by Jeff Grubb
Read on for an excerpt from a Star Wars novel set in the Rebellion era.
A Boy and His Monster:
The Rancor Keeper’s Tale
by Kevin J. Anderson
Special Cargo
The unidentified ship tore through the brittle atmosphere of Tatooine with a finger of fire, trailing greasy black smoke. Waves of sound, sonic booms from the crashing ship, made an avalanche through the air.
Below, the Jawa sandcrawler continued its endless path across the Dune Sea looking for forgotten scraps of abandoned metal, delicious salvage. By sheer luck the crawler stood only two dunes away when the plummeting ship struck the ocean of blind sand and spewed a funnel of dust that glittered like mica chips under the blazing twin suns.
The pilot of the corroded sandcrawler, Tteel Kkak, stared out the narrow window high up on the bridge deck, unable to believe the incredible fortune the luck of his ancestors had dropped in his lap. His crawler’s year-long trek across the wastelands had been practically fruitless, and he would have been ashamed to return to his clan’s hidden fortress bearing so little—but now a virgin ship lay within reach, unclaimed by other scavenging clans and unsullied by time.
The ancient reactor engines shoved the immense sandcrawler into motion. It ground over the shifting sands seeking purchase with wide treads in a straight line for the smoldering wreckage.
The ship lay in a crater of loose, blasted sands that might have cushioned the impact; some of the cargo should still be intact. The armored chambers and parts of the computer core might be salvageable. Or so Tteel Kkak hoped.
Jawas swarmed out of the sandcrawler toward the wreckage: the entire scavenging arm of the Kkak clan, little hooded creatures surrounded by a rank musty scent, chattering as they claimed their prize.
The front group of Jawas carried chemical fire-suppressant packs, which they sprayed on the hissing hot metal to minimize further damage. They did not look to see if anyone had survived the crash, because that was not their primary concern. In fact, living passengers or crew would only complicate the Kkak salvage claim. Those injured in such wrecks rarely survived Jawa first aid.
The Jawas used up two battery packs in the sputtering old laser cutters to cut their way through the hull into the armored bridge compartment. Dim light from emergency systems and the still-flickering glow from internally burning electronics components lit the abandoned stations.
Harsh chemical fumes and curling gray-blue smoke struck Tteel Kkak’s sensitive nostrils—but underneath he could detect an undertone of metallic fear, the copper smells of blood splashed and burned. He knew he would find no one alive in the captain’s chair. What he was not prepared for, though, was to find no bodies at all—just dark, wet arcs of sprayed blood, melted starbursts from blaster fire on the walls.
The other Jawas opened the main bulkhead doors and flowed in, chittering. Scout teams poured into the remains of the ship, spraying down smoldering sections and squirming through collapsed walls to find other treasures in the cargo hold.
Tteel Kkak directed one of the younger clan members to demonstrate his prowess by slicing into the main bridge computer to download the registry number and owner of the vessel, just in case there might be some large bounty, a reward for simply reporting the whereabouts of the hulk—after they had stripped it of all valuables, of course.
The young clan member—Tteel Kkak’s third sister’s fifth son by her primary mate—pulled out a scuffed, flatscreen reader with stripped raw wires dangling from the end. He used his rodentlike claws to peel back the access plate of the bridge panel and squealed as sparks flew when he connected the wires. He jammed the leads into other pickups, tapped into the dying energy in the ship’s backup batteries, and called up the information in flickering green phosphor letters across the screen.
The captain of the ship had been a humanoid named Grizzid, and Tteel Kkak’s fantasies diminished. He had hoped for some well-known dignitary or VIP passenger.
This Grizzid person had departed from the Tarsunt system, another place Tteel Kkak had never heard of. Dismissing that, he directed his young assistant to find more important information—the cargo manifest.
When new letters scrolled up on the screen, the device flickered, and his young assistant had to slap it several times before it functioned again. The flatscreen scrolled up a dismayingly short list of contents. Tteel Kkak’s thumping heart sank. One item, marked only as “special cargo,” had been placed aboard by a Bothan trader named Grendu, a dealer in “rare antiquities,” who requested that extreme precautions be taken. A heavily reinforced duranium cage filled most of the ship’s cargo hold.
Tteel Kkak let pheromones of disappointment waft into the air, strong enough to overcome even the acrid burning smells. Unless that cage had been immensely strong indeed, this precious special cargo, whatever it was, had certainly been killed in the crash.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, though, he heard squeals of terror and pain—and a rumbling growl from within the wreck, basso and bone-jarring, deep enough to make the remnants of the ship vibrate.
Over half the Jawas wisely bolted through the opening in the hull, fleeing back to the safety of the sandcrawler; but Tteel Kkak was pilot and clan representative, and he was responsible for salvage. Though it seemed the smartest thing to do, he could not simply run from a loud, scary sound. He wanted to find out what this thing was. The “special cargo” might be valuable, after all.
He grabbed the arm of his young assistant, who sent up an unpleasant aroma of dark, ice-metal terror. As they charged down the sloping corridors, they were nearly bowled over by seven shrieking, retreating Jawas who squealed an incomprehensible mixture of words and an impossible-to-read scent that conveyed nothing more than nauseating fear.
Tteel Kkak saw long streaks of blood along the corridor, huge red-smeared footprints. The lights had burned out farther down the corridor, and the ship still clicked and settled as the fires cooled and the desert sun baked the outside. The loud, reverberating growl came again.
Tteel Kkak’s young assistant tore away from his grip and joined the others running out of the ship. Alone now, Tteel Kkak proceeded slowly, cautiously. Chewed bones lay on the floor, as if something had stripped the flesh with scimitar fangs and discarded the leftovers like white sticks.
Ahead, a doorway to the lower cargo hold gaped like a skull’s empty eyesocket. Outwardly bent bars crisscrossed the opening. The door had been ripped from its hinges—but not in the last few moments and not in the crash, as far as he could tell. This had happened some time earlier.
Within the shadows, something enormous moved, growled, lashed out. As far as Tteel Kkak could tell, the thing had broken out of its cage as the ship approached Tatooine and had gone back to its lair to finish devouring the rest of the crew. But when the unmanned ship had crashed, the thick walls had crumpled inward, trapping the thing in the same cage that had protected it from death in the impact.
Drawn by a deadly curiosity even greater than his fear, Tteel Kkak crept closer. He could smell the thing now: a thick, moist scent of violence and rotting meat. He saw the torn shreds of several Jawa cloaks. He sniffed the air, smelled sour Jawa blood.
He hesitated one step away from the opening—when suddenly a wide, many-clawed hand larger than Tteel Kkak’s entire body swept out in a rapid arc like a branched fork of lightning during sandwhirl season. Tteel Kkak stumbled backward and fell flat on his back. The monstrous clawed hand, the only part of the creature that could reach through the opening, swept across the air, seeming to tear space itself. Claws struck the corridor walls, skreeking along the wall plates and leaving parallel white gashes.
Before the monster could slash again, Tteel Kkak leaped to his feet and scuttled up the sloping corridor to the opening in the bridge compartment. Before he had gotten halfway there, though, his mind began to reassess the situation, wondering how he could still get any profit from this wreck.
He knew only one being who might appropr
iately enjoy this hideous, dangerous creature: one who lived on the other side of the Dune Sea, in an ancient, brooding citadel that had stood for centuries.
Tteel Kkak would have to forfeit most of the salvage materials, but he did not want to deal with this monster. He hoped he could talk Jabba the Hutt into paying him a large finder’s fee, at least.
The Care and Feeding of a Rancor
Malakili, professional monster trainer and beast handler, found himself unceremoniously transferred from the Circus Horrificus—a traveling show of alien monstrosities that wandered from system to system, aweing and frightening crowds of spectators. “Transferred” was the word imprinted on his contract file, but the truth was that Malakili had been purchased outright like a slave and then hustled off to this unpleasant scab of a desert planet.
As the Tatooine suns broiled down, Malakili already missed the dozens of bloodthirsty alien creatures he had tended for years. No one else understood exactly what he did. No one else knew how to tend the touchy and often excitable beasts on display. The circus performances would no doubt get very bloody as inexperienced handlers tried to do those things for which Malakili had become famous. The Circus Horrificus would fall on hard times without his services.
But as he disembarked from the private landspeeder outside the looming spires of a citadel high on the cliffs, Malakili began to grasp the importance and the power of this being called Jabba the Hutt.
The rock walls of the palace thrummed in the baking heat of double suns. At the base of one of the spires a spiked portcullis clattered upward, and two humanoid creatures stepped out of the shadows. One was clad in flowing black robes that accentuated the paleness of his pasty skin, bright eyes, and fanged mouth. A pair of long, thick tentacles hung from the back of the creature’s head, one wrapped around his neck like a garrote: a Twi’lek, Malakili noted, one of the heartless creatures from the harsh planet Ryloth, who had a reputation for shifting sides as rapidly as a breeze shifted in the desert.
Beside the Twi’lek stood a scarred, grizzle-faced human, a Corellian from the looks of him, whose face was puckered with either pockmarks from a disease or the long-healed scar from a vicious blaster burn. The Corellian’s hair was black except for a shock of pure white that streaked through it like a distress flare.
“You are Malakili,” the Twi’lek said. It was not a question. “I am Bib Fortuna, and this is my associate, Bidlo Kwerve.”
Kwerve nodded his head, but his emerald eyes remained fixed on Malakili as if nailed in place. Malakili flinched under his stare. Given other training, he thought, this Corellian could have become a good beast handler.
Malakili was muscular from a life of lifting heavy objects and wrestling strong creatures. His paunch had grown large from the good eating he enjoyed as the star of Circus Horrificus, his face was stretched and ugly, his eyes wide and round like full moons. But Malakili cared little for his personal appearance. He was out to impress no one. As long as the monsters held him in respect, he asked for nothing else.
“We are Jabba’s lieutenants. We have summoned you,” Bib Fortuna said.
“Why?” Malakili asked, his voice gruff, his fists planted squarely on his ample hips.
“We have a gift for Jabba,” Fortuna continued. “A ship crashed in the desert carrying a special cargo, a creature that no one seems able to identify. Bidlo Kwerve here used eight gas grenades to stun the monster enough that we could transport it into one of the dungeons beneath the palace.” The Twi’lek rubbed his clawed hands together. “It is our master’s birthday tomorrow. He has been away on business, having recently purchased a cantina in Mos Eisley. But he will be back tomorrow, and we want to surprise him. Of course with a creature of this, er, bulk and temperament, we wanted it to come with its own keeper.”
“But why me?” Malakili said. His words came out as displeased grunts. He was not accustomed to extended conversations. “I was happy with my old job.”
“Yes,” Bib Fortuna said, flashing a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. “You spent seven seasons with the Circus Horrificus, training their specimens without being eaten. That’s a record for them, you know.”
“I know,” Malakili said. “I liked the monsters.”
Bib Fortuna clacked his claws together. “Then you’ll love this one.”
• • •
Bib Fortuna and Bidlo Kwerve stepped back into the dripping shadows of the lower dungeons as Malakili stared through the barred peephole into the pit. He was enthralled, enraptured by the mammoth beast.
It growled as it breathed. Its beady eyes flashed even in the darkness. It moved with a quick, liquid grace that many agile creatures half its size could not manage.
“Magnificent,” Malakili said through puffy lips. He felt cool tears like lines of ice down his cheeks. He had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
“Did I not tell you?” Bib Fortuna said.
“I think—” Malakili drew a deep breath, still awed and afraid to voice his suspicions. “I think this is a rancor. I have heard of them, but never dreamed that I would be lucky enough to see one in my lifetime.”
“You’re not just seeing this one,” Bib Fortuna said. “He is yours. You must take care of him.”
Malakili felt his heart swell with pride, and he beamed at Jabba’s two lieutenants. “That I will do to the best of my ability,” he said.
The bloated crimelord Jabba the Hutt knew everything, so it was impossible to keep a secret from him—even a supposedly secret birthday gift. Still, his two lieutenants—with Malakili standing behind them—acted as if they were presenting Jabba with a great honor as they congratulated him on his birthday.
“As our gift to you, great Jabba,” Bib Fortuna said, “we have found a magnificent and exotic new pet for you—a vicious monster called a rancor. This is its keeper.” He gestured behind him, extending wicked-looking claws toward Malakili, who still wore only a loincloth and draped black headdress. He had washed his bare chest and polished his paunch to be presentable for the first time he met his new master.
Jabba leaned forward, his large eyes blinking. A tongue as thick as a wet human thigh stroked a new layer of slime along his swollen lips. His dais slid forward, closer to the grilled opening.
Below, the rancor paced in its dank confinement, making sounds like tearing wet paper. Jabba’s body rumbled with pleasure. Malakili saw both Bib Fortuna and Bidlo Kwerve visibly relax their tense shoulders as they saw that Jabba was pleased. Taking heart from this, Bidlo Kwerve stepped forward and spoke, the first time Malakili had heard words come from the scarred Corellian.
“I performed the actual capture, Master Jabba.” His voice was high and raspy—rather whiny, Malakili thought. No wonder Bidlo Kwerve kept his mouth shut most of the time.
Jabba sat up quickly, a startled reaction. Bib Fortuna waved his hands frantically to exercise damage control. “Yes, Master, what Bidlo Kwerve says is true, but I performed all of the … administrative details. You know how difficult these things can be.”
Jabba leaned forward again to stare at the rancor. He sighed with pleasure. Bib Fortuna explained the workings of the new trapdoor they had installed in front of the dais, anticipating how much amusement Jabba might get from dropping enemies into the rancor pit. Salacious Crumb, the loudmouth Kowakian lizard-monkey, laughed and jabbered at Jabba’s shoulder, sometimes repeating words, other times making his own nonsensical sentences.
“I am most pleased,” Jabba said.
Malakili pricked up his ears but kept his face impassive. He had learned how to speak the Hutt’s dialect many years before because the most bloodthirsty audiences to which the Circus Horrificus played consisted of coldhearted Hutts watching other creatures in pain.
“I shall reward each of you greatly,” Jabba said. “One of you shall become my new majordomo, my right-hand man to assist me and to run the palace while I’m away. The other … shall have an even greater reward, one that history will remember.”
Bib Fortuna
bowed, and his head-tails lashed. He seemed tense, though Malakili could not understand why. Bidlo Kwerve looked satisfied and unconcerned. “Master,” Fortuna said, “I shall be satisfied with the majordomo position. As Bidlo Kwerve has pointed out, he performed the greatest service to you. Please allow him to have the greater honor.”
Bidlo Kwerve shot a suspicious glance at him, blinking his ice-green eyes. Jabba nodded. “Good,” the Hutt said.
Kwerve stepped forward. The Corellian looked again at Bib Fortuna. “What did he say?” Now Malakili understood the twitching expressions on the Corellian’s face. Bidlo Kwerve didn’t understand Huttese!
Bib Fortuna gestured him forward as he himself stepped back. Kwerve raised his pocked chin in the air and stood in front of Jabba, awaiting his reward.
“You shall be the first victim I feed to my rancor,” Jabba said. “I will watch your struggles and remember them for all time.”
Salacious Crumb cackled maniacally. The group of Jabba’s followers in the throne room snickered and watched. Bidlo Kwerve looked to Bib Fortuna, and it was clear he did not know what Jabba had said.
As the Corellian’s face was turned aside, Jabba punched the button that released the trapdoor. The floor fell out from beneath Bidlo Kwerve.
In following years, everyone agreed that Bidlo Kwerve put up a spectacular fight. The Corellian had somehow managed to conceal a small holdout blaster in his body armor—which was strictly forbidden in Jabba’s presence. But the rancor’s sheer ferocity astonished the spectators even more as it devoured its first live meal since its capture on Tatooine.
Malakili watched the monster’s victory and felt warm inside, like a proud father.
Introduction to the NEW REPUBLIC Era
(5–25 YEARS AFTER STAR WARS: A NEW HOPE)
The destruction of the second Death Star and the death of Emperor Palpatine—the climactic conclusion of Return of the Jedi—has shaken the Empire to its core. While the remnant of the loyal Imperials settles in for a long, drawn-out last stand, the victorious Rebel Alliance and its supporters found a galactic governing authority they name the New Republic. Troops and warships are donated to the cause, as New Republic military leaders forge plans to seize Imperial fortress worlds, invade the Core Worlds, and retake Coruscant itself. Eventually, the Imperial Remnant is pushed back to a small part of the Outer Rim, and the New Republic is finally able to focus on restoring just and democratic government to the galaxy.
