Star Wars: Tales from Jabba's Palace

by Kevin J. Anderson

  His’ head turned. “Go!” he shouted at Sienn. “Run!” That was for Oola.

  Oola hesitated. Rudd had seen Luke. As Oola understood, Luke had to kill him now. He was hiding from the Empire.

  What about Master Fortuna?

  “Stop that!” Rudd crouched. He steadied one elbow on his knee and fired off a continuous volley. Luke stepped closer and continued to parry. Rudd didn’t seem to realize his own danger.

  Oola cast a glance around for her tall master.

  At the edge of the debris, Fortuna slunk toward Sienn. He brandished a blaster of his own. He probably meant to stun Sienn, then kill Luke … if Rudd didn’t get him. He rounded the nose cone and aimed his blaster. Sienn shrank against jumbled debris, trapped like a child with no place to run or hide. Oola had one moment of choice.

  “Sienn!” Oola shrieked. “Go! Run!” She dashed at Fortuna, seized the flapping edge of his black robes, and twined her lekku around his shoulders in mock passion. Rolls of fat shook at the base of his neck. The blaster fell from his elegant hand. He bent backward to grope for it. “Get off,” he seethed. “Get off me, you little fool.”

  Oola’s sudden panic made Mos Eisley seem chilly. If Luke meant to kill Fortuna, she’d just jumped into his line of fire. She tried to pull free. Her lekku tangled with Fortuna’s.

  Bib caught her wrist in a grip that drove his nails into her flesh. Gasping, Oola collapsed. Her lekku fell flaccid. Fortuna pulled free of them.

  Oola let him drag her to her feet. She hadn’t been shot. Neither had Fortuna, but Rudd lay facedown and twitching. Sienn was dashing up the street. Both of her lekku swung down the back of Luke’s too-long cloak. She had almost reached the street corner beyond that debris heap. Luke followed her, carrying his weird weapon … but the glimmering shaft had vanished. As Sienn dashed out of sight, Luke slowed. He glanced over his shoulder, caught Oola’s stare, and hesitated.

  Sienn wouldn’t survive two minutes alone in these streets. “Go!” Oola shrieked.

  Luke raised both eyebrows in a pained expression, as if she had finally jabbed him. He spun away, and then he too was gone.

  “So you want Jabba to yourself.” Bib pulled her so close to his leather chest protector that she could smell rancid breath venting between his long, pointed teeth. He dug his blaster muzzle into her stomach. “All of the goodies for Oola. No rivals.”

  “No rivals,” she sneered back, full of adrenaline and bravado. It was either that or recoil. She mustn’t show fear.

  Fortuna flung her away. Oola caught her balance with a languid handspring, turned back to Bib, and waited.

  “My speeder is parked around the corner,” he growled. His orange-pink eyes glowered. “This way.”

  Oola sighed away the memory. She’d lost daylight and hope, and she’d never wielded power. But no one could steal her honor. She would never again lose her best reason for living.

  “Fortuna hates me now,” she murmured. She fingered the hideous leather headdress. “Here are my soft cushions.” Mocking her own words, she ran a finger over the stony lip of Jabba’s bed. Her dainties? Scraps Jabba tossed when she groveled … or food he suspected of harboring poison.

  Threepio finished translating her tale for Yarna, then they both shook their heads. Beyond Jabba’s throne, a scream faded into the floor. Oola shuddered. She’d seen Jabba feed his stinking, hideous underground monster. The rancor usually devoured its prey whole. By the standards of this place, it looked like a quick death. She’d rather be next on the menu than watch it again, and that was likely enough. She’d choose it over Jabba’s ardent embrace. How ironic that Sienn, the obvious morsel, had escaped … but Oola was glad that she had, and proud to have helped.

  “At least you can dance,” Yarna pointed out. “Be thankful Jabba doesn’t have your cubs in his clutches.”

  Oola raised her head. “I can dance,” she agreed. “If I could have one wish …”

  “What?” Yarna encouraged, straightening her own headdress.

  “I would dance the perfect dance. Once. It wouldn’t matter who watched. I would know it was perfect.”

  Threepio’s head swiveled jauntily over his metal shoulders. “But Miss Oola, Master Luke is close by.”

  “You do know him?”

  “Oh yes. I—”

  “I wasn’t heat-crazy? He can do all those things?”

  “Oh yes. I too was a gift to Jabba.” His singsong voice sounded giddy. “Master Luke is a Jedi Knight, a very important person in the Rebel Alliance. He’s very good at rescuing people. You should have—”

  “Don’t,” she groaned. What had Luke tried to warn her? That Jabba would … k-something. Kill her? Surely he couldn’t predict the future.

  Threepio touched her shoulder. “He’s coming here to rescue me. I’ll see that he rescues you ladies, too. Leave that to me.”

  Oola eyed the droid critically. “He used so many hard words in that message—the one your friend … projected,” she finished in Twi’leki.

  “Oh, that. Perhaps you should play along with His High Exaltedness just a little longer?” Threepio imitated a human shrug.

  Yarna nudged her, her face compassionate. “Listen to Metal Man, Oola. If I can survive this, you can.”

  “Not for long. Not with my—” The court rang with raucous laughter. At any moment, she’d feel the tug at her slave collar. “Threepio, help us escape. You must.”

  Threepio touched her stout chain and then the greasy round bolt on his chest. “Creating a plan,” he dithered in Twi’leki, “is beyond my capacity. Artoo has a vibro-cutter among his appendages, but he has been assigned to the garages.”

  Oola forced down her glimmer of temporary hope. She mustn’t forget bright eternity, nor the Great Dance. Not in here. Not for a moment. “That’s the difference between us,” she muttered. “For all of your six million forms of communication, you’re faithless.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Threepio brushed his midsection again. “I have every faith in Master Luke. He will rescue me.” Since hearing her story, he’d called Luke “Master” twice—a term he’d hesitated to use before. Evidently her story had done him some good, anyway.

  And if “Master Luke” was coming, she might get a second chance after all. She eyed her fellow dancer. “Perhaps I can survive this,” she agreed. And perhaps Sienn was already safe somewhere. “I’ll do my b—”

  Her collar tugged up and backward. Half strangled, Oola yanked her headpiece back on, flailing for balance as Jabba hauled her over his side. She dug her fingers and toes into fetid flesh. Jabba purred as if tickled by her struggling. His jizz-wailers swung into a new dance tune.

  Furious, Oola leaped off her grotesque master’s dais. She vaulted into the middle of the floor, defiantly landing on the rancor pit’s grate. Jabba’s trapdoor had closed again. Maybe he hadn’t even opened it.

  Maybe.

  Yarna joined the dance, as did Melina Carniss with her long dark fur. Oola kept at the far end of her chain. In one dark alcove she seemed to see blue eyes watching from under a roughly woven black hood. She would dance for him this time. For a second chance. She kicked head-high and higher, powerfully swinging her fleshy lekku. Her grace was her glory. The physical rapture of dancing swept through her and owned her, freely and naturally. Every step and each gesture marked out a melody. She’d found perfect sensual poise. At last.

  Evidently Jabba thought so, too. He tugged her chain.

  More angry than frightened at first, she grasped it with both hands and yanked back. She didn’t care if the Gamorreans beat her again—she would not dance closer. She only knew a few words of Huttese. She shouted them. “Na chuba negatone!”

  Jabba tugged again, drooling.

  Oola braced her feet at the trapdoor’s edge. Though terror robbed her of poise, she would not yield. “Na! Na! Natoota …”

  Let Us Prey: The Whiphid’s Tale

  by Marina Fitch and Mark Budz

  Feeding time again. The crunch and snap of
bones resonated through the walls of the Whiphid J’Quille’s room as Jabba’s “pet” rancor snacked on its latest morsel.

  J’Quille paced his stark room. Huntlust vibrated through his tall, golden-furred frame, wrinkled his broad snout. His tusks tingled even though it had been several hours since Jabba dropped the Twi’lek dancer into the rancor’s pit. The screams had ceased long ago, but J’Quille couldn’t stop salivating. The savory aroma of fresh blood warmed the pit of his stomach.

  The warmth wouldn’t last long. J’Quille snarled low in his throat. Next time it might be J’Quille the rancor feasted on. Jabba grew bored so easily. What if the novelty of employing a former lover of the Whiphid crimelord Lady Valarian to ferret out conspiracies wore thin?

  No doubt the kind of reminder Jabba intended when he gave J’Quille quarters this close to the pit. If Jabba suspected J’Quille still worked for her …

  Owner of the Lucky Despot, Lady Valarian was Jabba’s most powerful rival. Not only was her nightclub the most successful in Mos Eisley—on the entire planet of Tatooine—she siphoned business from Jabba as easily as she sipped Sullustan gin.

  As easily as the rancor would sip the marrow from J’Quille’s bones if he was discovered.

  J’Quille snorted. All he had to do was keep his tusks clean for a few more days. Then the rancor and his devoted keeper, Malakili, would be gone, free of Jabba. J’Quille had helped arrange their escape with Lady Valarian. One of the few good things he’d been able to do behind Jabba’s back.

  That, and bribing the kitchen boy, Phlegmin, to lace Jabba’s snack tank of freckled toads with slow-acting poison. A little too slow by the look of things.

  Another bone snapped.

  J’Quille’s claws tensed. He smoothed the fur bristling around his neck, raised by the scent of the Twi’lek’s blood and the huntlust surging through him. But was he hunter or prey? Or both?

  He stopped pacing and glanced at the room, barren except for his sleeping pallet. Built by the B’omarr monks, the room’s stark ascetic reminded him of the rock-and-bone shelters of his homeworld, Toola. Two ceremonial trophies hung on opposite walls: a necklace of Mastmot teeth, dipped in poison; and the skull of a young bantha he had brought down one night with his bare claws. He was a hunter, not some weak Ice Puppy that sat back and waited for death to come.

  He jerked open the door and slipped into the hallway. A pain-filled moan issued from one of the rank cells. A Gamorrean guard grunted as he pushed past J’Quille, bleary with sleep or too much Sullustan gin.

  J’Quille stroked the spiky hairs along his lower lip. Lady Valarian liked gin. If only he were back at the Lucky Despot! Two days ago, when it looked like everything was going according to plan, it had seemed a possibility. His “falling out” with Lady Valarian would end and they could finally stop pretending.

  That was before the note. Someone knew he was bribing Phlegmin. He had already paid a hefty ten thousand credits to keep the blackmailer silent. But it was only a matter of time before Jabba found out.

  How much time? That was the question.

  The crunch and snap of bones stopped. Blast. Sweat beaded J’Quille’s forehead and long, broad snout. When was the last time he’d been cool? He wiped his face with the back of his paw. Strands of fur clung to the sweat. He grimaced. Shedding again. Tatooine’s dry, sweltering heat sucked the energy out of him. What he wouldn’t give for a couple of minutes in one of the Lucky Despot’s ice saunas.

  Something scuttled past him—one of those spiderlike droids enlightened B’omarr monks used to ferry around their pickled brains. The glass jar winked in the dim light, then droid and brain disappeared around the corner.

  J’Quille snarled in disgust and hurried on, stopping outside the rancor’s pit. The inner gate stood slightly open, as he’d known it would. Malakili was cleaning the outer cage.

  The scent of blood was stronger here. J’Quille closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The intoxicating scent soothed his taut nerves, taking the edge off his repressed frustration. If he could just track down the blackmailer and kill him …

  A foot scraped on the stone floor near him. His eyes snapped open. One hand jerked up, claws extended, while the other reached for his vibroblade.

  “Hey, it’s just me,” Malakili said softly, stepping out of the cage’s shadows. Sweat glazed his bare chest and heavy arms. He patted J’Quille’s shoulder with a black-gloved hand. “Easy. You’re stiffer than an Imperial stormtrooper.”

  “Been a bad night,” J’Quille said, letting go of his vibroblade.

  “Tell me about it,” Malakili said, adjusting his black headband. His eyes narrowed in his thick, doughy face. “Something’s in the air. Even my friend here is jumpier than usual.”

  “This place is a tomb,” J’Quille said. “Even the living are dead inside these walls. Might as well stuff our brains in jars.”

  “Yeah, but the monk’s brains aren’t dead.” Malakili leaned closer to him. “Listen, I heard something I think you should know.”

  J’Quille tensed. “What?”

  “This afternoon Bib Fortuna tried to get Jabba to throw you into the pit. Thinks it would be an interesting contest.”

  J’Quille peered at Malakili. “What did Jabba say?”

  “I tried to talk him out of it. You’d inflict too much damage before my friend killed you. But Jabba wasn’t convinced. He said he’d give it some thought.”

  “So I have a little time,” J’Quille said.

  Malakili nodded. “A little. With luck, we’ll both be out of here soon.”

  “Alive, I hope,” J’Quille said, curling the corners of his lips back around his tusks in a smile.

  Malakili smiled. “I’ll let you know if I hear more.”

  “Thanks,” J’Quille said.

  Gnashing his tusks, J’Quille hurried back to his room. Things were moving much too fast, forcing his hand. Jabba’s increasing coolness, the blackmailer … and now Bib Fortuna’s plotting. Time to get Phlegmin to increase the dosage of slow poison. The sooner Jabba was reduced to a vat of gibbering slug jelly, the sooner J’Quille could return to Lady Valarian. He’d wanted to increase the dosage earlier, but he’d been afraid someone would notice a sudden change in Jabba.

  Now he could no longer afford the luxury of caution.

  J’Quille slipped into his room and went to the string of Mastmot teeth hanging on the wall. Lifting the necklace from its peg, he slipped it over his head. Luckily most people, including Jabba, considered him a mindless brute with a taste for crude jewelry. No one suspected the teeth had been dipped in poison.

  J’Quille started at a low mechanical warble outside his door. His nostrils flared, crinkling at the acrid stench of oil and metal.

  A droid.

  The claws of J’Quille’s right hand curled involuntarily around the grip of his vibroblade, then slowly relaxed. An assassin droid wouldn’t announce its presence.

  The warble repeated. J’Quille yanked open the door.

  The maintenance droid, a blue U2C1 housekeeping model, chirped and took a step back. Both of its flex-tube arms quivered. With a whine, it sucked in air through the stiff brush at the end of its left arm and the upholstery attachment on its right.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” it said tinnily. “I’ve been instructed to clean this room.”

  J’Quille stepped aside, allowing the droid to enter. Another calculated nuisance on the part of Jabba or one of his servants—most likely Salacious Crumb. That drool-lapping Kowakian lizard-monkey probably scavenged the droid’s waste tank for between-meal snacks. J’Quille sneered. He’d love to program the cleaning droid to suck up that cackling little rubbish heap.

  “Please close the door,” the droid said. “This won’t take long.”

  J’Quille grumbled.

  The droid’s right arm snaked out to sweep the floor. The loud whine grated on J’Quille’s nerves. He reached for the doorknob.

  “I have a message,” the droid said.

&n
bsp; J’Quille hesitated. “A message?”

  “From a friend.” The droid paused, but left its vacuum running. “ ‘I know who’s blackmailing you. Meet me on the citadel roof at sunrise and I’ll give you his name.’ ”

  The rampart on top of the guest quarters. J’Quille had gone up there more than once to escape the press of the walls and drink in the cool night air.

  “I have been instructed to wait for your response,” the droid said.

  J’Quille’s hackles rose. A clever ruse by Jabba to lure him out? If the message had been sent by a friend, why the secrecy? Why not just give him the name of the blackmailer?

  Obviously the person wanted something more from him … but what?

  Money? Or to enlist him in another plot to kill Jabba? There were certainly enough of those. J’Quille had only leaked a fraction of them to Jabba. Only the least promising.

  “How will I recognize him?” J’Quille asked.

  “You won’t,” the droid said. “You’ll recognize what he’s wearing.”

  J’Quille exhaled sharply, tired of playing these games. If it turned out to be a setup, he could always claim that he was just doing his job, following up on a suspect. For Jabba.

  J’Quille wet his lips. Yes, that was the way to handle it. A thrill ran through him, not unlike the one he got while tracking an Ice Puppy or a Sea Hog back on Toola.

  “I’ll be there,” J’Quille said.

  He ducked into the hall and up the stairs to Jabba’s main audience chamber. Jabba and his minions dozed on the crimelord’s dais. The band played on, melodic jizz and dense smoke cavorting in a sinuous dance of sound and smell. Frozen in carbonite, Han Solo stared at him from the display alcove.

  J’Quille eased past the bandstand, skirting the trapdoor to the rancor’s pit. He caught a glimpse of Malakili through the grating, still cleaning the pit while the rancor gnawed contentedly on a wet bone.