WELCOME TO TATOOINE: ONE CRIMINAL
KINGPIN, TWO SUNS, A HUNDRED ROGUES
MALAKILI—The professional monster trainer was transferred from the Circus Horrificus to care for Jabba’s pet rancor. But the voracious carnivore was only the second most dangerous beast in the palace.
MELVOSH BLOOR—The academic came to study Jabba at his palace—and discovered a new meaning for “publish or perish.”
OOLA THE DANCER—Despite the chain around her neck, her grace was her glory. As Jabba drooled and tugged upon her chain, she stood her ground—on the edge of eternity.
GARTOGG THE GAMORREAN—Dim-witted, friendless, the palace guard patrolled the ill-lit back hallways where nothing ever happened. Now he has a chance to solve a murder, make a name for himself, and make some new, if decidedly odd, friends.
BIB FORTUNA—Jabba’s majordomo had big plans for himself—to overthrow the Hutt and take over his palace and his riches. But a traitor should be careful, for those involved in his plot may have plans of their own.
BOBA FETT—Famous as the galaxy’s fiercest bounty hunter, he learned firsthand about the slow death faced by the unfortunates who landed in the Great Pit of Carkoon—and how mercy and vengeance are sometimes the same thing.
TALES FROM JABBA’S PALACE
A Bantam Spectra Book / January 1996
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
®, ™, © 1995 by Lucasfilm Ltd. All rights reserved. Used under
authorization.
Interior illustrations by Michael Manley, Aaron McClellan, Al
Williamson, and Lucasfilm Ltd. Courtesy of West End Games.
Copyright © 1995 Lucasfilm Ltd.
Cover art by Stephen Youll.
Cover art copyright © 1995 by Lucasfilm Ltd.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-79625-7
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
v3.1
To SUE ROSTONI
who has been more helpful than any of Jabba’s minions could have ever been, offering suggestions, troubleshooting obstacles, and navigating me through a forest of details that would have given even a Hutt a headache!
Acknowledgments
Thanks go to Lucy Wilson for being so enthusiastic about the idea of anthologies in the first place, Tom Dupree for his efforts at Bantam Books, and Bill Smith at West End Games for providing the foundations for so many of these stories. And, as always, Rebecca Moesta Anderson, for putting up with me at times when she probably should have just fed me to the rancor.
—KJA
October 1994
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Introduction
A Boy and His Monster:
The Rancor Keeper’s Tale
Kevin J. Anderson
Taster’s Choice: The Tale of Jabba’s Chef
Barbara Hambly
That’s Entertainment:
The Tale of Salacious Crumb
Esther M. Friesner
A Time to Mourn, a Time to Dance: Oola’s Tale
Kathy Tyers
Let Us Prey: The Whiphid’s Tale
Marina Fitch and Mark Budz
Sleight of Hand: The Tale of Mara Jade
Timothy Zahn
And Then There Were Some:
The Gamorrean Guard’s Tale
William F. Wu
Old Friends: Ephant Mon’s Tale
Kenneth C. Flint
Goatgrass: The Tale of Ree-Yees
Deborah Wheeler
And the Band Played On: The Band’s Tale
John Gregory Betancourt
Of the Day’s Annoyances: Bib Fortuna’s Tale
M. Shayne Bell
The Great God Quay:
The Tale of Barada and the Weequays
George Alec Effinger
A Bad Feeling: The Tale of EV-9D9
Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens
A Free Quarren in the Palace: Tessek’s Tale
Dave Wolverton
Tongue-tied: Bubo’s Tale
Daryl F. Mallett
Out of the Closet: The Assassin’s Tale
Jennifer Roberson
Shaara and the Sarlacc: The Skiff Guard’s Tale
Dan’l Danehy-Oakes
A Barve Like That: The Tale of Boba Fett
J. D. Montgomery
Skin Deep: The Fat Dancer’s Tale
A. C. Crispin
Epilogue: Whatever Became Of …?
About the Author
Also by this Author
Introduction to the Star Wars Expanded Universe
Excerpt from Star Wars: Death Star
Introduction to the Old Republic Era
Introduction to the Rise of the Empire Era
Introduction to the Rebellion Era
Introduction to the New Republic Era
Introduction to the New Jedi Order Era
Introduction to the Legacy Era
Star Wars Novels Timeline
“If I told you half the things I’ve heard about this Jabba the Hutt, you’d probably short-circuit!”
—See-Threepio to Artoo-Detoo
Introduction
Jabba the Hutt has many enemies.
Called a “vile gangster” by some, Jabba’s criminally gained wealth and power has placed him in a dangerous position in his guarded citadel under the twin suns of Tatooine. Though few openly covet Jabba’s wealth, this does not stop them from plotting in secret.
The Lady Valarian, the female Whiphid owner of the Lucky Despot hotel and casino, is Jabba’s chief rival. Hairy and tusk-faced, with a voracious appetite (some say literally) for males of her species, she keeps a low profile, planning in the long term.
Prefect Eugene Talmont, stationed in Mos Eisley, is the Imperial in charge of the Tatooine garrison. He hates his backwater assignment and hopes that by eliminating Jabba he can find a way out of the arid hole where he has landed.
Then there is the mysterious order of B’omarr monks, who originally built the enormous citadel for their solitude in the desert depths. The monks, wrapped in their ethereal concerns, seem oblivious to the fact that Jabba—and many other bandits in the decades before him—usurped their stone fortress. But no one can know what the quiet, uncommunicative monks are really thinking.
Jabba is always on his guard, but little does he suspect that his greatest nemesis will come in the form of a single Jedi Knight, who walks in alone from the desert …
Note: For the reader’s convenience, all alien languages have been translated into Basic.
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 appropriately 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 t
o 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.
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