in the starlight under black leaves. Nadon knelt before them and wrapped his long leathery gray fingers around the trunk of one tree. The bark was smoother than glass.
“My friends,” Nadon whispered. “Our enemy Captain Alima is coming. I do not know how to admit this, but I wish to kill him.”
The bark hummed under his touch, and a pure and holy feeling enervated him, as if light entered his every pore. The soothing mind-touch of the sentient trees nearly overwhelmed him with its beauty, but the trees were displeased by his confession. Above him, the black leaves trembled, hissing the words, “Noooo. We forbid it.”
“He slew the Bafforr of Cathor Hills,” Nadon said. “He is a murderer. And he killed your brothers so that he could gain greater prestige among evil men. His every intent was impure.”
“You are a priest of Ithor,” the woods whispered. “You have vowed to honor the Law of Life. You cannot slay him.”
“But he killed your kin,” Nadon reasoned. He did not know if the Bafforr understood him. Each tree in itself had limited intelligence, but through their intertwining roots they were connected and thus formed a group intelligence. A large forest grew wiser in lore than any other being, but these few trees were not a great forest. Still, Nadon had not come for their counsel, only for their permission.
“Our kin would have died in time,” the Bafforr reasoned. “Alima only hurried their end.”
“Just as I wish to hurry Alima’s end,” Nadon said.
“You are not like Alima.” The trees sharpened the focus of their mind-touch, and Nadon gasped at the beauty he felt as rivers of light cascaded through him. The profound peace that settled in his bones was meant both as a reward and a warning. While he basked in the glow, he dreaded the moment when he would have to leave the sacred grove and return to the mundane world. “If you break the Law of Life,” the Bafforr said, “we will no longer be able to tolerate your touch.”
“I would not kill him myself,” Momaw Nadon pleaded. “I would command the vesuvague tree to strangle him, or I would have the alleth consume him or the arool poison him.”
“All of these are lower life forms than us,” the Bafforr said, “and they respond to your command as if they were common weapons. But once again, we warn you, you cannot break the Law of Life.”
The mind-touch of the Bafforr withdrew abruptly, and Nadon choked out a sob as he was suddenly excluded from the group mind. He fell to his face and began to weep.
“Fancy meeting you here,” an unfamiliar voice said. Momaw Nadon turned.
Beneath a glow globe that shone like a moon stood an aging human in an Imperial uniform. Emerald-winged moths fluttered about the globe, and for a moment the human eyed their bright green wings.
Alima’s face was fatter than when Nadon had last seen him, and his voice had grown hoarser with age. His cheeks had sagged and his hair was graying, but Nadon recognized him. He would have recognized that face anywhere. “I see you are still a priest, crying over your sacred trees,” Alima said. He waved a blaster toward the grove.
“And I see that you are still a servant of evil,” Nadon said, “though somewhat fallen in rank.”
Alima chuckled. “Believe me, my old friend,” he countered, “my fall from grace was carefully orchestrated. Only a fool would want to be captain of Lord Vader’s flagship: The mortality rate is phenomenal. Still, Vader finds uses for me even as a lowly lieutenant—which is why I’m here. So, tell me—enemy of the Empire—where the droids are. I paid good money to learn the name of one who was said to be harboring them.”
“Then you wasted your money,” Nadon retorted, hoping that Muftak had extorted plenty. “I don’t know the location of any droid.”
“But you are an enemy of the Empire, serving the Rebellion,” Alima whispered dangerously. “I’m sure of it!”
“I know nothing about any droids,” Nadon answered softly. He checked Alima’s location. The warrior stood close to an arool cactus. Nadon could command it to strike, but in order to get within range of its stinging spines, Alima would have to move a couple of steps farther down the path.
Nadon got up from the forest floor, stepped onto the path, and backed away from Alima, hoping to lure him a meter.
Alima followed Nadon’s eyes, glanced at the arool. “Do you really think I’m so stupid as to walk into your traps, Priest?” Alima asked.
Alima raised his blaster and pointed it at Nadon, then abruptly swiveled and fired into the grove of blue-glowing Bafforr. A tree exploded into flame, its trunk splitting under the impact. Black leaves rustled and waves of pain rippled from the woods, battering Nadon’s senses as if they were mighty fists.
“You will devote all of your resources to finding those droids,” Alima said. “Look to your friends within the Rebellion. If you do not have a location on the droids by tomorrow evening, I will sew your eyes open and make you watch as I take a vibroblade and slice each limb off your precious Bafforr trees, one at a time. Then I’ll drop a thermal detonator in your living room and fry the rest of your damned vegetable friends. Believe me, if your family were here or if I thought there was anything that you loved more in life, I would gladly destroy it, too—”
“I’ll kill you—” Momaw Nadon shouted, his stereophonic voice ringing through the dome surprisingly loud.
“You?” Alima asked. “If I thought you had it in you, I’d have brought a squadron of men. No, you’ll cave in to my demands, just as you have in the past!”
Alima turned and walked away, unconcernedly, and Nadon could do nothing but watch helplessly even though rage burned within him.
When Alima had left, Nadon went to his grove to see if he could save the wounded Bafforr, but the pale blue sheen of its glasslike trunk was already turning black in death.
He reached out for the trees with his mind. Nadon fell to his knees in the mossy turf under the dark leaves and pleaded, “Now? Now may I kill him?”
The leaves of the living Bafforr trees circling him rustled dimly in response. “What? What happened? Who touches us?”
Momaw Nadon listened to the trees’ voices. Their number had been reduced from seven trees down to six—just below the number needed for the grove to achieve true sentience. He could not tell how much they might understand. “Momaw Nadon, a friend, touches you. Our enemy killed a member of your grove. I wish to punish him for his act.”
“We understand. You cannot break the Law of Life,” the Bafforr whispered with finality. “We forbid it.”
Nadon backed away without closing his eyes in the traditional sign of acceptance. Perhaps the Bafforr were willing to die for their principles, but Nadon could not sit by quietly and let them.
He considered his options. He could search for the droi
ds, give in to Captain Alima’s demands.
The thought was so revolting that it caused Nadon physical pain, made his eyes feel gritty and itch. Nadon rubbed his forehead between his eyes with his long thin fingers, physically stimulating a pleasure-inducing gland along the ridge of his brow so that he could think clearly again.
If the Empire wanted those two droids so badly, then it was imperative that the Empire not get them.
No, Nadon had to fight. Lieutenant Alima was a dangerous man—as vicious as they come. He would leave a trail of charred and mutilated victims behind in his search for the droids, and sooner or later, someone would tell him what he wanted to know.
As much as Nadon detested violence, he knew that Alima was a monster, someone who must be destroyed. It would be a small loss to the Empire, an ineffectual blow, but Alima represented a constant, undeniable threat to the Rebel Alliance.
Just as importantly, by letting Alima live, Nadon would be allowing the man to kill more plants, more people. Nadon couldn’t allow Alima to live.
In another room a sprinkler system softly hissed to life, and Nadon took that as a signal to leave. He checked his utility belt for some credit chips, then went out the front door.
Down the street, he spotted three stormtroopers on guard, standing together talking. They didn’t hide the fact that they were watching his house. Nadon had to walk past them. The flashing red lights on their blaster rifles testified that the rifles were set to kill. As Nadon passed, one of the stormtroopers peeled away and followed at a discreet distance.
The streets were crowded now that full night had hit and the blistering temperature had fallen to a comfortable level. Nadon passed through the markets and had no trouble losing the stormtrooper.
Nadon made his way to Kayson’s Weapons Shop. The gruff human who owned the shop had been in business forever, but Nadon had never set foot on the premises. It took less than five minutes to buy a heavy blaster and a holster that could be concealed under Nadon’s cloak, then the Ithorian was back out the door.
Tales from Mos Eisley Cantina Page 14
