Star Wars: Tales from Jabba's Palace

by Kevin J. Anderson

  So who was out there?

  And what should she do?

  THUD … THUD … THUD.

  The hammering redoubled in intensity, and the shouting grew louder, more desperate. Everyone with the authority to tell her what to do—Master Fortuna, Tessek, Barada—was gone. Even the head Gamorrean, Ortugg, was nowhere to be seen.

  Running her tongue over suddenly dry lips, she turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Guards!” she bellowed across the chamber. “Guards! Is everyone deaf? There’s someone at the main entrance!”

  Other denizens of the Hutt lord’s motley “court” who had been sleeping in the far reaches of the audience chamber stirred, glancing around furtively … but none of them joined the Askajian at the foot of the stairs. In Jabba’s palace, calling attention to oneself could prove dangerous.

  Yarna heard running footsteps, then an armed humanoid raced through the opposite portal. The guard in the battered dark armor was familiar, though he always kept to himself and she didn’t know his name. He’d been the one the Wookiee Chewbacca had knocked silly, smashing him into the wall with one swipe of a long, furred arm.

  “What’s going on?” A mechanical-sounding voice emanated from inside the helmet that masked his features, and Yarna realized he spoke through a breathing filter. “Where is Master Jabba?”

  “Hasn’t returned yet,” Yarna said, feeling her hearts pound in her belly. “Who are you?”

  “Sergeant Doallyn, at your service,” the guard said, automatically straightening to attention. More knocks at the entrance made him glance up the stairs. “Who is at the door, Mistress Gargan?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, appreciating the tide of respect. It had been a long time since anyone had addressed her as anything but “Ugly One.” The hammering reached their ears again, seemingly weaker now. Yarna shrugged and pointed. “The sentry who should be there … isn’t. And I didn’t think I should open it without a guard present.”

  The helmeted head nodded. “Good thinking.” He beckoned her to follow him, and started up the steps. Yarna stayed so close to him that she nearly trod on his boot heels.

  When the pair reached the tall, massive doors, Doallyn glanced at the sentry screen, but it was too dark to make out the identity of the visitor. He leveled his blaster, then gestured to her. “Key it, then stand back.”

  Moving with a quickness that belied her bulk, Yarna pressed the appropriate combination, then skipped off to the side. Slowly, the enormous portal rumbled upward. Cold night air rushed in.

  Tessek the Quarren stood outside, his robes rumpled and smelling of smoke. His wrinkled, tentacled features were pale and cracked as though he’d been exposed to intense heat. “Jabba … Master Jabba … the sail barge …” he babbled breathlessly. “Solo, the Wookiee … and that Jedi! There may be an attack!”

  “Where is Jabba?” Doallyn demanded.

  “Dead! She strangled him, that Alderaanian dancing girl, the new one. Just as the execution was supposed to take place, a terrible battle erupted on the sail barge. They had weapons hidden, and that Jedi boy, Luke Skywalker—he had powers beyond belief! I fought them, but a shot grazed me, and I lost control of my swoop … I nearly went into the Sarlacc pit! Then”—his arms waved expressively—“a huge explosion! The sail barge is in pieces all over the Dune Sea!”

  “Jabba? Dead?” Even Doallyn’s mechanical tones sounded stunned.

  The Quarren nodded. He glanced from Yarna to Doallyn, then seemed to remember his dignity. Pulling himself up, he straightened his hunched shoulders. “I’m in command, now,” he said, his voice deepening. “Wait for me here. I’ll return shortly.”

  Doallyn sketched a half-salute, but did not respond further, and the Quarren, still shaking, turned and swung a leg across his swoop. Moments later, he was gone.

  Yarna stood frozen with shock, scarcely daring to believe what she’d heard. She’d waited for this day for so long! Could Tessek be lying? Was this yet another of Jabba’s twisted schemes to test the loyalty of his minions? And yet … she did not believe the Quarren meant her ill. Yesterday he’d even caught her pilfering some semiprecious stones and hadn’t reported her to Jabba. She remembered Tessek’s wide, frightened eyes. No. The Quarren was telling the truth.

  Yarna heard excited gabbling at the bottom of the stairs, and realized that the news was already spreading. Within minutes, everyone would know. The Askajian struggled for calm. She had to think—think! What did this news mean to her? What would happen now?

  She felt no compunction to obey Tessek—even if he had done her a favor yesterday. The Quarren was an arrant coward, and everybody knew it. With Jabba gone, there was no one that Yarna could think of with the strength of will, ruthlessness, and intelligence to assume Jabba’s mantle of leadership. Within the hour the palace would be in chaos. And back in Mos Eisley … Yarna’s breath caught in her throat like a limp of jelled sagbat. Under Tatooine law, Jabba’s illegal assets would be seized and liquidated. His slaves would be sold to the highest bidder.

  Yarna herself was not legally a slave, since Jabba had placed her under “contract,” promising her she could buy her freedom one day. That had been one of the Bloated One’s favorite ploys. “Free” people tended to work harder and show more dedication than slaves. And Yarna clearly recalled the wording of the contract she had thumb-signed—it had stated that, in the event of Jabba’s death, she was a free being—unless, of course, she had helped in any way to bring about that death. But she had not. So now … she was free.

  The eventual promise of earning her freedom had made Yarna serve the Hutt crimelord loyally, dancing for him, minding the household staff and cleaning droids, and being a sort of mother figure to his other dancing girls. Another three years, and she’d have been free—unless, of course, Jabba had tired of her and ordered her killed.

  Thinking of Leia and the other dancing girls made her mind flash to Oola. If only the poor little Twi’lek girl had taken her advice, then she too would have lived to see this day—and she too would have been free! Yarna hadn’t known Oola well, but she’d liked the girl … even if she had been foolish enough to ignore Yarna’s counsel on how to stay alive.

  It had only been a few days since Oola had been fed to the monster residing beneath the throne room … now it was dead, as well, slain by the young warrior who called himself a Jedi. Yarna, watching from above, had barely been able to conceal her vengeful glee. The Askajian dancer had hated the ugly beast with a fierce passion ever since it had devoured her mate, Nautag. Their whole family had been captured in a slaver raid, and they’d been brought to Tatooine as part of a shipment for Jabba’s inspection. The slavers had marched their merchandise into this very throne room, and invited the Hutt to take his pick of their wares.

  Then, in a moment that still haunted Yarna’s dreams, Nautag had stepped forward and cursed the Bloated One, defying Jabba and declaring that he and his mate and their cublings would never be slaves … never! And then … Jabba had laughed, that deadly “ho, ho, ho” that always chilled Yarna’s hearts. Jabba laughed … and sprang the trapdoor, and Nautag fell.

  Her mate had fought bravely, but he’d only lasted a few minutes. The rancor’s triumphant roar as he’d torn her mate in half echoed in the Askajian dancer’s ears …

  Yarna started, abruptly recalled to the here and now by a shrill, unmistakably feminine scream. The chaos had begun.

  I have to get out of here, she thought, remembering the small cache of pilfered valuables she’d been collecting ever since she’d been brought here. She’d need them when she reached Mos Eisley, and her cublings. Prefect Talmont’s auctioneers would be eager to sell, but they’d expect at least a hundred apiece …

  Mentally, she tallied up the value of her little hoard. Do I have enough? Probably. Just barely.

  She couldn’t stay here, not now. She wouldn’t last a full day, she knew it. Not long ago, she had seen the face of the Death that was haunting Jabba’s palace, and she knew that he would
never let her live to tell what she had seen. Only luck had saved her yesterday. If Ortugg hadn’t come looking for her …

  And then they’d found the kitchen boy. Yarna was the only one who understood the significance of the small drops of blood crusted in the victim’s nostrils. She knew how the lad had met his death … and she had no desire to share his fate. Since that moment, she’d been careful never to be alone, even taking one of the servants when she visited the bathhouse and lavatory.

  “Mistress …” someone said, hesitantly, and Yarna turned to see Doallyn still standing beside her. His features were hidden, but there was no mistaking his tense, urgent bearing.

  “Yes?” The Askajian strove to keep the impatience she felt from reaching her voice. Nobody must know that she intended to escape, or she’d be stopped.

  “I was wondering if you could help me. You’re in charge of the cleaning … you know where Jabba keeps … kept things. Have you ever seen a supply of these?” With quick fingers, the guard detached a small, cylindrical cartridge from the side of his breathing helmet and held it out for her inspection.

  Yarna had seen a box of small gas cartridges like that, concealed behind a panel in Jabba’s personal quarters. She looked curiously at Doallyn. “What is it?”

  “A trace-breather cartridge. I can breathe Tatooine’s air for short periods of time, but if I don’t have minuscule amounts of hydron-three added to my air intake, I will die.” The guard glanced over his shoulder apprehensively. “Jabba only doled out one day’s supply at a time … his way of ensuring my loyalty. But now, with him dead …”

  Yarna studied him speculatively, arms folded across her topmost set of breasts. Did he have any money? Could she make him pay for the information? She considered demanding credits in return for the location, but something inside her balked at the idea. By Askaj’s Moon Lady, Doallyn would die—and he wasn’t one of the ones who had tormented and oppressed her, he was just another being who’d been in thrall to Jabba.

  Besides, she’d need help to reach her cache. Another shrill scream echoed through the palace followed by the grunting and squealing laughter of a Gamorrean. With every passing second the sounds of tipsy revelry and riot grew louder. Although there were worse things stalking the corridors of Jabba’s palace than mere drunken Gamorreans, they were bad enough …

  Yarna nodded brusquely at Doallyn. “I know where he kept them.” So strange to have to refer to Jabba in the past tense. The Askajian found that she had trouble imagining the Hutt as dead. Jabba had been foul, disgusting, perverted, and greedy—but he had been strongly, vitally alive. “Come with me, guard me, while I get some things, and then I’ll show you where they are. Fair enough?”

  Doallyn nodded.

  The Askajian headed for her goal, moving rapidly through the palace with Doallyn following. As she passed each darkened doorway, she tensed, wondering if he was waiting within. But their journey was unhindered.

  When they reached the servant’s quarters, Yarna made straight for the closet that held the sonic brooms and other cleaning supplies. “Keep your weapon handy,” she instructed her escort, as she knelt and opened a panel in one of the automatic floor-cleaners. “I don’t want to be surprised.”

  She reached past the power cell to retrieve the little bag she’d hidden inside the cleaning unit. Doallyn cocked his helmeted head, and Yarna fancied she heard amusement in his mechanical tones. “What do you have in there, Mistress?”

  Yarna bounced the bag on her palm, feeling its weight. Her lips curved upward in the first genuine smile she’d smiled in a year. “My children’s freedom,” she said, slowly.

  “Your children?”

  “They aren’t here,” Yarna said. “Jabba ordered them kept in his town house in Mos Eisley. I have three cublings still left … the slavers killed my fourth during our capture. I have to get to Mos Eisley before the officials sell off Jabba’s assets. They’ll sell my babies—I have to get there in time to buy them!”

  Somehow she knew he was staring at her from behind his helmet. “Mos Eisley? You’re going to Mos Eisley?”

  “I have to,” Yarna said, urgency filling her voice. “And quickly.”

  “Across the Dune Sea? You must be mad.”

  Yarna heaved herself to her feet, her breasts bouncing heavily within their leather restraints. “Probably,” she admitted. “But I would far sooner die out there”—she waved a hand in the direction of Mos Eisley—“than I would trapped in here, waiting to become the killer’s next victim.”

  “The unknown killer …” Doallyn said. “Yes, that is a thought. I don’t fancy becoming the next victim, either.”

  “If I stay,” Yarna said and began stuffing the bag into the space between her bottommost set of breasts, tying it securely so it would not fall out, “I will be the next victim, I know it.” She glanced up at him and shivered. “I … I’ve seen his face. He won’t let me live.”

  “You’ve seen him?” Doallyn’s voice was tinged with urgency. He grasped her arm, pulling her toward him, and reflexively glanced over his shoulder. There was no one there. “Who is it?” he whispered.

  Yarna’s voice shook. “I don’t know his name,” she muttered hoarsely. “He’s the tall, slender humanoid, the one with the dandified clothes … and the pouches on either side of his face.” She drew her fingers down her own cheeks in illustration.

  “That’s Jerriko you’re describing,” Doallyn said. “Dannik Jerriko. He was working for Jabba. Are you sure? How do you know?”

  “Because he tried to kill me yesterday.” Yarna’s voice was flat, but her whole massive body quivered. “He has … things that come out of his face. Beside his nose … and they kill you.”

  “Things?” Doallyn echoed blankly. “What kind of things?”

  “Like … tendrils. They uncoil. He …” She nearly gagged at the memory. “He sticks them up, inside your nose … he did it to the kitchen boy.”

  “How did you get away?”

  “Just as his tendrils touched me, one of the Gamorreans came in. He … the creature … let me go.”

  “But Jerriko is no match for you.” Doallyn’s fingers tightened on her upper arm, testing the solid muscle beneath the outer flesh. “You’re twice his size.”

  “When he lays his hands on you, and looks into your eyes … you can’t move,” Yarna whispered, feeling her gorge rise. “When you see those tendrils uncoil, you know what’s happening, because he wants you to know. But you can’t move. It’s … horrible.” She gagged, put her hand over her mouth, and fought for control. Moments later, she looked back up at him.

  “If you swear on whatever belief system you follow that you’ll escort me to the motor pool afterward, I’ll take you to find those gas cartridges now,” Yarna promised. How could she trust someone whose features she couldn’t see? But she had little choice …

  Doallyn touched the breast of his uniform with two fingers and a thumb in what looked like (and probably was) a ritual gesture. “I swear by the Sky Seraphs that I will take you to the motor pool.”

  Yarna nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

  The two ventured out into the corridor, and headed purposefully toward the other side of the building, with Yarna in the lead. She walked quickly, surely, only too aware of the occasional screams and crashes that emanated from other portions of the palace. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be out of here, she told herself, her strides coming faster and faster. She was nearly running. Just a few more minutes …

  Her luck gave out when she rounded the next corner, with Doallyn a dozen paces behind her. Two of Jabba’s erstwhile guards were waiting to pounce. The dancer recognized them—the human was named Tornik, and the Gamorrean was Warlug. Both were reeling drunk. As she tried to beat a hasty retreat, they greeted her with grunts of inebriated delight and grabbed her.

  “Ugly One!” roared Tornik. “Love of my life! Come here and have a drink with me!” As Yarna tried to pull away, he yanked her arm viciously. “Dance for me, then we’l
l have some fun!”

  The Askajian glanced back over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Doallyn. Had he run off and left her? But what about his breathing cartridges?

  “No!” squealed the Gamorrean, trying to drag her away from his compatriot. “I saw her first! I get the Ugly One first!”

  “Stop it!” Yarna ordered, trying to stay calm despite the racing of her twin hearts. “Let me go. I’m … I’m on an errand for Master Fortuna.”

  “Ha! He can’t have you!” Tornik declared. “Warlug is right! We saw you first! He’ll have to stand in line!”

  The Gamorrean reached for the fastening between her topmost breasts. “Mine! I go fi—” He broke off at a sudden flash and sizzle, to stare unbelievingly at the scorched hole that had suddenly blossomed in his side. Letting go of Yarna, he staggered back, panting, then squealing in pain as he hit the wall and slid down it.

  “Let her go,” Doallyn said, stepping around the corner, his blaster still leveled.

  “But we saw her first—” the guard protested, eyes narrowing. “You can have her when we’re done.”

  “I said, let her go.” Doallyn’s voice was still level, but the muzzle of his weapon moved up, steadied until it was aimed at the man’s face. “Or I’ll make you let her go. Your choice.”

  Cursing, Tornik dropped Yarna’s arm and stumbled backward. Warlug squealed frantically for help, and the human grabbed his arm, hoisted the injured being to his feet, then the two of them staggered away.

  Yarna sagged against the wall as her knees threatened to buckle. “Oh, Sergeant, they … thank you, thank you … they were—”

  “No time for that,” Doallyn said briskly. “The breathing cartridges. You promised.”