Threepio’s tone brightened. “Oh! That is my—” He halted before saying “owner,” or “master”—he belonged to Jabba now—but his speech had clearly started to imply ownership.
She touched her collar in unexpected empathy. Ignoring his faltering, she said, “I’ve seen him.”
He drew up with a grandiose sweep of both arms. “I am afraid that’s impossible.”
“Is his name Luke?” Oola asked.
Threepio’s eyes glimmered in the dark, smoky air. “My goodness. Yes. Yes, it is. Where was he?”
Mournfully, Oola explained.
Oola relaxed on her deceleration chair, relieved that her first spaceflight had ended smoothly. Jerris Rudd, Bib Fortuna’s employee and their pilot-escort on the short trip from Ryloth to Tatooine, had warned her that unexpected sandstorms or hostiles might agitate their landing. Oola flexed her legs, eager to spring from this cramped cabin. At her twilit home on Ryloth, deep in underground warrens where eight hundred people acknowledged her father as clan chief, she’d been known as an exquisite dancer. The height of her kicks and the sensuous swing of her lekku had won dozens of admirers.
Four months ago, Bib Fortuna had coaxed her aboveground. He’d abducted her, instead of paying her father as custom dictated. He’d enslaved her—and another Twi’lek girl, even younger and more petite—at a complex on Ryloth where he’d once conducted a lucrative smuggling business. He’d bought them the most expensive training on six worlds: four months with Ryloth’s most elegant, experienced court dancers.
The older dancers disdained her clan’s quaint, primitive ways. To Oola’s way of thinking, her clan preserved faith and dignity that the rest of the world had lost in its rush to accommodate slavers and smugglers. Expediency was a deadly god to serve.
Still, Oola rose to her training. She couldn’t escape, and she did love to dance. The twin temptations of power and fame set hooks in her soul. Fortuna’s performers selected the girls’ dancing personae: Sienn would appear slightly younger, naïve, and guileless; Oola would seem knowing, worldly-wise, and callous. Sienn sat stoically as Fortuna’s grim groomers tattooed delicate floral chains up and down her nerve-laden lekku. Oola held Sienn’s hand and wiped her silent tears of pain.
Sienn was too young and vulnerable for work that made her beauty a commodity. Twi’leks called her kind a “morsel”—one gulp and a client could eat her. Their aging head trainer, who still boasted some beauty, tried hardening Sienn. “Don’t play with that kind of appetite,” she’d warned. “Make them drool, but don’t let them bite.”
Oola sleeked her lekku and shimmied her shoulders infinitesimally. She and Sienn had been trained by the best. Groomed for the best.
Sienn sat in another deceleration chair, wearing a simple hooded coverall—like Oola’s, but pale yellow instead of dark blue—and stroked her freshly tattooed lekku. “Do they still hurt?” Oola murmured.
“They’re fine,” insisted Sienn. “They—”
The cabin door slid aside. Jerris Rudd stepped through, one point seven meters of scum. Rudd was the first human she’d met. Perhaps all humans dressed in baggy, torn clothing. Perhaps they all smelled this foul, with matted fur covering their heads (the worst of Rudd’s stench came from that fur). If so, humans were scum. In keeping with her worldly-wise role, Rudd had given her a tiny dagger. “Help Sienn,” he’d taunted, “if you can.” She’d bristled, but she’d made sure the dagger was sharp, then tucked it into her belt.
“Nice fly, girls?” Rudd rubbed his stained hands. “Pretty good landing, I think. No boom.” He clapped his hands at Sienn’s face.
Sienn shrank into her chair. Evidently Rudd had tried to evaluate Sienn’s training during their hyperspace hop.
Oola could speak only a few hundred words of Basic, but her ear knew the way pidgin limped. It offended her. She could guess-translate most words in context. “It was a good landing,” she said firmly.
“Time to unbuckle”—he pantomimed releasing their harnesses—“and hit dirt. You’ll love Tatooine.”
Sienn touched a control on her seat. Her flight harness withdrew into its side. “What’s it like?” she asked.
“A little like Ryloth. You’ll see. Come on.”
They’d barely climbed down into the docking bay’s heat—and the sandy back lot was like Ryloth’s hot, perpetually uninhabitable bright side—when a metallic voice announced, “Hold it right there. Nobody moves.”
That voice had no music left in it. It grated in her ears like metal on slate. Oola did as it ordered.
The voice came from a human wearing white metal. Oola stared. She’d seen tri-D images of Imperial stormtroopers. Three of them stood between the battered fore pod of Rudd’s small transport and the only gate in the docking bay’s sandstone walls. One whiteskin marched up to Rudd. “Let’s see some identification.”
Oola had no trouble translating that word. Moving slowly and keeping his eye on the stormtroopers’ blast rifles, Rudd dug into his sweat-stained shoulder pouch. A stormtrooper grabbed it. Sienn stood still, trembling.
Eventually the whiteskin returned Rudd’s pouch. His partners lowered their weapons. “This is a very common class of ship,” he explained. “Just what we’d expect someone to use if they were trying to sneak past surveillance.”
“I,” said Rudd, “am a respectable escort. I—”
“Can it,” said the head stormtrooper. “We know your boss. Jabba’s in for a surprise. Real soon.” The whiteskin beside him laughed.
The third stormtrooper kept his weapon up. “I say we search their ship,” he drawled.
“Not necessary,” Rudd insisted. “I’m clean. I’ve got an appointment in just a few minutes.”
Evidently that was the wrong thing to tell a stormtrooper. Oola, Sienn, and Rudd spent the next hour under Imperial guard, crouched in marginal shade while two stormtroopers examined every square glekk of the shuttle. They emerged with officious shrugs. “Move along,” said the head whiteskin. “No charges this time.”
“Thanks so much,” Rudd growled, but he said it softly. Whatever “charges” were, they scared him. “Come on, girls.” Oola walked a little faster and so avoided letting his swat land. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Sienn wasn’t as quick.
“What are they looking for?” Oola asked as they hustled up a narrow alley.
“Not what. Who. From the way they searched us, they’re looking for a person.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Don’t ask. I’m off schedule now,” he grumbled, forgetting to condescend and speak pidgin. He bundled them into a wheelless craft with three aft-mounted engines. Oola claimed the back seat. “Fortuna’s going to be busy for more than an hour. We’ll have to—” His testy words faded under engine noise.
Oola stared over the side of the craft as Rudd steered across the ugly little town. It was all aboveground, not sensibly nestled in solid rock. Already she felt homesick. Debris lay heaped alongside square buildings the same ugly orange as Tatooine’s sand. Rudd steered around several turns, until Oola would’ve gotten lost except for her unfailing sense of the suns. If you couldn’t orient yourself on Ryloth, you could die before your time. “Just a little farther.” Rudd stroked Sienn’s leg as she sat in the front seat beside him. “And we’ll—whoops.” He’d been decelerating. Abruptly he sped up again and raced around a corner.
“What was that?” Oola asked. She craned her neck to look back. Nothing interesting showed.
“Visitors outside Jabba’s town house. Not the kind I want to show you girls to. Let me think.” Moments later, he braked the craft beside a sizable pile of debris. Metal spars and hull plates lay tangled with shredded cloth shrouds: evidently two airships had collided over Mos Eisley, crashed, and been preserved in Tatooine’s dryness … except for their removable parts. Those were long scavenged, judging by the sand that drifted through holes in what remained. “Out,” said Rudd. “Out.”
“Here?” Sienn’s lekku wriggle
d in confusion. It was a natural gesture their teachers had taught her to emphasize, just as Oola had learned to swing her lekku in free, wild arcs.
“Yep.” Rudd gave Sienn a shove that sent her over the side. Oola vaulted down with a long, lazy flip.
Rudd followed. He poked at a long metal engine shield, slid a spar aside, and finally lifted a large sheet of yellowish cloth. It might have once served as a sail, attached to a long straight boom and ripped into weathered yellow strips at one end. “Climb under this. Wait till I get back. Don’t make a sound. Mos Eisley is full of predators.” He mimed a toothy growl and pretended to claw her. “Predators eat nice little girls. Put your hoods up.”
Sienn had already rolled into the sail’s stuffy shade. “Get in here, Oola,” she whispered. “Hurry. Someone might see you.”
Oola crawled close, curling her lekku close to her neck inside the hood. She couldn’t let sand scratch their sleek skin. That would hurt … and it would decrease her value to Bib’s famous employer.
It was finally sinking in: they were on the same world as the fabulous Jabba the Hutt. Master Bib Fortuna had spun mouth-watering tales of Jabba’s wealth and splendor—his legendary palace, his exquisite taste in food, females, and other luxuries. Oola imagined soft cushions and costumes that fluttered in every breeze, composed solely of artfully draped dancing veils. Her handsome new master would be suave, powerful, and very deeply impressed with her … a station worth the insignificant price of the freedom she’d flung aside.
But she lay hiding in a pile of garbage. Sienn sniffled behind her.
Several minutes later, Oola blinked a runnel of sweat out of one eye. She’d changed her mind about Tatooine: it was hotter than Ryloth. Her vision blurred in heat that shimmered the air. An ill-defined shadow seemed to detach from the nearest building and flow toward the rubbish heap.
That was ridiculous. Even at midday, shadows didn’t—
Sienn grabbed Oola’s leg. “Oola,” she whispered. “What’s that?”
Oola blinked. It wasn’t an hallucination, but a black-robed … person. Mos Eisley is full of predators. Even Rudd traveled cautiously here. Oola toed Sienn’s shoulder. “Get deeper!” Once Sienn started to move, Oola wriggled backward. Hot, scratchy sand ground through her coverall against her knees, elbows, and belly, but she managed another meter deeper under cover.
The far edge of the sail lifted. The dark creature crouched on its heels, extending a hand as if to raise something … but his hand did not touch cloth or spar. A black cloak, hooded like theirs, draped his face.
Sienn whimpered. Oola scrabbled at her belt with sandy fingers, fumbling for her decorative little dagger. “Keep away,” she hissed and signed in Twi’leki.
The shrouded creature leaned onto one hand. Deep under his hood, Oola caught a glimpse of chin and a glint of blue. Twi’leks never had blue eyes.
“Keep away,” she repeated. The words didn’t sound as menacing in Basic.
The creature shed his cloak and edged forward. Human like Rudd, he had clean, tow-colored fur. Unlike Rudd’s kitchen-rag garb, his black undercloak clothing looked intact (although well worn) and tucked down. If this was a predator, her impression of Rudd had been right: Rudd was scum, even among his own people. Bib Fortuna’s organization dropped in her estimation. So did her decision to cooperate.
The human’s unnatural blue eyes glanced from Oola to Sienn, back to Oola. “I feel your fear,” he said softly. “Come with me. I’ve got a—” He used several more words that she didn’t understand, but he finished with two that she did: “safe place.”
Oola laughed shortly. “No safe place on this world,” she guessed aloud. It alarmed her that this human’s way of speaking, whether or not she understood his words, dispelled her logical fear of him.
Sienn shook like one of Master Fortuna’s collar ornaments. Oola raised up on her elbows and knees, lizard-style, and brandished Rudd’s little dagger like a claw. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”
“I mean you no harm.” He didn’t flinch from her blade. “My name is Luke.”
She rolled the word down her tongue. “Luke. Go away, Luke.”
“I was born on this world.” Every word tried to soothe her. “I’ve returned on important …” He used another word she didn’t know and couldn’t guess at. Maybe it was the name of his spaceship.
“Then go do what you came back for,” she said. “Leave us alone.”
He leaned down onto both hands and crawled closer. Something dangling from his belt caught her attention. It didn’t look like a blaster, and it certainly wasn’t a knife. But she’d never seen a money pouch shaped like that. If it was a weapon, he wasn’t reaching for it. He must not think her quick enough—or determined enough—to use her knife. She wriggled her knees up under her hips and dug her toes into the sand. This lizard could spring.
“What’s your name?” he asked. He was almost close enough to touch.
“Nothing, daughter of nobody.” She didn’t want to hurt him, just chase him away. She picked her target—his left arm was extended. She could jab his elbow. Just enough to—
His right hand flicked, a beckoning gesture. Her arms collapsed. She dropped chin first onto the sand and lost her grip on her knife.
He crooked one finger. The dagger spun across the ground into his grasp. “Sorry,” he said. “But I won’t hurt you. You mustn’t hurt me. Are you slaves?”
What was this Luke creature? His face looked placid, even kind … but she couldn’t trust that power in his voice and his right hand, and she didn’t want to be kidnapped twice. She backed off again. Her left foot struck something. “Ouch!” squeaked Sienn.
“Come with me,” Luke whispered. “I’ll hide you. If anyone sees me, I have to … hide.” Now he was underestimating her grasp of Basic. “Or … I have to get rid of them.”
Oola scooted deeper and scooped up a handful of sand.
“I don’t mean you.” His smile seemed genuine, though she was no judge of humans. “I’ll get you to the Rebel Alliance. They don’t buy or sell anyone.”
According to Master Fortuna’s people, the Rebel Alliance was even more dangerous than the Empire. She held her ground.
The human—Luke—turned to address Sienn. “Come with me?” he cajoled.
Oola twisted around to warn her partner against it. Sienn widened her eyes and smiled. She raised up on hands and knees and crawled forward.
“That’s it,” the stranger encouraged her.
“Sienn!” Oola hissed. Sienn scrambled past her.
Luke touched Sienn’s shoulder, resting one hand on silky yellow fabric. “Hurry,” he urged. Backing out of the sweltering shelter, he eyed Oola again. She fancied that he pitied her. “Won’t you let me help you? You won’t get a second … chance. Do you know ‘chance’?”
Even as Oola felt the tug of his influence, her pride and jealousy flared. “We’ve been chosen to dance in Jabba’s palace,” she insisted, “the grandest on Tatooine. We’re a pair. We go to Jabba together.”
“It’s the grandest on Tatooine, all right,” Luke admitted. He draped his cloak over Sienn. “But I have”—again the “bizz-ness” word she couldn’t translate—”there. It won’t be pleasant. Jabba’s palace isn’t what you think.”
Abruptly Oola remembered stormtroopers at the spaceport, searching incoming ships … for someone. She stared at the crouched figure in his rough but dignified black. Built like a dancer, he moved with controlled energy. And he still held her knife. She hadn’t seen much of the galaxy, but she knew how to piece clues together. She made a swift guess. “Are you the one the Empire is looking for? At the spaceport?”
Luke shrugged. He glanced over his shoulder. “Probably. We have to hurry. Come on. I’ll set you free.”
Free? On this planet? What kind of life would that be?
She’d tried to reconcile herself to slavery. But freedom was better than servitude, even in the finest palace.
Then again …
Oola envisioned herself lying on soft tufted cushions, savoring the finest raw fungi, summoning energy for another glorious dance. She thought of the thunderous praises she’d win. She hesitated.
Jabba was the wealthiest gangster in a hundred worlds.
“Please come,” Luke whispered. “Jabba will k—”
“Hey!” shouted a familiar voice. “Get away from those girls!”
Oola peered out from under the sail toward the street. Rudd had reappeared around the corner of one blocky building. Bib Fortuna hung back, looking as darkly elegant as ever with his high bony crest and thick lekku. Protruding from his cloak, half-gloves and studded wristbands set off his long, clawed fingers. She’d found his hands fascinating, that fateful night back at home.
He was temptation.
He was evil, she realized with a shock that almost leveled her. Evil.
Rudd held his blaster at the ready. “All right, you. You’re asking for it. That’s Jabba’s property.”
“I don’t care much for Jabba.” Luke thrust Sienn behind him. Slightly shielded, she plunged toward better cover. A crushed nose cone jutted out of the debris pile. Sienn dove behind it. Luke pressed into the nearest alcove and shoved at what looked like a door. It didn’t open.
Oola cringed.
“Hah!” Rudd fired. His shot splattered into sand just behind Luke’s left leg. The sand melted into a glassy puddle. “I’m not killing you yet,” he jeered. “First, you’re going to learn not to tinker with Jabba’s belongings.”
Luke flattened against the building. His face looked deadly calm. Fortuna had warned her: please Jabba, and she’d reap the finest rewards. Cross him, and expect worse than her worst imaginings.
Jabba must be evil too. She had to stop this. Somehow. What could she do?
Finally Luke seized the strange object at his belt and unhooked it, then held it out two-handed. To Oola’s astonishment, a glowing green shaft appeared at one end. Luke stepped out of the doorway toward Rudd. The step dropped him into a deep dueling stance, and he wielded the glimmering weapon with long, strong sweeps of his arms and shoulders. The weapon’s weird metallic hum changed pitch as he swung it. Blaster bolts deflected in all directions. Not one touched him. Oola gaped. He wasn’t just built like a dancer. He moved like one.
Star Wars: Tales from Jabba's Palace Page 9
