To Het Nkik it looked like the perfect place for an ambush.
His instincts told him to feel helpless, but he firmly squashed
those thoughts. He had the strength, if only he could find the
will to make an example of himself. It could change the lives of
Jawas forever ... or he could just get himself foolishly killed.
Panic welled up within him as he considered the folly of an
insignificant Jawa planning something so preposterous. He wanted
to hide in a shadowy alley. He could wait for darkness, scurry out
of the city and find someplace where he could be safe and cower
with the other Jawas, afraid of every threatening noise. Afraid to
fight ...
Bracing himself, Het Nkik slipped inside the bustling cantina
right across the dirt thoroughfare from the wreck of the Dowager
Queen. Conflicting scents overwhelmed him strange smells of a
thousand different patron species, chemicals that served as
stimulants for an untold number of biochemistries, the smell of
amorous intentions, of restrained violence, of anger and laughter,
food and sweat. Strains of music drifted out, a mixture of noises
chained to a melody.
He had credit chips. He could get a stimulant, something to
help him focus his thoughts, brace up his courage.
Het Nkik moved with quick steps down the stairs, hugging the
shadows, trying not to be noticed. Deep inside the folds of his
garment he gripped the precious blaster. He placed a credit chit
on the bar counter, straining to reach the high surface. He had to
repeat his order three times before the harried human bartender
understood what he wanted. Nursing his drink, Het Nkik hunched
over a tiny private table, smelling rich volatile chemicals
wafting from the surface of the liquid. The scent was just as
intoxicating as the drink itself.
He tried to plan, but no thoughts came to him. Should he resort
to a spontaneous action, an angry gesture, rather than a
methodically orchestrated scenario? His plan required no finesse,
merely a large number of targets and the element of surprise. He
thought of the burning Jawa corpses at the wrecked sandcrawler and
the old human hermit who had given him the courage.
He felt a warm rush of surprise as the old hermit entered the
cantina with a young moisture farmer. The bartender made them
leave their droids outside; at another time Het Nkik might have
plotted a raid to steal the two unguarded droids, but not now. He
had more important things on his mind.
The old hermit didn't notice him, but Het Nkik took his
appearance as a sign, an omen of strength. He gulped his drink and
sat up watching the old man talk to a spacer at the bar then to a
Wookiee, and when the moisture farmer boy got into trouble with
one of the other patrons, the old man came to the rescue with the
most spectacular weapon Het Nkik had ever seen, a glowing shaft of
light that cut through flesh as if it were smoke.
Seeing the lightsaber made him suddenly doubt his mere blaster.
He pulled ou t the weapon and held it on his lap under the table,
touching the smooth metal curves, the deadly buttons, the power
pack snapped into the end. He was startled by another creature
joining him at his table a furry, long-snouted Ranat who smelled
of dust and eagerness to make a trade.
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 li
ne 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 storm-troopers,
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 storm-troopers, 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 quirked 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 Jaw 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 w"ll 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 tie 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
Star Wars - Tales From The Mos Eisley Cantina Page 27
