Nadon stared in shock, realizing belatedly that the captain had
not wished to convene a tribunal. He simply needed a scapegoat.
"I will expect your testimony to be recorded," the captain
said. Momaw Nadon stood blinking, unable to move, and the suns
seemed to have gone cold. He wavered, feeling faint. The
stormtroopers all began walking away, apparently heading toward a
transport so they could leave Tatooine. The Law of Life kept run
ning through Nadon's mind like a litany. "For every plant
destroyed in the harvest, two must be cultivated to replace it."
Nadon knew that his act would require penance. The blood of a
man was on his hands, and such a stain could not easily be
removed. But surely the Bafforr would understand. Surely they
would forgive him.
At last, before the Imperial medics could arrive, Nadon forced
his legs to move. Numbly, he went to the warm corpse, leaned over,
and took two golden needles from his belt. He inserted the needles
and removed the genetic samples. On Ithor were cloning tanks that
would allow him to create duplicates of Alima. For his penance,
Nadon would nurture Alima's (win sons. Perhaps in their day, they
too would grow wise and kind, serving as Priests on Ithor,
promoting (he Law of Life.
Nadon packed the needles in his utility belt, then headed
toward his biosphere. There would be so much to do before he left
Tatooine-depositions to give the Imperials, plants to be uprooted
in preparation for the move, hubba gourd seeds to be sown in the
wilds.
A stiff wind kicked up, and stinging sand blew in from the
desert. Nadon closed his eyes against it, and allowed himself to
become lost for a moment in the memory of his wife's final embrace
as he was banished from Ithor, and in the memory he relished the
scent of his young son. "I will be waiting here for you if you
ever return," she had said. And for the first time in ages Momaw
Nadon walked free and his steps felt light. He was heading home.
Be Still My Heart The Bartender's Tale
by David Bischoff
On his way to work, Wuher, after-double-noon shift bartender at
the Mos Eisley Spaceport Cantina, was accosted. To make matters
worse, the accoster was his least favorite of the many things that
congregated in this most egregious of congregations of
intergalactic scum.
An extensor whipped from the pale shadows of the alley,
wrapping around his ankle lightly, yet with enough strength to
detain him. Automatically, Wuher reached to the back of his belt
for his street-club. A weapon of some kind was always a necessity
for those who strode the byways of a haven for cutpurses and
cutthroats like Mos Eisley. However, the pathetic voice from the
juncture of walls and garbage cans gave him stay.
"Please, sir. I mean you no harm. I humbly request asylum."
Wuher blinked. He rubbed his grimy sleeve over his puffy eyes.
He'd drunk too much of his own barbrew last night and overslept.
He had a faint growl of hangover nagging him; he was in no mood to
deal with riffraff begging for shelter or alms.
"Get off me," he snarled. "Who the hell are you?" Wuher was a
surly sort who preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. He also
had a rather aggressive curiosity sometimes, though. This was a
trait that his employer, Chalmun the Wookiee, found- to be a re
source in the chemical experimentation aspects of Wuher' s work,
but claimed would ultimately cause him grief.
"I am Ceetoo-Arfour," squeaked the voice, accompanied by a
curious blend of whistles and clicks. "I have escaped from the
Jawas, who intend to utilize me for spare parts, despite extreme
functional utility if I am left in one piece - to say nothing of
the value of my consciousness. Through sheer good luck, the Jawas
used a corroded restraining bolt, which fell off, allowing me to
escape."
Wuher moved farther into the shadows, his eyes adjusting
farther away from the ambient, anguished brightness that was one
of the planet Tatooine's charming qualities. There, amongst the
stacked refuse and plastic and metal containers, squatted one of
the oddest things that Wuher had ever laid eyes upon. And Wuher
had laid eyes upon far too many of these scuttling tech-rats for
his taste.
"You - you're a blasted droid!" he spat.
The metallic creature released what little tension was left in
the extensor and cr inged back with the vehemence of Wuher's
accusation.
"Why, yes sir, I am indeed. But I assure you, I am no ordinary
droid. My presence on Tatooine is a mistake on a veritable cosmic
level."
The droid's body was low and rounded, similar to the
streamlined contours of R2 units. However, this was where the
similarity ended. Bulbs and boxy appendages hung like balconies on
the robot's sides, amidst an array of two whiplike metal extensors
and two armatures invested with digits. In the very middle of its
sensor-node "face" was an opening with a grill, set with what
appeared to be jagged, sharp teeth. The whole affair looked
cobbled together, as though the droid had indeed begun its life as
an R2 unit, but had been sent onto other paths with the help of a
demented mechanical mind owning a half-baked electronic and
welding talent.
"Wait a minute. You look like a souped-up Artoo unit, but you
sound like one of those pansy protocolers!"
"My components include aspects of both units, as well as
several more. However, my specialties include meal preparation,
catalytic fuel conversion, enzymatic composition breakdown,
chemical diagnostic programming, and bacterial composting
acceleration. I am also an excellent blender, toaster oven, and
bang-corn air-popper, and can whip up an extraordinary meal from
everyday garbage."
Wuher goggled at the plasteel contraption in disbelief.
"But you're a droid. I hate droids."
"I would be of extraordinary use!"
Wuher wondered why he was even giving the droid the time of
day. Damned curiosity, that must be it. He needed a blasted brain
scrub, that's what he needed. "Look, machine excrement. I despise
your kind, as does my boss, for good reason. Even the lowliest
Jawa knows what tribe he's from, even if he's stabbing that tribe
in the back. You droids-who knows who you are or where you're
from. You look like bombs, and nine times out of ten you blow up
in the face of your owners, doubtless just to spite them." Wuher
lifted a foot, planted it squarely on the thing's head. "Now get
out of my way. I have work to do!" He gave the thing a shove. It
rolled back, beeping, into the recesses of its corner as Wuher
proceeded on his way.
"Sir! Kind sir! Forgive my offense! Reconsider! I shall be here
all day, recharging my batteries. I dare not emerge in sunlight,
for the Jawas will find me. Grant me asylum, and you will not be
sorry, I swear."
"Pah! The word of a droid. Useless!" the man snarled in
/>
contempt.
With grand, elevated disgust, Wuher hurried away. Just one more
proof that he should not be so free about strolling through alleys
to save a scant few seconds. He avoided the darker, cooler ones,
since they tended to attract crowds. This one, though, was lighter
and Wuher had thought it would be a safe shortcut.
The normal byways of Mos Eisley were a dusty cloud through
which double suns beat beat beat hot radiation upon ugly buildings
and hangars. Occasionally a roaring beast of a spaceship would
propel itself into the brightness of the sky, or descend shakily
to hunker down in hiding. The place smelled even more strongly of
its usual blend of noxious space fuels and heated alien body
effluvia, touched with the occasional whiff of exotic spice, or
rather more mundane rot or urine. Wuher noticed amidst the urban
burblings a larger number of speeders than usual, as well as a
discomfiting percentage of stormtroopers.
Something odd was afoot, that was certain.
Oh, well. It just meant that maybe he'd be busier at the
cantina today. Another shuck, another buck, as Chalmun so
eloquently stated.
Still, as the human bartender bustled through the busy streets,
sun hood up, squinting, he was bothered by that droid who had
accosted him. Wuher was well aware that droids were essentially
harmless. To hate them was like hating your latrine or stove or
moisture vaporator if they'd somehow been overlaid with innocuous
consciousness. True, droids tended to be essentially faithless,
with no ethical or racial structure. So were a lot of biological
aliens that Wuher had met. The truth, the bartender knew, was that
droids were an easy target.
Wuher had been abandoned on Mos Eisley in early youth, a human
amidst peoples who disliked humans. He'd been kicked about and
spat upon all his squalid, hard life. His boss hated droids
essentially because they didn't drink and thus took up necessary
room in the cantina that might be occupied by paying customers.
Wuher hated everyone, but droids were the only creatures he could
actually kick with impunity.
He was a bulky, middle-aged man, Wuher, with a constant late-
afternoon-shadow beard, dark bags under his eyes, and a surly
attitude from the top of his greasy head to the depths of his low
stony voice. His eyes were hard and dark, and it was impossible to
see anything but quotidian amoral stoicism in them. However, a
small fire flickered in his heart, a dream that he kept alive with
hard work through years of drudgery. At night, shuffling back to
his grimy hovel, often as not a little tipsy from his own spirits,
Wuher would gaze up at the night stars in the blessed cool and it
would seem possible to actually reach up and touch them, possible
to live out his fantasy.
Perhaps then, when that dream was achieved, he would no longer
have to kick helpless, imploring droids to bolster his own
pathetic self-esteem. Perhaps then he could give something to
lesser creatures than he.
The lumpy mushroom shape of the cantina billowed before him.
Wuher stumped around to the rear entrance. He took out his ID
card, unlocked a door, and walked carefully down dark steps. He
turned on lights. It was not dank down here in the cellar. There
were no dank basements on a world like Tatooine. However, a dry,
earthy smell was the foundation for all the other scents that
fought for attention here, smells that hung upon the rows of
laboratory equipment, barrels and tanks and vats that rose from
tables and the floor like ridges of metal, plastic, and glass
mold.
Chalmun imported a minimum of drinking materials, the cheap
bastard. The rest of what the Mos Eisley Cantina served was either
made in the city, or down here.
Wuher had little time. His shift topside started soon.
Nonetheless an urgent sense drove him to a small alcove in the
rear section, a portion of the large basement where the other
employees seldom ventured. He turned on a small light there,
revealing a machine coi*-sisting of coils, tubings, dials, and
glass beakers. In the largest of these beakers, a small amount of
dark greeo fluid had collected. Wuher examined the dials detail
ing gravity and chemical composition. A kind of acrid effluvia
hung over the enclosure, like moldy socks. Sweet music to Wuher's
nostrils! And the dials and digital readouts-why, they displayed
almost exactly the ratios of contents that Wuher had calculated
was necessary. A shiver of excitement passed over him. This could
be the stuff. His elixir! His perfect liqueur, suited expressly to
the biochemical taste buds of no less a personage than Jabba the
Hutt, for all intents and purposes lord and slave master of the
criminal element of Tatooine.
Wuher contained his trembles, took a deep breath, and found a
sterile dropper tube. He lifted the stopper of the beaker,
inserted the tube, and sucked up a minuscule amount. Carefully, he
withdrew the jade treasure.
Ah! If this distillation was the right stuff, the drink that
Jabba the Hutt deemed to be the perfect liqueur, then what else
could Jabba do but name him his own personal bartender, distiller,
brewer, winemaster? Thus elevated in position, the lowly Wuher
might gain reputation and monies that would allow him to ship off
this anal juncture of a desert snotworld to some bright, pristine
bar on a paradisal planet.
Wuher brought the tube toward his mouth. A dangle of fluid
sparkled diamonds in the amber light. He let a touch drop to his
tongue. A flash and sizzle. A sliver of gas slithered off. The
pain was immediate, but he bore it. He allowed the flavoids to
creep upon his palate like death marchers with cleated boots. He
winced and cringed and endured. Rotwort. Skusk. Mummergy. Bitter
and fiercely aromatic with a kicker alcohol afterburst.
Damn it, though. Not quite right. His bioalchemist instincts,
having studied carefully Jabba's other favorite drinks, had
synthesized a theoretical perfect amalgam, a liqueur that would
delight the huge wormthing.
This was not quite it. A certain element was lacking. A certain
gagging whisper of illusive yet ineffably attractive decadence.
Damn.
The bartender went to get his apron, and to trudge wearily up
the stairs to where his smoky den of work awaited.
"Water!" demanded the green alien in its annoying language.
"Bottled distilled water, bartender, and make no mistake! I've got
the credits for the real stuff. This nose can tell if it's
anything more or less!" The alien touched its absurd proboscis
with one of its green digital members.
Wuher's nose twitched. Was it him, or was the stench in this
pangalactic hole worse than ever? "Well, buddy. It's your call,
but you look as if you could use something a little stronger."
The alien's jewellike eyes glittered with fury and its ears
seemed^ to flap indignantly. "How dare you cal
l me by a familiar
name, you piece of human trash. Believe me, I am a valiant drinker
of all manner of manly, po werful drinks. However, I make it a rule
to accept such only from real bartenders."
A mangled face pushed itself across the underlit bar and into
the conversation. "Actually, this guy makes some damn fine drinks
for a lousy dung-eating native. Take it from me-Dr. Evazan. I've
had many drinks in all twelve systems in which I've obtained a
death sentence and these drinks here pass muster!"
Wuher nodded surly thanks. However, the arrogant alien would
have none of it. This guy was a Rodian, Wuher knew-and a bounty
hunter from the boastful affront of him. A particularly egregious
combination.
"Nonsense," said the Rodian, tiny satellite addenda atop his
head turning back and forth as though searching for some
television channel. Disdain dripped from his tone. "Humans don't
have what it takes to be a proper bartender. The two terms are
mutually exclusive!"
This was the song that Wuher heard all too often. From the very
first day that he'd graduated from his chemistry kit to a taste
for interesting drinks and had parlayed that knack into a
successful application to a sleazy but effective bartender
correspondence school, he'd been dumped upon for wanting to take
on the duties of serving drinks to an array of peoples from
different planets, biomes, ecologies, what have you. Bartenders in
these sorts of places, frequented by different and unique
biochemistries, were more xenoalchemists than simple pourers of
drinks. You had to pay attention to what you were doing. Wouldn't
do at all to serve up a nice glass of the variation on sulfuric
acid that Devaronians enjoyed to, say, a Gotal. Likewise, a simple
beer could make a Jawa shrivel up like a slug. It really wasn't
that humans couldn't handle the challenge, it was generally that
most of them didn't care to bother. Indeed, there were a few in
old xenophobic Republic days who used the opportunities to slowly
poison enemies.
"Hey, greenie," snarled Wuher defensively. "You go to Chalmun's
office. My certification is right on his wall."
"I shall! And I shall make every effort to have you fired from
this post. Your kind doesn't belong here." The Rodian leaned over
the bar with its wide orby eyes and stared directly into Wuher's
Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina Page 18
