Star Wars - Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina (edited by Kevin J Anderson)

STAR WARS

TALES FROM THE MOS EISLEY CANTINA

Edited by Kevin J. Anderson

Scan/OCR/Spellcheck - Demilich (demilich_2000@yahoo.com)

We Don't Do Weddings The Band's Tale

By Kathy Tyers

Jabba the Hutt's cavernous, smoky Presence Room stank of

spilled intoxicants and sweaty body armor. Guards and henchmen,

dancers and bounty hunters, humans and Jawas and Weequays and

Arcona lay where they'd toppled, crumpled under arches or piled in

semiprivate cubicles or sprawled in the open. The inner portcullis

yawned open. Just another all-nighter at Jabba's palace.

That portcullis bothers me-what if we want to leave in a

hurry?-but it keeps out the worst of the riffraff.

Let me rephrase that. The worst of the riffraff, Jabba himself,

paid us well. Crime lord, connoisseur, critic; his hairless,

blotchy tail twitched in rhythm when we played. Not our rhythm.

His.

We are Figrin D'an and the Modal Nodes, members in good

standing of the Intergalactic Federation of Musicians, and we

are-or were-Jabba's full-time resident entertainers. I've never

spotted his ears, but Jabba appreciates a good swing band. He also

likes controlling credit and inflicting pain, and he finds either

more therapeutic than our music.

Huddled on the back of the stage, we put away our horns while

Jabba's guests snored. My Fizzz-you symphonic ridgebrows would

call it a Dorenian Beshniquel, but this is jizz-slips into a thin

case in less time than it takes to roll an Imperial inspector and

check his pockets for credit vouchers.

We are Bith. Our high hairless craniums manifest a superior

evolutionary level, and our mouth folds pucker into a splendid

embouchure for wind instruments. We perceive sounds as precisely

as other species perceive color.

Our band leader, Figrin Da'n, was wearily swabbing his Kloo

Horn (there's a joke there, but you'd have to speak Bithian to get

it). It's a longer double-reed than my Fizzz, richer in pastel

harmonics but not so sweet. Tedn and Ickabel were arguing over

their Fanfar cases. Nalan had started disconnecting the horn bells

from his Bandfill, and Tech-we look alike to non-Bith, but you

might've picked out Tech by the glazed gleam in his eyes-sat

slumped over his Ommni Box. Plaster chips from a midnight blaster

skirmish littered the Ommni's reception dish. (The Ommni clips our

peaks, attenuates the lows, reverbs and amps the total sound.

Playing it takes even a Bith's full genius. Tech hates Figrin.

Figrin won the Ommni last season in a sabacc game.)

"Hey, Doikk." Figrin's head glistened. It was going to be a

typical Tatooine scorcher, and Jabba's temp exchanger needed

repair.

I cinched down my Fizzz. My Fizzz. "What?" I had a shot "lip,"

as humans call it. I was in no mood for foolishness.

"Time for a friendly hand of sabacc?"

"I don't gamble, Figrin."

Figrin brushed the sheen off his head with one knobby hand.

"You're thermal, Doikk."

And you're compulsive. "All musicians are thermal."

"You're thermal for a musician. Who ever heard of a bander that

didn't gamble?"

I'm the band's inside outsider, the straight man. I've carried

that sweet little Fizzz through six systems. I peg it when it

cracks and lube it when the keys click. I carve my own reeds. I

wasn't betting it on any sabacc match. Not even to placate Fiery

Figrin Da'n, a bandleader who criticizes every missed note, owns

everybody (else)'s instruments, and isn't shy about giving orders.

"I don't gamble, Figrin. You know th-"

A smoky silhouette rolled in through the main arch. "Figrin," I

mouthed, "turn around. Slowly."

The droid's wasp waist, huge shoulders, and squared-off head

had scalded my memory shortly after Jabba gave us our exclusive

contract his vintage E522 Assassin. Eefive-tootoo had saved my

neck when one of Jabba's human sail-barge tenders accused me of

munching out of Jabba's private snack tank of live freckled toads.

Luckily for me, Eefive-tootoo gave me an alibi. I'd vowed never

again to have more to do with humans than necessary.

But Jabba'd been hot to feed someone to the rancor. Justice

would've suggested throwing in my human accuser, but Jabba and

Justice are not on speaking terms. They dropped Eefive, liberally

smeared with meat juice, through the rancor's trapdoor in front of

Jabba's throne. By the time Jabba's huge, slavering mutant spat

him out, he was beyond repair.

Or so I'd thought. Was he back for revenge?

He wore no restraining bolt. Rolling around a

blaster-scarred column, he headed toward us. Frantically I

looked around. Nobody showed signs of waking up to rescue us.

The droid raised his upper limbs. Both ended at elbow joints.

Somebody'd disengaged his business parts -but that didn't leave

him helpless. Assassin droids carry backup.

"Figrin Da'n?" he asked in a brassy green treble.

"What would you do . . . if you found him?" Figrin sidled

closer to me, trying to sound colorless. I've never carried a

blaster. I wished I had one then, for all the good it would've

done.

"Message delivery," honked the droid. "Do not fear. My

assassination programming has been erased, and as you can see, my

weapons are gone. My new employer saved me from deconstruction by

using me this way."

"He doesn't remember us," Figrin whispered in Bithian. "His

memory's been erased, too."

As I slowed my breathing, my longstanding attitude about

assassin droids resurfaced Never worry about one you can see. He

hadn't fired before we spotted him, so we were safe. And I've

always gotten along better with droids than with most sentients.

Particularly humans. i But as for stripping Eefive of his weapons,

that would be like . . . like saving my life by cutting off all my

fingers.

"Who's your new owner?" I asked.

The droid hissed, shushing me with white noise.

I dropped my voice. "Who?" I repeated sotto voce.

The answer came softly. "Mistress Valarian."

Oh, ho. Val to her friends, Jabba's chief rival in the

spaceport town of Mos Eisley, a tusk-mouthed Whiphid recently

arrived on Tatooine. Gambling, weapons running, information for

sale, the usual . . . but she'd thrived. No wonder she sent a

recycled envoy.

Now that I'd processed the lack of immediate risk, I leaned

back against the stage. "What does she want?"

"She wishes to hire your services for a wedding, to be held in

Mos Eisley at her Lucky Despot Hotel."

I'd heard of the Lucky Despot. Figrin puckered his lip folds.

"We don't do weddings," we answered in unison.

Please understand. A wedding gig wastes two days (three days,

with some species, plus the time it takes to learn new music).

You're treated like a recording, told to repeat impossible phrases

and lengthen the usual processional, and ordered to play a final

chord as the nerve-wracked principals arrive center stage ... if

they arrive. Someone always brings a screaming neonate. Then the

reception, where they inebriate themselves until no one hears a

note. All this for half pay and full satisfaction You've helped

perpetuate a species.

Eefive swiveled his flat head toward Figrin. Obviously his

recognition circuits still functioned. "Mistress Valarian procured

a mate from her home world," he declared.

Good thing I wasn't drinking. I'd've choked. The only thing

uglier than a Hutt is a Whiphid. I tried to imagine another

gargantuan, rank-furred, yellow-tusked Whiphid arriving on

Tatooine. Valarian had probably promised luxury accommodations and

good hunting. Wait'11 he saw Mos Eisley.

The droid continued. "This job is for their reception only.

Mistress Valarian offers your band three thousand credits.

Transport and lodging provided, and unlimited meals and drinks

during your stay. Also five breaks during the reception."

Three thousand credits? With my share, I could start my own

band-live in the finest habitats-

Figrin hunched forward. "Sabacc tables?" he asked.

Too late, I recovered from my greed attack. Jabba had given us

an exclusive contract. He wouldn't like our performing for

Valarian, and when Jabba frowns, somebody dies. No, Figrin! I

thought

"Except while performing, certainly," the droid answered.

I buzzed my mouth folds for Figrin's attention, but his sublime

vision didn't deal me in. Figrin set down his deck and commenced

negotiating.

We flew into Mos Eisley during first twilight, with one of the

suns dipping behind a dull, murky horizon. Our cramped little

transport skimmed through the decaying southern sector,

chauffeured by an orange service droid. He, like the former

assassin, wore no restraining bolt, which predisposed me to like

their owner. Sentient shadows slipped into darkening corners as we

drove past. The byword in Mos Eisley, which looks like a cluster

of populated sand dunes, is camouflage. If nobody sees you, nobody

shoots you. Or testifies against you in what passes for local

courts.

Three stories above one of Mos Eisley's nameless streets, twin

beacons blinked like ship lamps, and brilliant yellow beams glowed

out of a wide-open entry hatch. The droid maneuvered us closer. A

long curving ramp and straight stairs swooped up from street level

to the elevated main entry. Beneath the stairway, I spotted the

hotel's most notable feature three large portholes.

A group of investors crazy enough to sink their credits on

Tatooine had towed a beat-up cargo hauler here and sunk a quarter

of it under the sand. Debris blown in by a recent dust storm lay

clumped along its near side, which had been starboard. Antenna-

cluster wreckage drooped over what must've been the cockpit. I

mentally saluted the Lucky Despot with the spacer's traditional

appraisal of somebody else's ship What a piece of junk.

Our speeder settled at the foot of the long ramp. "Disembark

here, gentles," droned the droid.

We unloaded our gear from the airbus's cargo compartment onto a

repulsor cart. We'd only brought one change of clothes and our

performing outfits, and left the rest of our belongings at Jabba's

palace. Mos Eisley's odors-ship fuels, rancid food, low-tech

industrial

haze, and the sheer desensitizing smell of hot sand- hung in

sullen air.

Once inside the lobby, We blinked while our eyes adjusted. An

orange-suited human security guard slouched at one corner. No sign

of Lady Val. Mentally I recategorized her. She might trust droids,

but she equated musicians with kitchen help.

"This way." Our droid led us past an extremely attractive front-

desk person, species unknown to me, whose multifaceted eyes

glistened prettily. A long, vast room filled a third of the ex-

ship's top deck. Reflective black bulkheads and a shiny black

floor enveloped several dozen sparsely populated tables, but more

than one table tottered over damaged legs, and here and there

white strips showed through the peeling black bulkhead. In

here-the famous Star Chamber Cafe- we set up and started a number

to get the room's acoustics. Early diners clapped, clicked their

claws, or snapped their mandibles. Satisfied, we repacked our gear

and grabbed an empty dinner table. Within minutes, the show began.

A comet whizzed past Figrin's head. Constellations appeared

beneath the ceiling and reflected in my soup.

Holographic sabacc spreads flickered into existence over

several tables. Now I remembered the rest of what I'd heard Jabba

had made sure the Despot never got her gambling license from local

Imperial bribemeisters, so Valarian had to hide her gaming

equipment until dark. Reportedly Jabba warned Lady Val of planned

police raids . . . for a price.

Figrin ate rapidly, pulled out his deck, and wandered away.

Tonight he would lose. On purpose. My other comrades joined a low-

stakes Schickele match.

I found a bored-looking Kubaz security guard and struck up a

conversation. Kubaz make excellent security staff. Their long

prehensile noses discern scents the way Bith distinguish pitch and

timbre, and a Kubaz's greenish-black skin blends into every

shadow. In exchange for my personal stats, which he probably knew

anyway, and a mug of mildly intoxicating lum, I found out that the

green-caped Kubaz's name was Thwim, that he was born on Kubindi,

and that Mistress Valarian's prospective bridegroom, D'Wopp, was

an expert hunter-common enough profession on their homeworld.

I also spotted a familiar triangular face. Not friendly, but

familiar. Kodu Terrafin pilots Jabba's courier run between palace

and town house. He's Arcona Dressed in a spacer's coverall, he

looks like a dirt-brown snake with clawed legs and arms and a

large, anvil-shaped head.

I kept up my conversation with Thwim as Kodu minced from table

to table, swiveling the anvil head. I watched sidelong. Abruptly I

spotted the yellow-green glitter of his eyes.

Immediately he slithered in my direction. He's got me mixed up

with another Bith, I thought wearily. Thwim pushed back, lifting

one edge of his cape, and made room for Kodu.

"Figrin, ihss it?" The bulbous scent organ between Kodu's

faceted eyes twitched.

"Not quite," I mumbled.

"Oh, Doikk. Hssorry." At least he knew my voice. "Information

for hssale. Want to find Figrin?"

I glanced toward Figrin's glimmering holographic sabacc table.

Our leader hunched crookedly over his cards, feigning

intoxication. Not a good time to interrupt. (Who made Doikk Na'ts

the band manager? I wondered.)

Kodu pushed closer. "I don't want to hsstay," he hissed. "Do

you want to buy? You'd hbetter." He smiled smugly.

"Ten," I offered. Figrin would cover that, if the news was

worth hearing. Thwim watched the Uvide wheel studiously. His

prehensile nose quivered as a cluster of Jawas hurried by,

jabbering rapidly.

"A hhundred," Kodu answered without hesitation. Within three

minutes we'd settled on thirty-five. He aligned his cred card with

mine and we effected the transfer.

"Jabba." Kodu clicked his fingerclaws. "He'ss angry."

"Angry?" I glanced around. "Who, this time? Why?"

"You hsskipped out on your contract."

My stomachs knotted around each other. "We got another band to

cover for us! Not as good as we are, but-"

"Jabba notissed."

It was the worst compliment imaginable. Who'd have guessed the

big slug paid attention? "What'd he do?"

Kodu shrugged. "Fed two guardss to the rancor and promissed

..." He shrugged again, skinny shoulders rising along his brown

neck.

Promised to pay well if someone hauled us back to the palace.

Good-bye, IFM retirement home. "Thanks, Kodu." I tried to sound as

if I meant it. I'd left a sentimental mother at the bubbling pink

swamps of Clak'dor VII. She missed her musical son.

Kodu touched his blaster. "Good-bye, Doikk. Good luck."

Luck. Right. Either we slipped out of Jabba's range fast, in

which case Kodu wouldn't see me again,

I weaseled through the crowd to Figrin's table. Fortunately,

Figrin had just lost big-time. A Duro shuffled the sabacc deck,

scattering and regathering card-tiles with a deft gray hand. I

tugged Figrin's collar. "Finish up. Bad news."

He excused himself droopily and arose. It takes twice as long

to cross a room when you're looking over your shoulder every other

step. Jabba pays well for mayhem.

We found an empty spot at the bar. "What?" Figrin's eyes seemed

to have shrunk spicing already, or faking it well.

I dropped the news on him. "We've got our instruments and two

changes of clothes," I finished.

"But I'm losing. I'm behind."

I flicked my mouth folds. We would also need this gig money to

buy food till we could get another job- or Jabba recovered from

his temper. I explained that to Figrin.

Barlight reflections wobbled back and forth on his head as he

shook it. "We'll get offjplanet," he said.

"What about your . . . stash, back at Jabba's?"

"Nothing irreplaceable. We'll leave tomorrow afternoon, after

.the wedding. I'm ready for bigger crowds again."

I agreed. "Even if gigs aren't so regular, out there in the

competition." We've always had a following, but you can't eat

"esoteric."

"Richer tables, too," he added, gilding his voice. "Somebody'd

better stay awake tonight. Did I hear you volunteer?"

So the spicing act was just that . . . an act. "I'll take the

first shift," I said.

Our band set up bleary-eyed the next morning in the Star

Chamber Cafe. After breakfast, wedding guests started prancing,

oozing, and staggering into the Lucky Despot's lounge. Waiting in

the cafe, we tuned. I tried to imagine a Whiphid wedding (Did they

osculate, lock tusks, or shout battle cries at the climactic

moment?). I'd spotted two turbolifts, a kitchen entry, the main

entry, and a small circular hatch that must've once been an

emergency airlock. My caped, long-snouted friend Thwim staunchly

held up one end of the bar. Around ten banqueting tables, Lady

Vat's staff laid out food, programmed bartend droids, and hung

garlands, making the Star Chamber as classy as it could be, given

its state of disrepair.

Beyond the big tables lay a dozen little ones. I could almost

feel Figrin's mouth folds twitch, anticipating a wealthy crowd in

the mood to celebrate.

A red-raucous cheer erupted in the lounge. "They must be

married," Figrin mumbled. Beings streamed out into the cafe.

Figrin swung into our opening number. Before we finished, I'd

started to sweat . . . and not from the heat. Several of Jabba's

toughs had ridden the wave of that stream into the cafe. Were they

invited guests? Or had Jabba set us up a one-way trip to the

Great Pit of Carkoon?

One more time, I looked around at Valarian's security. Eefive-

tootoo stood beside her back hatch, gleaming new blasters and

needlers retrofitted for the occasion . . . and a shiny new

restraining bolt dead center on his massive chest. Evidently she

only trusted droids so far.

A young human tottered up to our stage, wearing clean,

unpatched clothing and a slouch. "Play 'Tears of Aquanna.' " He

tugged Figrin's pant leg where it gathered above his boot. Figrin

pulled his leg free.. The human repeated his request, then headed

toward,, me.

I didn't want my pants stretched. "Got it," I said toward him,

then took a fast breath and hit my E flat entrance.

How were we to know that a local gang had adopted one of our

numbers as their official song? The slouch and several friends

huddled at the foot of our stage and caterwauled lyrics they'd

obviously invented.

Several other humans lurched toward the stage, glaring. I

elbowed Figrin. He took an unorthodox cut to the coda. We finished

playing before the gang finished singing. Several of them

glowered.

One newcomer, a darkly tanned female, shoved a nonsinging

bystander aside. "Now play 'Worm Case,' " she growled in a voice

that matched the shade of her skin. "For Fixer and Camie."

"Got it," said Figrin. I have a six-bar intro into "Worm Case."

I cut it to four.

When you've played a piece six hundred times from memory, you

lose track of where you are during the six hundred and first. This

time through, it became a crazy game of cut-and-patch. I don't

remember having so much fun with that moldy jump tune. This group

didn't try to sing.

Thwim and another security guard accompanied both gangs away. I

rechecked Jabba's toughs. They'd gathered near the bar, just

killing time ... for now.

At the end of that set, Figrin headed for a sabacc table. I

lingered onstage, up out of the congealing smokes and odors.

One of the ugliest humans I'd ever met, with a diagonal sneer

for a mouth, sauntered over carrying two mugs. "You dry?" he asked

in a surly black tone. "This one's lum, that one's wedding punch."

"Thanks." Despite my distaste, I seized the mug of punch and

put down half of it.

"You're welcome." My plug-ugly sat down on one edge of the

reflective bandstand, then stared out over the crowd. Not wanting

to turn his back. Probably a native. I wondered if he'd consider

it polite to ask his name, or if he'd take a swing at me. "Good

band," he muttered. "What're you doing on Tatooine?"

I set down my mug beside the Ommni. "Good question," I said

stiffly. "We've played the best palladiums in six systems."

"I believe it. You're excellent. But you haven't answered my

question."

I began to warm toward him. "You're looking at it." I nodded

down toward Figrin's gaming table. "We were passing through and

got stuck. You work around here?"

"Yah." Sounding blue-gray, he picked up my mug. "I tend bar up

the street. Rough living, but somebody's gotta keep the droids

from taking over."

I hissed softly in a range humans find inaudible. Droids

improve life. I was getting ready to remind him when he said "Keep

your reed wet, my friend," and hustled away.

Was he one of the rare, approachable types? Had that been a

warning? I looked for Thwim by his green cape and twitching snout,

but I couldn't spot either.

Soon Figrin rejoined us on the bandstand. "Losing?" I murmured

as he plugged in his horn.

"Naturally. Give me an A." We swung back to work. At the table

just below us, something changed hands with infinitesimal, micron-

per-minute movements a normal Mos Eisley business deal.

Something else-something huge-lumbered into

view. Two gargantuan Whiphids-two and a half meters of tusk and

claw and pale yellow fur, lashed together with a garland of

imported greenery-danced toward our stage with their long furry

arms draped around each other. I stood on a platform, but their

heads towered over mine.

D'Wopp stared rapturously into the broad, leathery, tusk-

bottomed face of his bride. Without seeing the surreptitious

traders already occupying the closest table, the Despot's owner

and her professional hunter sank onto empty chairs. They started

untwisting greenery.

I held my head at an angle that made it look as if I were

staring out over the dance floor, but actually, I was watching one

of Jabba's toughs, an anemic, gray-skinned Duro, glide in our

direction . . . alone.

A trio of Pappfaks twirled past, entwining their turquoise

tentacles in something that looked like a prenuptial embrace of

their own. They nearly tripled over a mouse droid wheeling toward

Lady Val. Seeing the droid, our hostess bride excused herself from

D'Wopp with a fond pat of his lumpy head. She followed the droid

toward her kitchens.

The Duro's red eyes lit. He edged along the dance floor,

approached D'Wopp, paused, and bowed. "Gooood hunting, Whiphid?"

Jabba's Duro shouted, gargling through rubbery lips. He extended a

thin, knobby hand.

D'Wopp's massive paw closed on the Duro's arm, dangling a

ribbon of leaves. "Explain that remark, Duro, or I shall serve

your roasted ribs to my lady for breakfast."

"No-o, no-o." The Duro rocked his head, cringing. "I do not

signify your lo-ovely mate. I am addressing D'Wopp, bounty hunter

of great r-repute, am I not?"

Placated, D'Wopp released the gray arm. "I am he." He tilted

his head back. "Is there someone you want splashed, Duro?"

I breathed a little easier, too. Playing by memory means

occasional boredom and backflashes, but sor times it saves your

neck. I kept listening and playing. 1

"Has the lovely br-ride offered any game yet?" asked the Duro.

D'Wopp flicked one tusk with a foreclaw. "What is your point?"

I strained to hear the Duro answer. "There is a bigger-r boss

on Tatooine, excellent one. Lady Valarian pays him protection

money. A Whiphid who truly looves the hunt doesn't settle for

small bait. My employer just offered a r-record bounty. You're

probably not looking for work at the moment, but opportunities

like this come r-rarely."

So the toughs were baiting Lady Val through her bridegroom-and

not us! Goggle-eyed, I hit a string of offbeats and reminded

myself that Jabba had plenty of time to come for us.

D'Wopp clenched his paws over the table. "Bounty? Is it a

fierce bait?"

The Duro shrugged. "His name is Solo. Small-time smuggler-r,

but he made the boss big-time mad. Jabba has man-ny more enemies

than Lady Valarian has, reputable D'Wopp." The Duro's red eyes

blinked. "May I sponsor-r you to the mighty Jabba?"

The Whiphid's leathery nose twitched. "Record bounty?"

At last the Duro dropped his voice. I missed the numbers that

clinched the deal, but D'Wopp sprang up. "Tell your employer that

D'Wopp will bring in the corpse. I shall meet him then."

Solo . . . Figrin had mentioned him as a tolerable sabacc

player, for a human. Now he was my fellow bait on Jabba's short

list. The Duro whined, "Ar-ren't you staying for the celebration?"

"Later," said D'Wopp. "My mate and I shall celebrate my

glorious return. She is Whiphid. She will understand."

Lady Val reappeared out of the crowd. Jabba's Duro melted back

into it like an ice cube on a sand dune. I held my breath. Figrin

counted off another song, one I

didn't know so well. I had to concentrate. Something rumbled at

the foot of the stage. A deep voice shouted "fickle" in Basic. A

gruffer one called "dishonorable."

My reed squeaked. Two bellows boomed out in an unidentifiable

language. Our loving couple attacked each other tusk and claw,

right below the bandstand. I stepped back and almost tripped over

Tech's Ommni. Figrin missed tipping the Fanfar by millimeters.

A crowd gathered instantly. Mos Eisley being what it is, and

with Jabba's brutes cheerleading, this brawl would spread like a

sandstorm. I took advantage of a five-beat rest and blurted out

the danger signal. "Sundown. Sundown, Figrin."

"I'm still losing," Figrin hissed. "We can't leave yet."

At the foot of stage left, Lady Val careened sideways into a

knot of onlookers. Regaining her balance, she dragged three of

them back into the multicolored melee. D'Wopp whistled twice. Two

young Whiphids charged in. Jabba's toughs stampeded their side of

the onlookers from behind. Lady Val shrieked. Every off-planet

gangster in town, and every passerby who'd had too much of Jabba,

rushed in on Lady Val's side. Chairs flew. One crashed into the

bulkhead, offstage left.

Figrin bent over the Ommni. "End of set, thank you very much,"

he announced vainly over the bedlam. Tech, wide awake for once,

broke down the Ommni. I couldn't find my Fizzz case. Glancing

frantically around, I spotted white armor at the grand entry.

Stormtroopers? Not even Valarian could've called in Enforcement

that quickly! All sabacc projectors shut down simultaneously, but

the gang at the uvide table got caught with its wheel spinning.

Just this once, I guessed, Jabba hadn't tipped off Lady Val.

I'd've even bet that he sent the Stormtroopers himself, but I

don't gamble.

"Back door!" Figrin leaped off one end of the stage, barely

missing a bulky human's murderous backswing. We followed Figrin

along the bulkhead, clutching our instruments-our livelihood. I

spotted my new friend Thwim bashing heads. "Help us! We're

unarmed!" I shouted.

His nose swiveled toward us. He leveled his blaster into the

midst of us and fired. Tedn shrieked and dropped his Fanfar case.

Appalled, I ducked. "Get the instruments!" Figrin cried. Nalan

dove into a scrum and emerged carrying one arm at an odd angle-and

two Fanfar cases. I grabbed Tedn's unwounded arm and pulled him

closer to the hatch, mentally promising anything and everything to

any deity listening, if only I could escape with my fingers

unbroken and my uncased Fizzz undamaged.

Eefive stood his post, calmly blasting every being that

approached him. Figrin stopped running so suddenly that Tech

almost bowled him over.

I glanced back over my shoulder. No use heading that way.

Imperial and unlicensed weapons popped off all over the Star

Chamber Cafe.

Well, I reminded myself, I've always had better relations with

draids than with sentients. I marched straight toward Eefive.

"Doikk!" Figrin cried. "Get back here! Get away-"

Eefive didn't shoot. Just as I'd figured, he still had us on

his recognition circuits. "Let us out," I pleaded. Something

whizzed'over my head from behind.

"Shut the hatch behind you," he honked.

"Go!" I shouted at Figrin, motioning him past me.

Figrin ducked under my arm and cranked the hatch open. I stood

rearguard. As daylight appeared through the hatch, beings of all

shapes and sizes charged at it. I spotted the slash-mouthed hu man

Star Wars - Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina (edited by Kevin J Anderson)

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