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  human
bartender among them.
   I  hesitated.  If nothing else, I owed him for a sweet  mug  of
punch.  "Come on!" I shouted, then I ordered Eefive, "Don't  shoot
that human."
   Eefive may have recognized me, but he didn't take my orders. He
pointed  his needier straight at the bartender. Plug-ugly  dropped
to  the  floor,  surprisingly agile for such a  big  human.  "High
register," he cried. "Do a slide!"
   It  sounded crazy, but I raised my uncased Fizzz and let out  a
squeal,  pushing  it higher with all the breath  I  could  muster.
Somewhere  along  the squeal, I must've hit the control  frequency
for that brand-new restraining bolt. The droid shut down.
   The  barman sprang up and rushed past me. We squeezed into  the
airlock together. "Stinkin' droids," he muttered, wiping blood off
his nose. "Stinkin', lousy droids."
   I  emerged on a narrow duracrete ledge, three stories  up.  The
bartender  leaned  back, sandwiching my Fizzz  between  his  gray-
belted  bulk and a pitted bulkhead. "Careful! That's my  horn!"  I
cried, teetering as I glanced down. Figrin jumped off the foot  of
a  precipitous steel escape ladder and dashed away, dodging  filth
and leaping sandpiles.
   An anvil-shaped Arcona head poked out the airlock. Clutching my
Fizzz  in  one  hand, I backed down the ladder. The  human  almost
stomped my head in his hurry. "Come on," he grumbled. "Move."  The
ladder swayed from his weight. I barely held on, wishing I'd never
met the guy. As more escapees piled on, the ladder's sway became a
terrifying oscillation.
   I  kept  dropping.  Once  down, I  spotted  another  half-dozen
stormtroopers trotting up the main ramp in formation.
   Another hot morning in Mos Eisley.
   Ignoring the trickle of escapees behind us, we ran. "Now what?"
wailed  Nalan,  cradling his arm against his chest.  "Without  the
credits from that job, how are we going to get offplanet?"
   "Three thousand credits," Tech moaned, wagging his large, shiny
head. "Three thousand credits."
   I  glanced down to examine my Fizzz. It looked undamaged.  "Not
only that, but Figrin gambled away our reserves, seeding the table
so he'd win today. Didn't you, Figrin?"
   The barman changed directions without even slowing down, and  I
almost got left. "This way," he called.
   "We  can't  pay you for a bolt hole." I hustled  to  catch  up.
"Thanks, but we're broke."
   "This way," he repeated. "I'll get you a job."
   He  led us up street and down alley. I followed, thinking, I'll
do  anything - shovel sand, polish bantha saddles - but I  won  't
work for humans!
   But  his boss wasn't human. The cantina owner, a beige and gray
Wookiee named Chalmun, offered us a two-season contract.
   No,  I thought across the Wookiee's office at Figrin. It's  too
public, and that's too long. Jabba will find us for sure.
   "Sounds good," Figrin answered. In Bithian, he added, "Once  we
find  a way offworld, the Wookiee can keep our severance pay.  Say
yes."
   I  almost  walked  back down the back stairs,  but  loyalty  is
loyalty.
   We  found  crash space at Ruillia's Insulated Rooms. We  emerge
daily  to  play in the cantina where my only human friend,  Wuher,
tends  bar.  Solo beat Figrin at sabacc yesterday, so  he's  still
alive,  but D'Wopp was shipped home in pieces. Lady Val is  single
again and looks to stay that way.
   And  every  time  we tune up, I check the crowd.  Just  now,  I
spotted  Jabba's  swivel-eared green Rodian...  Greedo.  He's  not
bright, but he's armed.
   I'm watching him.
   
   
   A Hunter's Fate: Greedo's Tale
   By Tom Veitch and Martha Veitch
   
   1.  The Refuge
   "Oona goota, Greedo?"
   The  question,  spoken fearfully, was answered by  the  mocking
cries  of  luminous bo-toads hidden in the mountain  cave  in  the
dripping green jungle. Pqweeduk scratched the insect bite  on  his
tapirlike snout and made a brave hooting noise. He listened as the
sound echoed with the wind in the dark hole that had swallowed his
older brother.
   Pqweeduk's  spiny back shivered. He flicked on  his  hand-torch
and  the  suckers of his right hand fastened tightly to the  shiny
hunting knife Uncle Nok had given him for his twelfth birthday.
   Pqweeduk stepped into the yawning cave.
   But the cave in the jungle was not a cave, and a few meters in,
the rocks and packed earth ended at an open steel door!
   Pqweeduk leaned through the rectangular opening and flashed his
torch  upward.  He  was in a dome that filled the  inside  of  the
mountain. The young Rodian saw three great silvery ships squatting
silently in the vastness.
   "Greedo?"
   "Nthan  kwe  kutha,  Pqweeduk!" That was his  brother's  voice.
Pqweeduk  saw  Greedo's hand-torch signaling and he walked  toward
it. His bare feet felt a smooth cold floor.
   Greedo  stood in the open hatch of one of the big ships.  "Come
on,  Pqweeduk! There's nothing to be afraid of! Come on inside and
check it out!"
   Their  bulbous  multifaceted eyes,  already  large,  grew  even
larger as the two green youths explored the interior of the silver
vessel.  Everywhere  were strange and unfamiliar  metallic  shapes
that glittered and flashed in torchlight or presented dark angular
silhouettes full of hidden purpose. But there were also places  to
sit, and beds to lie on, and dishes to eat from.
   Greedo  had a funny feeling he'd been here before. But  it  was
only a feeling, without any memories attached.
   Indeed,  the  only memories he possessed were of  life  in  the
green  jungle  where  his mother harvested Tendril  nuts  and  his
uncles herded the arboreal Tree-Botts for milk and meat. About two
hundred Rodians lived together under the grand Tendril trees. They
had always lived here, this was the only life he knew, and all his
fifteen years Greedo and his younger brother had run wild  in  the
forest.
   The  Rodians  had  no  enemies in this place,  except  for  the
occasional Manka cat, wandering through on its way to the  distant
white mountains during Manka mating season.
   The  younger Rodians stayed close to home during that  part  of
the  year.  The  Mankas' savage roaring warned everyone  of  their
coming,  and  the  Rodian men would take  weapons  out  of  secret
keeping  places,  and  stand guard at the  edge  of  the  village,
waiting for the Mankas to pass in the night.
   During Manka season, Greedo would hear the guns scream,  as  he
lay in bed, unable to sleep. The next morning the carcass of a big
Manka  would  be hanging for all to see, from cross-trees  in  the
village center.
   Except  for  the Manka-killing, the Rodians led a  quiet  self-
contained  existence. The olders never spoke of any other  life-at
least  not  in  front of the children. But Greedo overheard  them,
when  they  thought  he was asleep, talk of things  happening  out
among the stars.
   He  heard the olders use words like "Empire," "the clan  wars,"
"bounty hunters," "starships," "Jedi Knights," "hyperspace." These
words  made strange images in his mind-he couldn't make  sense  of
them  at  all, because the only life he knew was the  jungle,  the
trees, the water, and endless days of play.
   But  the  olders'  secret  talk filled  him  with  feelings  of
unexplainable  longing. Somehow he knew that he didn't  belong  to
this green world. He belonged somewhere else, out among the stars.
   The silver ships were the proof. He knew with uncanny certainty
that these were the "starships" he had heard his mother and uncles
speak  about. Surely his mother would tell him why the ships  were
hidden under the mountain.
   Pqweeduk isn 't old enough to know . . . but I am.
   Greedo's  mother, Neela, was sitting on the ground in front  of
their  hut,  by firelight, peeling Tendril nuts. Her  hands  moved
rapidly,  slitting the thick husks with a bone knife  and  peeling
them back. She hooted quietly to herself as she worked.
   Greedo  crouched nearby, carving a piece of white Tendril  wood
into the shape of a silver starship. When the ship was finished he
held  it  up and admired it, making sure his mother could see  it.
"Mother," he asked abruptly, "when are you going to teach me about
the silver ships in the mountain?"
   The  rapid  movement  of  his mother's hands  stopped.  Without
looking  at her son, she spoke, in a voice that betrayed  emotion.
"You found the ships," she said.
   "Yes, Mother. Pqweeduk and me - "
   "I  told  Nok to fill in the opening in the mountain.  But  Nok
loves the past too much. He's always sneaking up there to look  at
the  ships." She sighed and resumed peeling the leathery skins off
the big nuts.
   Greedo  moved  closer to her. He sensed that she was  ready  to
tell  him things he wanted to know . . . things he needed to know.
"Mother, please tell me about the ships."
   Her moist faceted eyes met his. "The ships . . . brought us  to
this  place . . . this world . . . two years after you were  born,
Greedo."
   "Wasn't 1 born here ... in the jungle?"
   "You  were  born out there" - she pointed at the  evening  sky,
visible through the tall Tendril trees, where the first stars were
appearing  - "on the world of our people, the planet Rodia.  There
was  much  killing  then.  Your father was  killed,  while  I  was
carrying your brother. We had to leave ... or die."
   "I don't understand."
   She  sighed. She saw she would have to tell him everything.  Or
almost everything. He was old enough now to know the facts.
   "Our people, the Rodians, were always hunters and fighters. The
love of death was strong in us. Many years ago, when the meat-game
was  gone, we learned to raise all our food. But our people  began
to hunt each other, for sport."
   "They . . . killed each other?"
   "Yes, for sport. For deadly sport. Some Rodians thought it  was
foolishness, and refused to participate. Your father  was  one  of
those. A great bounty hunter was he ... but he refused to join the
foolish gladiator hunts."
   "What  is a bounty hunter, Mother?" Greedo felt a chill in  his
spine, waiting for the answer.
   "Your  father hunted criminals and oudaws ... or people with  a
price  on  their heads. He was highly honored for his  skills.  He
made us very wealthy."
   "Is that why he died?"
   "No.  An  evil clan leader, Navik the Red, named  for  the  red
birthmark  that covers his face, used the gladiator  games  as  an
excuse  to  make  war on the other clan leaders. Your  father  was
murdered.  Our  wealth was taken, and our clan, the  Tetsus,  were
nearly wiped out.
   "Fortunately,  some of us were able to escape the  killing,  in
the three silver ships you've found."
   "Why did you never tell Pqweeduk and me about the ships .  .  .
and about our people?"
   "We have changed. There was no need to dredge up the dark past.
We  have become peaceful here. The guns are only brought out  when
the  Manka cats are prowling. We made a vow, in our council,  that
the children should not know of the terrible past, until they were
full  grown.  I  am  breaking that vow now, in telling  you  these
things. But you are . . . almost as tall as your father now."
   His  mother's eyes seemed to envelop Greedo. He loved  the  way
she  looked at him. Her skin exuded a pleasing perfume,  a  strong
Rodian  scent. He gazed at her wonderingly. Suddenly there was  so
much  more  to know. He wanted desperately to learn .  .  .  every
thing.
   "What is the Empire, Mother?"
   She  frowned and wrinkled her long flexible snout.  "I've  told
you  enough, Greedo. On another day perhaps I will answer all your
questions. Go to bed now, my son."
   "Yes,  Mother." Greedo touched his hand suckers to his mother's
in the traditional all-purpose greeting and good night. He went to
his  straw-filled bed in their little hut, where his  brother  was
already asleep.
   Greedo  lay for hours, thinking of silver ships, of his  father
the bounty hunter . . . and the greatness of life among the stars.
   
   2.  Red Navik
   A  month  and a day after Greedo and Pqweeduk found the  silver
sky  ships,  Navik the Red, leader of the powerful  Chattza  clan,
found the Tetsus.
   Greedo and his brother were climbing high in the Tendril  trees
when  they saw a bright flash in the sky. They watched with  quiet
curiosity as the flash flowered and became a glittering red  shape
that  grew  larger and larger, until they could see it was  a  sky
ship, twenty times larger than the small silver ships in the cave.
   Anxious voices called from below. Greedo hooted with excitement
and began to slide rapidly down the smooth tree, using his suckers
to skillfully brake his descent. His brother was right behind him.
   Below  they could see the people coming out of their  huts  and
pointing at the big sky ship. Uncle Nok and Uncle Teeko and others
were running to get the weapons. Greedo sensed their fear.
   "C'mon,  Pqweeduk!" Greedo shouted, as his feet hit the ground.
"We have to save Mother! We can't let them kill her!"
   "What are you talking about, Greedo? Nobody's killing anybody!"
Pqweeduk  dropped to the ground and obediently followed his  older
brother.
   As  they  ran  through the trees, the red ship  swooped  lower,
uncoiled  its landing gear, and settled in a cloud of fiery  smoke
at the edge of the village.
   Twin  hatches hissed open. Greedo stopped and turned and  gaped
in  awe  as  armored  Rodian warriors  poured  out  of  the  giant
ship-hundreds  of  them, each wearing bright segmented  armor  and
each carrying a vicious-looking blaster rifle.
   The  sight of these killers transfixed the young Rodian. It was
a  full minute before he felt his brother tugging fearfully at his
sleeve.  And then he heard his mother's voice, urging him to  run.
The  last  thing  Greedo saw, before he turned  his  face  to  the
forest,  was the figure of a tall, imposing Rodian with a bloodred
mark that stained most of his face. The marked warrior shouted  an
order, and the others raised their weapons.
   The  scream of laser fire mixed with the dying shrieks  of  the
people, as Greedo and his brother and mother fled into the jungle.
   
   Uncle Nok and Uncle Teeku and twenty others made it to the cave
ahead of them. There was a great grinding noise and the roar of  a
landslide,  as  the top of the mountain opened, throwing  off  its
burden of earth and stones.
   Greedo  caught his breath as the three silver ships gleamed  in
the  light  of  the  midday sun. Powerful engines  already  whined
awake.
   Uncle  Nok greeted Greedo's mother as he urged everyone to  get
aboard  as fast as possible. "Neela-now you know why I was  always
visiting  the  ships! I was keeping them in repair for  this  very
day!"
   Greedo's  mother hugged her brother Nok and thanked  him.  Then
they  all  rushed aboard, followed by a stream of refugees  coming
out of the forest.
   Two  of  the silver ships lifted easily on columns of  repulsor
energy,  their fission-thrust engines whining up so high that  the
sound  vanished  beyond the range of Greedo's hearing.  The  third
ship  was waiting for the last stragglers . . . the last survivors
of the massacre.
   A  portly  Manka hunter named Skee charged out of  the  forest,
screaming that everyone behind him was dead-"Leave! Take the ships
away, while you still have a chance!"
   The third ship never got its hatch closed. A single bolt of ion
energy  fused  its  stabilizers into a molten mass,  and  a  split
second later a powerful laser blast blew the power core.
   As  the first two ships shot skyward, a bright sphere of fusion
fire  blasted back the jungle, mocking the midday sun.  The  third
ship was no more.
   Greedo never heard the explosion. He was in the cockpit of  The
Radian,  gawking  at  the starlines, as Uncle  Nok's  silver  ship
vaulted into the unknown.
   
   3.  Nar Shaddaa
   Planning  for  this  emergency, Nok had programmed  the  Rodian
ships  to jump to a heavily trafficked region of the galaxy, where
the  survivors of his little tribe could lose themselves among the
myriad alien races engaged in interstellar commerce.
   So  it  was they came to Nar Shaddaa, a spaceport moon orbiting
Nal  Hutta, one of the principal worlds inhabited by the  wormlike
Hutts.
   There was a continual buzz of space traffic between Nar Shaddaa
and  the  far-flung  systems of the galaxy:  mighty  transgalactic
transports and bulk cargo vessels, the garish yachts and  caravels
of   the  Hutt  ganglords,  the  battle-scarred  corsairs  of  the
mercenaries and bounty hunters, the pirate brigantines,  and  even
the occasional commercial passenger liner, packet starjam-mer,  or
massive  migration  arks. And, of course,  the  ever-present  star
cruisers and sleek patrol vessels of the Imperial Navy.
   The  surface of Nar Shaddaa was an interlocking grid of  miles-
high  cities  and  docking stations, built up  over  thousands  of
years. Level upon level of freight depots and warehouse and repair
facilities were linked by gaudy old thoroughfares that spanned the
globe,  bridging  canyons  that reached  from  the  upper  strata,
swarming  with life, to the glowing depths where several forms  of
subspecies thrived on the refuse that fell continuously  from  the
towering heights.
   Greedo and his brother and mother and all the pilgrims on those
two silver ships came to Nar Shaddaa, merging with the life of the
great spaceport moon, finding a home in the huge sector controlled
by Corellian smugglers.
   The  Corellians kept things reasonably under control  in  their
part  of the moon. Gambling was an important source of income  for
them.  All  races were invited to wander the brightly lit  avenues
and  gawk  and  eat and drink and throw away money in  the  sabacc
joints.  A  gun duel or a bounty killing now and then  was  to  be
expected, and petty thievery was largely overlooked. But there was
an  unwritten  law  in  the  Corellian Sector,  enforced  by  Port
Control: If you want to make big trouble, do it somewhere else.
   The  Rodian  refugees  merged with the denizens  of  the  dingy
warehouse  districts on Level 88. Over the next months they  found
work  as freight handlers and house servants, and went about their
lives.
   Nok  ordered everyone to stay away from the public levels,  the
thoroughfares, and the casinos, on the chance they'd be recognized
by  a  Chattza hunter. Nok assured them their stay on Nar  Shaddaa
was  a  temporary one, until he could locate another jungle  world
where they could dwell in peace.
   For  the  adult  Rodians  it was not a happy  time-they  deeply
missed  the lush green world they had left behind. But for  Greedo
and  Pqweeduk,  a  whole universe of excitement  began  to  reveal
itself.
   
   Four  years  later Greedo's people were still on  Nar  Shaddaa,
working  and  surviving.  Greedo was  nineteen,  his  brother  was
sixteen.  The green youths had merged with the boundless spectacle
of the Galaxy.
   
   4.  Bounty Hunters
   "Jacta  nin  chee  yja, Greedo!" Greedo leaped  back  as  three
repulsor  bikes whipped past, jumped a broken retaining wall,  and
disappeared  into one of the crowded concourses that had  been  de
clared off-limits by Uncle Nok.
   He watched his brother and friends swerve their bikes among the
landspeeders,  antique  wheeled cabs,  Hutt  floaters,  skillfully
dodging  the  strolling  gamblers, alien pirates,  spice  traders,
street hawkers, ragtag homeless . . . and bounty hunters.
   "Grow  up,  Pqweeduk!" Greedo slouched against a wall,  waiting
for  his  friend Anky Fremp, a Siona Skup biomorph who had  taught
him the secrets of the street.
   Greedo,  on  the  edge  of adulthood, had  left  the  games  of
childhood behind. He'd traded his repulsor bike for a fine pair of
boots. He had stolen a precious rancor-skin jacket. He had learned
how  to  strip therm pumps and shield regulators off Hutt floaters
while  the  local crimelords were lounging in the  Corellian  bath
houses, making deals with their interstellar counterparts.
   Anky  Fremp  had  shown Greedo the ins and outs  of  the  black
market-who paid the most for stolen hardware . . . and who had the
best price on glitterstim, skin jackets, and Yerk music cubes.
   Fremp  and  Greedo were a team, and had been  a  team  for  two
years.  Pqweeduk  was  still a dumb kid, playing  mindless  street
games with his pals.
   "Ska chusko, Pqweeduk!" Grow up, Pqweeduk!
   While  he  waited for Fremp, Greedo watched the  street.  Every
kind  of life, human and alien, passed through Nar Shaddaa.  Maybe
half were legitimate traders and freight haulers, working for  one
or  another of the great transgalactic corporations. The rest were
operating somewhere beyond the outer edges of the law.
   One group that fascinated Greedo didn't seem to be chasing gold
and  excitement, and you almost never saw them on the street. They
were  the  so-called Rebels- political outsiders who had  taken  a
stand against the despotic rule of Emperor Palpatine and his cruel
military dictator, Darth Vader.
   There were Rebels on this spaceport moon-Greedo knew. They  hid
out  in  an  old warehouse on Level 88, the same level  where  the
Rodian  refugees  lived. The Rebels were  stashing  all  kinds  of
weapons  there-weapons that arrived hidden  in  exotic  cargos  of
precious  metals and spice . . . and left in the darkest hours  of
the  night,  on  blockade  runner  ships  destined  for  far-flung
outposts among the stars.
   I'U  bet the Empire would pay a lot to know what the Rebels are
doing  on  Nar  Shaddaa.  But  how would  I  give  the  Imps  that
information? I don't know anybody who works for the Empire.
   Just  then Greedo heard the shrill sting of laser shots and  he
instinctively   ducked,  crouching  down  behind   the   crumbling
retaining  wall  his  brother had repulsor-jumped  a  few  minutes
before.
   Peering carefully over the top of the wall, he saw a man in the
distinctive  green uniform of an Imperial spice  inspector  emerge
from  the  shadows and run through the crowded thoroughfare.  More
laser  shots echoed, and the crowd began to rapidly disperse  into
the surrounding alleys and gambling saloons.
   Greedo  saw  bright bolts of energy smashing off buildings  and
vehicles. The running man was hit and went down, not three  meters
from Greedo's hiding place.
   Two  imposing  figures  stepped out of  the  shadows  onto  the
brightly lit concourse. With deliberate steps they approached  the
fallen man.
   The  larger  of the two figures, who was dressed  in  a  rusted
skull-shaped  helmet and full Ithullan armor,  nudged  the  victim
with his boot. "He's dead, Goa."
   The  shorter figure bent over to inspect the victim, and Greedo
got  a glimpse of a mottled brown wide-beaked face squatting on  a
disarrangement  of  leather  and iron and  bandoleers.  "Too  bad,
Dyyz," said the short one. "I only tried to wing him. He was worth
twice as much alive."
   Bounty hunters, thought Greedo. They've taken their prey... now
they'll  be collecting the reward. I'll bet it's a lot.  I'll  bet
they're rich.
   The  big one, whom the other called Dyyz, bent over and  picked
up  the  dead  spice  inspector and  slung  him  easily  over  his
shoulder. "All in a day's work, hey, Goa? I gave this scum a bribe
or two myself, over the years . . . but when the Imps put a man on
the bounty roster, there's only one way to go! Let's bag and stash
him and go for a drink."
   "Fine with me. I'm thirsty as a Tatooine farmboy."
   Greedo  noticed for the first time that the one called Goa  had
an  oversized blaster rifle slung on his back. He'd never  seen  a
blaster  that  large.  It was cased in scrolled  black  metal  and
layered with tubing and electronics. A custom job, Greedo thought.
Look  at  the  sights on that thing! I'll bet  that's  one  bounty
hunter who always gets his man.
   Greedo  expected the two bounty hunters to disappear  back  the
way they came, but instead they walked straight toward him.
   The closer they got to the retaining wall, the more frightening
their  appearance  became.  The big one,  Dyyz,  wore  a  corroded
parasteel helmet that covered a his entire head. The face  mask  -
narrow  eyeslits in a stylized death's-head - communicated deadly,
inexorable threat. This one wore the armor of the extinct Ithullan
race - Greedo knew the warlike Ithulls had been wiped out hundreds
of  years  ago,  their  civilization crushed  and  annihilated  by
another,  equally warlike race, the Mandalore. From -the looks  of
his armor, thought Greedo, he must have stolen it from an Imperial
museum!
   The other bounty hunter, Goa, was outfitted in a hodgepodge  of
gear  that suggested he never changed it or took it off -  he  had
simply added new pieces over the worn-out ones, until he became  a
walking collection of military costuming and equipment.
   The  most fascinating aspect of Goa was his head: obviously  an
intelligent  species  of bird - or descended from  birds.  Mottled
brown  leathery skin, featherless, with tiny intense  eyes  buried
behind a broad scarred beak.
   Dyyz and Goa reached the retaining wall and Greedo ducked down.
The next thing Greedo heard was a third voice, rasping and cruel:
   "Well,  well, if it ain't Dyyz Nataz and Warhog Goa-  where  ya
been, boys? You should know be tier'n ta stiff an' old friend!"
   "Ease  up, Gorm. You'll get your share. Fact is, Warhog and  me
are takin' in this blacklisted spice inspector. The Imps'll pay us
plenty and we'll be more than happy to cut you in on the deal!"
   "Hell we will, Dyyz." That was Goa's voice. "There's two of  us
and one of Gorm. He can wait for the credits we owe him."
   "One of me is worth six of you cage cleaners-"
   Blaster fire spanged and red bolts of energy shot over Greedo's
head. He ducked lower and the sounds of a fierce struggle came  to
his  ears. Suddenly Goa's big blaster rifle came flying  over  the
wall and clattered on the pavement next to Greedo.
   As he impulsively reached out to touch the weapon, Greedo heard
the one called Gorm directing the one called Dyyz to hand over the
body of the spice inspector. "Give 'im up ... and I'll let ya live
another day-"
   Finding the courage to again peer over the wall, Greedo  saw  a
most awesome figure, two heads higher than Dyyz Nataz, clothed  in
heavy plated armor and full helmet. The eyes of the face mask were
glowing  red  electronics. Must be a droid, Greedo  thought.  I've
heard  of renegade assassin droids taking up the bounty trade.  Or
maybe it isn't a droid . . .
   Greedo  suddenly had an idea. Taking the huge blaster rifle  in
trembling suckers, Greedo hefted the weapon as quietly as he could
into firing position. He checked for a safety switch-found it  and
armed the gun.
   Then,  surreptitious as Uncle Nok waiting for a Manka  cat,  he
hoisted the nose of the rifle over the edge of the retaining wall.
It pointed straight at the back of Gorm.
   Greedo  saw  Goa's  eyes go to the rifle and then  flick  away.
Greedo squeezed the trigger.
   The  weapon  whistled and roared and the bounty  hunter  called
Gorm toppled forward with a grunt, a blackened blaster hole in the
center of his back.
   As  Greedo stood up, Goa emitted a maniacal cackling noise  and
lunged for the rifle. But Greedo swung the barrel at Goa's head.
   "Whoa, kid! Easy there! That's a hair-trigger yer pinching!"
   Dyyz  snorted  and laughed. "Thanks, kid. You saved  our  skin.
We're  eternally in your debt. Now if you'll just give my  partner
back his weapon, we'll be on our way."
   Greedo  clambered carefully over the wall, keeping the  blaster
rifle  trained on Goa. Moving closer to the prone figure of  Gorm,
he looked into the hole he'd made in the big bounty hunter's back.
Fused wires, exploded electronics. "Is he a droid?" asked Greedo.
   "You  might say that," said Goa. "Now about the gun -how  about
we cut you in on the reward for this inspector? You've earned it."
   "I've got a better idea," said Greedo. "I think I can help  you
guys make a lot of money."
   
   5.   The Smuggler and the Wookiee
   "Spurch Warhog Goa?" Why do they call him Warhog?
   Anky  Fremp,  Greedo's street friend, sat  on  the  edge  of  a
parking  platform, with his short legs dangling over a  miles-deep
city canyon. Anky was a Sionian Skup, a near-human race with small
closely spaced eyes, hair as brittle as glass, and skin the  color
of  dianoga cheese. Anky pitched one bottle after another into the
abyss.
   The  distance from the spaceport's highest tower to the surface
of the Nar Shaddaa moon was so great, they never heard the bottles
hit.  But  sometimes the bottles collided with a cab or  freighter
repulsing up the shaft, and that was fun.
   "What  you  doin' that for?" Greedo said with disdain.  "That's
the  kind  of stupid game my kid brother plays. If Corellian  Port
Control  catches  ya, we can be conscripted  to  work  on  an  ore
hauler."
   "Yeah  . . . you're right. I'm gettin' too old for this  stuff.
Oh well, there goes the last one."
   A  hangar  scow emerged into the shaft seven levels  down,  and
Fremp's  missile  hit  the  scow pilot square  on  his  protective
helmet. The man looked up, screaming, and shook his fist.
   When  the  scow  lifted rapidly toward them, Greedo  and  Fremp
decided  they'd been edge-sitting long enough, and  began  walking
fast toward Ninx's garage -one of their favorite hangouts.
   "Okay,  so  tell me the deal, Greedo. These bounty hunters  you
met are going to make you rich?"
   "Yeah,  I told 'em about the Rebels runnin' guns through  Level
88.  The  Empire  pays a big bounty for that kind of  information.
Dyyz and Warhog said they'd cut me in on the take."
   "Wow. Will ya share it with me?"
   Greedo  sounded superior. "Yeah . . . I'll throw a few  credits
your way, Fremp. But most of it I'm going to use to buy me my  own
ship.  Ninx has got a cute little Incom corsair he'll let me  have
for fourteen thousand. All she needs is new power couplings."
   "That's nothing. We can steal the couplings!"
   "Right. I can steal the power couplings." Greedo gave his eager
friend  the  Rodian's  version of a condescending  look,  as  they
arrived at the secret door to Ninx's garage. Fremp doesn't need to
think any part of my new ship is going to belong to him.
   
   Shug  Ninx's assistant was an ambidextrous Corellian hyperdrive
mechanic  named Warb. Warb recognized the two youths on the  entry
monitor.
   "Hey,  Anky  .  .  . Greedo. Got any hot therm  pumps  for  rne
today?"
   "Sorry, Warb. Tomorrow we'll have something."
   "Okay, see ya tomorrow. Shug ain't around and I'm busy."
   "I  want  to show Anky that little Incom corsair I'm  going  to
buy."
   "Hmmm  .  . . okay. C'mon in. But if any tools show up  missin'
I'm gonna know who to vaporize."
   Warb  buzzed  them  into Ninx's garage and  went  back  to.work
helping  a  smuggler overhaul the lightdrive on a beat-up  YT-1300
freighter he'd won in a sabacc game.
   The  cavernous repair shop was a confusion of dismembered ships
and  the  greasy  clutter of a lifetime- parts  everywhere,  whole
assemblies  hanging from lifts and cradles-and bright  flashes  of
ion   flow  welding  from  technician  droids  working   high   on
scaffolding surrounding a massive Kuat Starjammer-IZX fast freight
hauler that seemed to take up half the garage.
   Greedo  and Anky wandered through a maze of packing  crates  to
where the Incom Corsair sat on her landing skids, gleaming like an
Arkanian jewel. She looked almost new!
   "There she is," said Greedo proudly. "I'm going to call her The
Manka Hunter. Nice, huh?"
   Anky  gulped. "Only fourteen thousand credits for this? I don't
believe  it!  Shug's probably going to substitute some broken-down
clunker once he's got the money."
   "Not my pal Shug. He knows I'm going to be a bounty hunter.  He
knows a bounty hunter has to have a good ship."
   "You're going to be a bounty hunter?"
   Greedo  puffed out his chest. "Yeah. My friend Warhog Goa  said
he'd  teach me the trade. He said some of the best bounty  hunters
are Rodians."
   Anky became an instant believer. "Do you think he'd teach me to
be a bounty hunter, too?"
   Greedo hooted. "I don't think the Skups were ever known  to  do
much in the way of bounty killing."
   Anky looked crestfallen. The Sionan home world was noted mostly
for the master thieves it had produced.
   "Come on, Anky. Let's look at the inside of my ship."
   But  the  Corsair's hatch was locked. Since Shug wasn't around,
they'd  have  to ask Warb to unlock it. They made their  way  back
through  the packing crates and clutter and headed toward the  YT-
1300 where Warb and the smuggler were working. They were almost to
the  freighter  when  Greedo  spotted  a  pair  of  Dekfc-6  power
couplings sitting on a workbench, next to Shug's milling machine.
   Greedo knew right away they were Dekks. Dekk-6's were the best.
Modog  couplings used to be the best, but starship technology  was
advancing  very  rapidly, thanks to the Empire and its  insatiable
military needs.
   Fremp  spotted the Dekks too, and both youths stopped to admire
the  gleaming  components. A pair of Dekk-6's  could  cost  twenty
thousand credits-that's how advanced they were.
   "I'll bet Warb is planning to put these in that junk heap  he's
workin' on," said Greedo. "He's going to have to mill the casings,
to fit the converter flanges on that old freighter."
   "These are just what we need for your new Corsair," said  Anky,
fingering the expensive hardware. "They'll drop right in."
   Yes.  Greedo  had already felt an impulse to steal  the  Dekks.
They  were  brand-new, they were beyond beautiful,  and  he  would
never find their like stripping Hutt caravels.
   A  bounty hunter needs a fast ship. My ship will be the best. I
will  replace  every  part  of  my ship  with  the  most  advanced
components  I  can  buy  or steal. No one will  outrun  The  Manka
Hunter.
   Greedo looked around casually and scanned the garage. Warb  and
the  smuggler were floating a heavy power cell up the  gangway  of
the YT-1300. They disappeared through the hatch.
   No one was watching.
   Greedo slipped off his rancor-skin jacket and wrapped it around
the fist-sized couplings.
   "Come on, Anky. Let's go. I gotta meet Goa in twenty minutes."
   "Right. Let's go."
   Suddenly  Greedo felt powerful shaggy paws grip him around  the
waist and hoist him into the air. He dropped the skin jacket as he
kicked  and struggled, and the Dekk couplings clattered  onto  the
floor.
   "HNUUAAKRN!"
   "Te kalya jkrek, grulla woska!" Put me down, ya hairy heap!
   The  Wookiee turned Greedo with his paws so he could look  into
the  snouted  green face. "NNHNGR-RAAAGH!" Greedo saw bared  teeth
and  angry eyes, and he wilted. Anky Fremp was already heading for
the door.
   "What's   goin'  on,  Chewie?"  The  tall  Corellian   smuggler
appeared,  with Warb at his side. The smuggler had his right  hand
on a bolstered blaster.
   "HNNRRNAWWN. " The Wookiee's groans were just terrifying  noise
to   the  youth,  but  the  smuggler  seemed  to  understand  them
perfectly.
   "Stealing our Dekk-6's, huh? Great. What kind of shop you  guys
running, Warb? Do you know what I had to pay for these Dekks?"
   "Sorry, Han. I told Shug I didn't trust these street kids,  but
he  took  a  liking  to the green one . . . You  know  the  rules,
Greedo.  I'm  goin' to have to tell Shug about this. If  you  know
what's good for ya, you'll get out of here and never come back . .
. that is, if the Wookiee don't break yer neck first!"
   The  big Wookiee was still holding the terrified Rodian a meter
off  the  floor,  as if waiting for a signal from his  friend  the
smuggler.
   "Wait  a  minute," said the smuggler. "Don't hurt him,  Chewie.
I'm going to teach the little sneak a lesson . . . Where'd you put
those burnt-out Modogs, Warb?"
   The Wookiee lowered Greedo to the floor, but kept his hairy paw
on  him  as Warb fished around in a big trash barrel next  to  the
workbench.  A  second later Warb emerged with  two  blackened  and
corroded  Modog power couplings. He gave them to the smuggler  and
the smuggler handed them to Greedo.
   "Here. The kid wants power couplings, he can have these. I took
'em  off the Millennium Falcon. They've got a real pedigree,  kid.
And  all  I want for 'em is this rancor-skin jacket. What  do  you
say? Even trade?"
   The   smuggler  grinned  and  the  Wookiee  squeezed   Greedo's
shoulder.
   "T-te jacta." I'll get you for this.
   "Did he say what I think he said?" asked the smuggler.
   "He said it's a deal," laughed Warb.
   "Good.  The kid knows a bargain when he sees one." The smuggler
held  out his hand for a handshake, but Greedo ignored it. Instead
he  made a popping noise with his hand-suckers and threw the burnt
couplings on the floor. Then he turned and ran for the door.
   "HWARWNUNH."
   "Yeah,  Chewie, I was probably a little rough on him.  But  you
got to set punks straight while they're still young. Otherwise  no
telling  where  they'll  end up . . . Here,  Warb,  ya  want  this
jacket? It's a birthday present."
   "Thanks, Han. How'd you know today's my birthday?"
   
   6.  The Teacher
   Spurch  Warhog Goa was sitting by himself, counting a  pile  of
credits,  in a corner of the Meltdown Cafe. He waved his arm  when
he saw Greedo come in. "Hey, kid -over here!"
   Greedo was still nursing his anger and resentment, but he tried
to  look  like  a  seasoned spacer as he moved through  the  noisy
gathering. He started to feel better when one grizzled old Twi'lek
actually jumped out of his way.
   "Hello, Spurch."
   "Have a seat, kid. Ya want somethin' to drink?... Don't sit too
close. You Rodians don't smell right to a Diollan."
   Greedo took a place opposite his new mentor. Goa ordered  up  a
bottle of Tatooine Sunburn for Greedo.
   "T-that's  a  lot  of  money, Spurch."  Greedo  eyed  the  pile
nervously.  He hoped Ninx would still sell him the Corsair,  after
what happened.
   "Call  me  Warhog, kid. I don't care for that  other  name.  My
mother thought it was cute 'cause it means 'brave bug catcher'  in
our  language." Goa snorted. He took a stack of chits off the pile
in front of him. "Here, kid. For you. Thanks for the tip about the
Rebels. It paid off . . . big-time."
   "Cthn rulyen stka wen!" Wow, that's great! Greedo picked up the
bills and flipped through them. They were small denominations  ...
far  less  than he had expected. Visions of piloting his own  fast
Corsair began to evaporate.
   "Uh . . . two hundred credits . . . uh, thanks, Warhog."
   "Whatsamatter,  kid? You look disappointed." Goa  surveyed  his
new protege with a bright bird eye.
   "Uh ... I thought there would be more, I guess."
   "Hey, kid. You want to be a bounty hunter, right? Didn't I  say
Rodians make the best bounty hunters? Didn't I?"
   Greedo nodded solemnly. / do want to be a bounty hunter. But  a
bounty hunter needs a ship.
   '  'Now, you think I train bounty hunters for free? Huh? Do ya?
. . . Drink your Tatooine Sunburn, kid, it's delicious."
   Obediently Greedo picked up the bottle and swallowed the  thick
fluid.  It  tasted bitter. He felt embarrassed. Warhog was  right.
"Uh ... I guess I ... uh, never thought about that," he said.
   "Right. It never crossed your greedy little mind. Goa gets paid
for  teaching young punks how to hunt! Now look here-" Goa reached
into one of the many pouches strapped to his body and pulled out a
much larger roll of credits. "This is all yours, if you want it  -
twenty  thousand. That's one-third of what the Imps paid  for  the
intelligence on the Rebels."
   Greedo's  eyes  watered, and a profound hunger rippled  in  his
guts  as  he stared at the mound of credit notes. Visions  of  The
Manka Hunter started to re-form.
   Goa  leaned forward and fixed Greedo with his beady eyes.  "But
if  you take this money, that's it, ya understand? I never want to
see  you  again. You gotta make up your mind, kid. Do you want  to
learn  the trade from an expert ... or do ya want a few nights  on
the  town and the down payment on a hot rod you'll probably  crash
in  a  week?  Warhog Goa can make you the galaxy's second-greatest
bounty hunter, kid . . . Warhog Goa being the first."
   Greedo  let  Goa"s  words roll around inside  his  head  for  a
minute,  and  they connected with his deepest desires.  He  wanted
that Corsair more than anything, but he felt a deeper need to hunt
...  a need to be like his father. And the trade of bounty-hunting
was  a way of making lots of money. A rich bounty hunter might own
his  own moon and lots of ships - sloops, cruisers, cutters . .  .
even warships.
   "You'll really teach me the secrets?" asked Greedo diffidently.
   "Teach  ya? I'll shove the stinkin' secrets down your  stinkin'
throat!  We  got  a deal, kid? Believe me, I wouldn't  do  it  for
anybody.  But you saved my life. You cut me and Dyyz  in  on  your
first capture . . . and by the Cron Drift, you're a Radian. I tell
ya, Rodians are born bounty hunters."
   Greedo  felt waves of pride sweep over him. Born bounty hunter.
Rodians  are born bounty hunters. Yes, I can feel it, I've  always
felt it. My father was a bounty hunter. I will be a bounty hunter.
I am a bounty hunter.
   "Deal, Warhog." Greedo hooted and held out his hand.
   Goa  looked  at  the  suckered fingers and a  look  of  disgust
crossed  his face. Even the kid's hand smells funny. He  carefully
touched Greedo's hand with his own. "Deal, "he said. "C'mon,  I'll
buy  ya  another Sunburn at the bar . . . introduce ya to some  of
the boys."
   Fool  kid fell for it, thought Goa, as he pushed his way toward
the  bar. I get to keep his share, and all I got to do is tell him
a  few "secrets" and most likely he'll get himself aced in a month
or  two  . . . Anyway, who knows, maybe he will make a good bounty
hunter  .  .  . Tho I never saw a Radian good for anythin'  except
killin' unarmed Ugnaughts!
   
   7.  Vader
   Fifteen thousand kilometers out from the spaceport moon, in the
shadow  of the luminous Hutt planet, the starry void cracked  open
and a mighty triangular warship emerged from hyperspace.
   Star Destroyer.
   As  the  massive  vessel moved into stationary orbit  over  Nal
Hutta, Imperial shocktroops answered the assembly klaxon, buckling
on  white  body  armor and pulling energized blaster  rifles  from
charging sheaths.
   The  troopers' boots resounded in the main launch bay  as  they
ran  to  formation  next  to  the two  camouflaged  Gamma  Assault
Shuttles that would carry them to the spaceport moon.
   High above, on the quarterdeck of the Star Destroyer Vengeance,
the Mission Commander received final instructions from an imposing
figure  entirely encased in black armor. The figure's  deep  voice
resonated through an electronic breath mask.
   "I  want  prisoners, Captain. Dead Rebels won't tell  me  where
they're  shipping  those  weapons."  The  menacing  hiss  of   the
grotesque breath mask underscored the threat implicit in the voice
and the words.
   "Yes,  Lord Vader. It shall be as you request. The incident  on
Datar was unfortunate, sir. The Rebels fought us to the last man."
   "We  had  lost  the element of surprise, Captain. Vice  Admiral
Slenn  paid with his life for that mistake. This time there  won't
be  a  mistake. This time the Rebels won't know we're coming.  Are
the assault shuttles ready?"
   "Yes,   Lord  Vader.  I've  had  them  camouflaged   as   light
freighters,  sir. Our agents have obtained the necessary  priority
docking codes from Port Control. We're free to enter the Corellian
Sector of Nar Shaddaa at any hour of our choosing."
   "Good.  Leave at once, find the enemy enclave, and  capture  as
many Rebels as you can. I will follow the moment the situation  is
secure."
   "Very good, sir. The mission will launch immediately."
   
   When   Rebel  SpecForce  sentinel  Spane  Covis  saw  the   two
weatherbeaten stock freighters drop past him down the flight shaft
and enter Level 88, he didn't think anything about it.
   From his post in a rented viewroom in Port Tower One, Covis was
supposed to alert his cadre commander if any unusual ship  traffic
entered  the  vicinity. It was a boring job. Nothing  out  of  the
ordinary happened. Covis's attention was operating at about thirty
percent.
   Then it hit him: The sheathing's all wrong. The cargo doors are
too  small. The cooling towers are in the wrong place. I've  never
seen freighters configured like those.
   Covis  grabbed his comlink and yelled. "Stardog  One,  this  is
Dewback!"
   "Go ahead, Dewback, what's the problem?"
   "Watch your tail, Stardog. Two rancors in the house!"
   "Got it, Dewback."
   
   Twenty  Rebel  commandos had already taken up positions  inside
the  warehouse,  their surveillance sensors scanning  the  street,
when the camouflaged Gammas rumbled into view.
   In  the   rear  of  the  cavernous building,   other  SpecForce
infantry loaded the hold of a massive Z-10 transport, clearing the
warehouse  of as much ordnance as they could before the  firefight
began.
   In  the  very  center of the warehouse, behind  a  heavy  blast
shield, a C4-CZN ion field gun was rolled into position.
   The element of surprise the Imperials hoped for was gone.
   The firefight on Level 88 was very fierce and it hap pened very
fast.
   
   Greedo's  mother Neela heard a shuddering roar and ran  to  the
window  of  the reconstructed ventilation flue where she  and  her
sons  lived, in the warren of structures crammed into one  end  of
the warehouse district.
   At  that  moment one of the Gamma Assault Shuttles  transformed
into  flaming  vapor, becoming a sphere of light and  energy  that
expanded in a flash, igniting both sides of the street. The  green
fireball  seared  Neela's large eyes, and she  turned  and  bolted
screaming into the back of the apartment.
   The  other  Gamma unleashed twin turbos, and the front  of  the
Rebel  warehouse shattered and split. The shuttle crew ramps  came
down. Imperial shocktroops emerged blasting.
   Another  round  from the C4 ion gun, and the second  Gamma  was
history. A rain of blaster shots were exchanged, sixty shocktroops
went down, and the fight was over. The rest surrendered.
   
   Greedo  was  hanging around with Goa and Dyyz and  a  bunch  of
other  bounty  hunters on Level 92. The hunters had  news  that  a
wanted list had been released by a top Hutt ganglord. The Hutt was
assigning  collection  jobs on a first-come basis,  complete  with
signed contracts.
   Suddenly  emergency  sirens  began  to  blare  and  Greedo  saw
Corellian  firefighting scows plunging down the flight shaft,  red
strobes flashing.
   "Looks  like  the  Imps got our message," said  Warhog,  giving
Greedo a knowing wink.
   Greedo  tried to sound nonchalant. "Yeah - maybe so.  Could  be
just another fire started by the Gloom Dwellers." Then smoke began
to pour up the shaft and Greedo started to worry.
   It hadn't occurred to Greedo until after he'd told Goa and Dyyz
about  the  Rebel gunrunners that there might be  danger  for  his
people.  The Rodian refugees lived and worked on Level 88-  they'd
be in the path of any attack by Imperial stormtroopers.
   "Uh  . . . guess I'll . . . uh, see ya later, Warhog. You  too,
Dyyz. Got some business to take care of."
   Goa  raised an eyebrow. "Sure, kid. Me and Dyyz are most likely
jumpin' to Tatooine tonight - so if I don't see ya, good luck!"
   Tatooine! The Hutt contracts! Greedo walked away feeling  angry
and  betrayed that Goa hadn't invited him to go with them. So  far
Goa  had  given him very little training. And he took my share  of
the reward.
   Greedo started to turn back, to beg Warhog and Dyyz to take him
to  Tatooine.:  Then his mother's screaming face suddenly  flooded
his  mind.  Instead of turning back, Greedo began to run  for  the
nearest repulsor lift.
   Greedo stepped into the lift and hit the stud marked "88."  The
lift  dropped like a stone, stopping smoothly a few seconds  later
at  Level 88. An alarm sounded and the lift door refused to  open.
Automatic sensors had locked out the lift at this level.
   Looking  through the transparent door, Greedo  saw  why  -  the
street  was  a mass of smoke and flame. The Corellian firefighting
scows  were  working  the blaze with chemical sprays,  and  making
rapid headway.
   Greedo  tried to peer through the smoke to see if his  family's
dwelling  complex  was on fire. The Rodians lived  back  near  the
refuse  core.  Greedo  couldn't  see  that  far,  but  he  guessed
everything  was okay. Only the Rebel warehouse and  the  buildings
across the street were burning.
   Greedo  relaxed  and began to enjoy the scene  before  him.  He
recognized Rebels helping the firefighters, and he began to wonder
exactly  what  had  happened here. The only stormtroopers  visible
were lying on their backs, helmets shattered.
   Just  then Greedo heard the sound of rending metal and  he  saw
the  firefighters all turn toward the flight shaft, which was  out
of  his line of vision. The firefight-ers' faces changed to  fear,
and  a second later a massive black war machine hovered into view,
spewing  laser  fire from ten different points on  its  convoluted
surface.
   The  machine  was a monstrous engine of death,  shaped  like  a
crab,  with  ripping  claws left and right,  a  phalanx  of  blast
weapons  fore and aft, and a command cockpit secured behind  heavy
shielding in the center, about where a crab's mouth would  be.  It
floated  on repulsor energy, it moved very swiftly, and it  killed
everything in its path.
   Greedo  pounded on the lift door. It still wouldn't open.  Part
of  him  was glad it wouldn't open. Part of him wanted  to  leave.
That  part of him punched the button for Level 92. My family  will
be okay. Only the Rebels are going to die.
   As  the  lift  rose away from the carnage, Greedo  got  a  last
glimpse of the Death Engine as it spewed a thick stream of  white-
hot  energy  into the Rebel warehouse. Then he was moving  between
levels and his vision was blocked.
   A  moment later the whole sector shook as if it had been hit by
an asteroid.
   
   Greedo stumbled out onto the Level 92 thoroughfare and promptly
fell  on  his face. The street heaved and shook, and a  terrifying
rumble filled the air. People ran or grabbed onto vehicles as they
careened past, heading for the flight shaft. As he dragged himself
to  his feet, Greedo saw the bounty hunters moving together toward
the  reserved  parking platform where they had all  stashed  their
ships. He saw Dyyz Nataz, but he couldn't make out Warhog Goa.
   A  gloved hand grabbed Greedo's shoulder. He looked up into the
broad-beaked face of his friend.
   "If  ya  know what's good for ya, kid, you'll come with me  and
Dyyz. The Imps are in a bad mood about somethin'. I think the Rebs
gave 'em more of a fight than they expected."
   "My folks . . . I can't leave my family . . . my people."
   "Don't  worry about the family, kid. If you're goin'  to  be  a
bounty hunter, you're going to have to kiss off the family, sooner
or  later.  Now's  as  good a time as any . . .  Besides,  they'll
probably be okay."
   Warhog Goa gave Greedo a questioning look and then walked away,
following Dyyz toward their ship.
   Greedo stood and watched Warhog go, trying to make up his mind,
trying to decide what he really wanted.
   He wanted to be a bounty hunter.
   
   The  sleek cruiser Nova Viper lifted with the swarm of  bounty-
hunter  craft  that  headed  out  of  port,  lining  up  for  jump
clearances.
   No clearances came. Port Control was preoccupied.
   So the ships jumped anyway.
   The last thing Goa and Dyyz and Greedo saw was the collapse  of
an  entire quarter of the Corellian Sector, floor upon floor, with
a magnificent flash and rumble and roar.
   "Wheez! Musta took out twenty levels!" shouted Dyyz. "A lot  of
good people just died, Goa."
   "And we're alive . . . right, Greedo?"
   Greedo   didn't  answer.  He  just  stared  at   the   swelling
conflagration,  the succession of fireballs, the  billowing  black
clouds.
   The navicomp clicked in for Tatooine.
   They jumped.
   
   8. Mos Eisley
   A  massive armor-plated figure stood in the entrance of the dim
and  noisy  cantina, surveying the motley crowd with  glowing  red
electronic eyes.
   "Hey - ain't that Gorm the Dissolver? What's the doin' here?  I
thought we killed him!"
   "Sure  .  .  .  my  buddy Greedo decimated his  motivator.  But
there's biocomponents from six different aliens in Gorm. The  only
way to kill him is to vaporize the whole assembly."
   Dyyz  Nataz groaned. "Why didn't ya tell me that, Goa? I  would
have  finished him. Now we got to worry about him hittin'  us  for
the credits we owe him!"
   "Take  it easy, Dyyz. Jodo Kastjust told mejabba gave Gorm  the
sweetest hit on the wanted list - fifty thousand credits to  bring
in Zardra."
   "You're  kiddin'.  Zardra's a bounty hunter. What's  Jabba  got
against her?"
   The  three were sitting in the smoky shadows of the Mos  Eisley
Cantina,  sipping green Pica Thundercloud and watching the  bounty
hunters  drift  in  from  around the galaxy:  Weequays,  Aqualish,
Arcona,   Defels,   Kauronians,  Fneebs,  Quill-heads,   Bomodons,
Alpheridians - and the inevitable Ganks. Greedo even saw a  couple
of Rodians. They nodded in his direction, but he didn't return the
greeting.  He'd  learned long ago that unknown  Rodians  could  be
dangerous.
   A  cocky Corellian and a big Wookiee entered and stood  on  the
lobby  steps for a minute, surveying the crowd. Greedo  recognized
the  smugglers he'd come up against in Ninx's repair barn  on  Nar
Shaddaa.  He  felt hatred roil up inside him at the sight  of  the
two.
   Then the Corellian turned and left the cantina, and the Wookiee
followed  him.  Dyyz Nataz snorted: "Right, Solo.  You're  in  the
wrong place, buddy."
   "Han  Solo? Is he here?" Warhog Goa swung around in  his  chair
and looked around the room.
   "Yeah.  Solo and his Wookiee pal Chewbacca came in  and  looked
around  and left. Solo's on Jabba's list, ya know. If I  was  him,
I'd  make  like  a space frog and hop to some other galaxy!"  Dyyz
took  a  deep  swallow of Thundercloud. "Now,  what's  this  about
Zardra? What did she ever do to be worth fifty to of Jabba?"
   Goa  turned  back to his two companions and hoisted his  glass.
For  a  bone-dry  planet, Tatooine sure brewed some  of  the  best
beverages  in  the  galaxy-expensive, but very tasty.  "Here's  to
Zardra,"  he  said, and he drank, then wiped his  mouth  with  his
gloved hand.
   "Zardra  and Jodo Kast were on a hunt in the Sten-ness  System,
lookin'  for  a pair o' spicejackers named the Thig Brothers.  The
Thigs  were armed to the gills with Imperial blasters they'd stole
from  a military supply depot. Jodo says to Zardra, 'Why don't  we
split  up?  I'll put the word around the ports that I'm  following
the  Thigs  .  .  . and you stay out of sight. The Thigs  will  be
itchin'  for  a fight-I know those guys. They'll come lookin'  for
me,  I'll  stage  a little face-off, and you sting  'em  from  the
shadows. Just stun 'em, you know. We'll take 'em alive.'
   "Jodo knew he could count on Zardra. She's as fearless as  they
come-and a crack shot with a stun-laser."
   "Yeah.  I've  seen  her  in action.  The  best.  So  then  what
happened?"
   All  this  time Greedo wasn't saying anything. He was  savoring
Dyyz's remark that Solo was on Jabba's list. Half-formed images of
revenge  flickered  through his mind. He was content  to  sit  and
listen  to his friends and watch the crowd of bounty hunters.  I'm
one  of them, he thought. I'm a bounty hunter. Spurch is going  to
take me to meet Jabba . . . Jabba needs good hunters right now . .
. lots of 'em. Jabba needs me.
   Just  then Gorm the Dissolver stood up at his table and scanned
the  room with his electronic red eyes. Greedo ducked and shielded
his face with his hand. Squinting between two suckered fingers, he
watched the big bounty hunter turn and swagger toward the lobby.
   "There goes Gorm," said Greedo, alerting his friends.
   "Oh  .  . . yeah? Good riddance, I say. He'll be on his way  to
find Zardra. I hope she melts him ta slag!"
   "Maybe we ought to warn her, Warhog."
   "Don't worry, she knows. She's got a lot of friends in our line
of work. I'll wager a good krayt steak Jodo's already told her."
   "You're  probably right . . . So what's the rest of the  story?
Why is Jabba the Hutt payin' Gorm fifty thousand to Mil Zardra?"
   "Easy.  She  killed a Hutt, that's why! When the Thig  Brothers
came   lookin'  forjodo,  they  found  him  waitin"  in  the   Red
Shadow-that's  a bistro on Taboon, a slag heap of a  planet  where
nobody  but  'Nessies would ever live. Trouble was, a  Hutt  named
Mageye  was  passin' through, on his way ta cut a  deal  with  ol'
BolBol, another Hutt who practically owns the Stenness System."
   "Oh,  I get it. Mageye gets caught in the crossfire?" Dyyz made
a yawning noise under his blastmask.
   "Worse.  Mageye is carried into the bistro on a  palanquin,  ya
see,  by  these five strong Weequays. The excitement  starts,  the
Thigs are shootin' at everything that moves, two Weequays get hit,
they drop the palanquin, and the worm rolls off . . . right on top
of Zardra!"
   "Hah! Poor Zardra!"
   "Poor  Mageye.  Zardra's wearin' full armor,  but  she's  still
gettin' crushed and the slime and stench is about to suffocate her
...  So  she pulls a gauge-six thermal detonator out of her pocket
and pops it into the Hurt's mouth!"
   Goa  paused for effect, letting his listeners form an image  of
what happened next. Greedo made a soft hooting noise. Dyyz emitted
a choking sound. Goa picked up his Thundercloud and swallowed.
   "It  took 'em a month to clean up the mess, boys." Goa  swigged
more  Thundercloud,  and his foam-covered beak  made  a  satisfied
clacking noise.
   "Uh  . . . great. Good story, Warhog," said Dyyz, laughing. "So
when's our turn to meet with Jabba?"
   Goa looked at his chronometer. "Actually, we're late," he said.
"Let's get moving."
   
   9.  Jabba
   Jabba  the Hutt, gangster preeminent, was receiving petitioners
at his Mos Eisley town house, a short walk from the cantina.
   A  violent windstorm brewed in the surrounding desert, whipping
clouds  of  grit  over  Mos  Eisley, The  narrow  streets  of  the
spaceport  were  dust-choked and dim.  The  three  bounty  hunters
pulled  protective cloaks across their faces as  they  hurried  to
their audience with the notorious Hutt.
   "Don't  know how they can keep droids functioning  on  a  place
like  this,"  said Dyyz. "My visor's already got three centimeters
of sand under it."
   "Moisture  farmers  use up a lot of droids,"  said  Goa.  "Sand
seizes  joints and clogs cooling fins, and the 'ironies burn  out.
Half  the population thrives off the junk that's the main  product
of this hot and dusty planet."
   Two  stout  Gamorrean tuskers blocked the heavy iron grid  that
protected the courtyard of Jabba's town house. The piglike  brutes
made  threatening grunts and brandished battle-axes as the  bounty
hunters  appeared  out of the darkening streets.  But  Warhog  Goa
didn't hesitate, roaring out the password he'd been given earlier.
The Gamorreans immediately stepped back.
   The  spear-tipped gate rose with the grinding of hidden  gears,
and  Goa sauntered under the menacing points with a cocksure gait.
Dyyz  and Greedo held back, waiting to see what happened to  their
friend.  Goa  turned and cackled. "What's the  matter,  Dyyz?  You
afraid of ol' Jabba? He's the hunter's friend! C'mon, Greedo, I'll
show you how to get rich!"
   Suddenly four vicious-looking Nikto emerged from the shadows of
the  courtyard  and  leveled blaster-prods  at  Goa.  "Nudd  chaa!
Kichawa joto!" one of them shouted.
   "What  do you know - we're just in time! Jabba's ready  to  see
us!"  Goa  ignored  the  prods and strode  fearlessly  toward  the
glowing  aperture  of  Jabba's domicile. The Nikto  lowered  their
weapons and snarled something unintelligible.
   Dyyz and Greedo followed, cautiously.
   
   The  raucous  babble  of  the galactic  riffraff  that  crowded
Jabba's audience chamber was deafening. Alien and human, a hundred
different  species,  faces  contorted with  greed  and  depravity,
wearing  a  motley  assortment of spacers' costumes  and  military
gear.
   All  eyes  turned to the three newcomers. Greedo  surveyed  the
grotesque  gathering and wondered-it seemed as  if  he  recognized
only  a few species from his years on Nar Shaddaa. "Are these  all
bounty hunters?" he shouted to Goa.
   "Nah.  Maybe  about half of 'em. The rest are  just  the  slimy
bottom  feeders  that  enjoy  being  around  Jabba's  stench   and
corruption."
   Goa wasn't just kidding. Greedo noticed a rancid odor permeated
the  room,  and in a few seconds he guessed its source: the  great
worm  himself,  Jabba the Hutt, ensconced on  a  platform  to  his
right, puffing on a convoluted water pipe.
   Greedo  had seen many Hutts in the streets of Nar Shaddaa.  But
he  had never been in a closed space with one. His stomach churned
and  twisted  at the sight and smell of the miasmic  mass  of  the
great  gangster, fawned over by unctuous Twi'leks  and  Squidheads
and...  Rodians. Yes, the two Rodians they'd seen in  the  cantina
were before the great Jabba, bowing slavishly, like supplicants in
the  palace  of  a  Paladian Prince. A silver protocol  droid  was
translating their groveling remarks for malodorous Jabba.
   "Maybe  they're bending over to throw up," said  Dyyz,  reading
Greedo's thoughts.
   "How  would a Rodian know the difference?" said Goa. "The green
goons stink almost as bad as Jabba."
   Greedo gave Goa a startled look. Why did he say that? Am I just
a  "green goon" to him? He decided Goa was trying to make a  crude
joke.
   As  the  two Rodians faded back into the crowd, ma-jordomo  Bib
Fortuna  cast  a suspicious eye toward the new visitors.  With  an
almost imperceptible nod, he signaled for Goa, Dyyz, and Greedo to
step forward.
   The  rabble  quieted as the three hunters moved to position  in
front  of  the  great worm. Everyone wanted  to  see  if  a  death
sentence  was  about to be executed. When it became apparent  that
these  were  just  another team of rapacious bounty  hunters,  the
hubbub resumed.
   "Vifaa  karibu  uta chuba Jabba!" began Goa,  speaking  perfect
Huttese. He knew that Jabba himself spoke many languages fluently,
and used his protocol droid for the several million other forms of
communication. But he wished to honor the crimelord in  every  way
possible.
   "Mojajpo  chakula  cha asubuhi!" rumbled the  Hutt,  apparently
pleased to be treated with respect by scum.
   "What did he say?" said Dyyz. "What did you say?"
   "I  told  'im he's the most disgustin' pile o' swamp sludge  in
the  galaxy. He thanked me for groveling before his bloated  slimy
putrid body."
   "R-really," whispered Greedo. "You said that?"
   "Goa's pullin' yer snout, kid. We'd be rancor bait if he'd said
any of that stuff."
   Goa  turned his full attention to the Hutt, hoping Jabba hadn't
heard the whispered exchange.
   If  he  had heard it, Jabba gave no sign. He proceeded to laugh
quite  jovially and popped a squirming sand maggot into his mouth.
Greedo almost retched at the sight of the swollen tongue, dripping
with  slaver.  At this distance, of not more than a  meter  and  a
half, the malignant smell of Jabba's breath was overpowering.
   The  Hull's  lardaceous body seemed to periodically  release  a
greasy discharge, sending fresh waves of rolten stench lo Greedo's
sensitive nostrils.
   "Ne  subul Greedo, pombo gek fultrh badda wanga!" Goa  put  one
hand  on  Greedo's shoulder as he introduced his  protege  to  the
illustrious  gangster. Greedo bowed nervously, as  the  huge  eyes
turned on him and reduced him to space dust.
   Jabba  and  Goa  exchanged a few more phrases, and  then  Jabba
proceeded  to deliver a long soliloquy that ended with  the  words
"... kwa bo noodta du dedbeeta Han Solo?"
   Goa  turned to Greedo and Dyyz. "The worm has seen fit to offer
us   the   opportunity  of  hunting  one  of  his  most  notorious
debtors-that pirate Han Solo. Solo claims he lost a load of  spice
when  he got boarded by Imps. But Jabba thinks Solo sold the spice
and  kept  the  money. This is a collection job-Jabba  wants  that
money."
   "I ain't messin' with Solo," said Dyyz. "He's got too many ways
of gettin' revenge . . . even after he's dead."
   "I  can  handle  him,"  said Greedo.  "He's  just  a  smalltime
Corellian spicerunner who thinks he's big stuff. He stole a rancor-
skin jacket off me. I'll take Solo."
   Warhog  Goa looked at Greedo for a moment and then slapped  him
on the back. "Okay, kid. That's what I like to hear! This'll be  a
good  assignment  to  cut your baby teeth  on,  'cause  Solo's  on
Tatooine! We saw him today in the cantina, remember? I'll even  be
able  to give ya some backup. If he's got the money on him, you'll
get it easy."
   Dyyz snorted. "Great-you help the kid. I don't want nothin'  to
do  with  it ... Now what about us? You gonna set up a  couple  of
deals for us, or you gonna waste the whole trip on the kid?"
   "Right.  I  got that covered." Goa exchanged a few  more  words
with  Jabba,  and  then  Fortuna handed the bounty  hunters  three
scrolls,  the official contracts assigning them exclusive "hunting
rights" for the period of two Tatooine months. The Solo scroll was
for a much shorter period, due to the fact that Jabba was .anxious
to clean up a debt that had remained uncol-lected far too long.
   On  a  signal  from  Fortuna, the three  bounty  hunters  bowed
ceremoniously and moved back to make room for the next team of job
applicants-an unsavory human named Dace Bonearm and  his  IG-model
assassin droid.
   
   Greedo found himself separated from Goa and Dyyz, as they  were
swallowed up in the crowded audience chamber. Greedo made his  way
to an open spot in a corner, next to the bar. Without being asked,
the  Aqualish bartender slid a brimming glass his way. Greedo felt
proud of himself as he leaned back against the wall and sipped the
syrupy Tatooine Sunburn.
   Across  the room he could see Dyyz, standing next to  a  hunter
named  Dengar that Greedo remembered from Nar Shaddaa.  They  were
both examining their scrolls and comparing notes.
   Warhog  Goa  was deep in conversation with one of the  Rodians.
Greedo  felt  a twinge of jealousy, seeing his mentor  talking  to
another Rodian bounty hunter.
   I'm a bounty hunter, he thought. I'm going to stalk my prey and
I'm going to collect the reward and I'm going to start building  a
rep.  I'm going to be the toughest Rodian bounty hunter that  ever
was.
   I wonder what that Rodian and Goa are talking about? He saw Goa
look  toward  him and then the Rodian's eyes met his,  and  Greedo
realized  they  were  talking about him. At first.he  felt  uneasy
being noticed by the strange Rodian. Then Goa waved and the Rodian
held up his hand, suckers out, in a gesture of brotherhood.
   Greedo beamed with pride. Okay, they're talkin' about me-Greedo
the Bounty Hunter.
   
   10.  Solo
   "RRUUARRRNN!'"The Wookiee slammed a shaggy  fist  down  on  the
Millennium  Falcon's shield generator and pushed back his  welding
mask.
   "Take it easy, Chewie. I wanna get off this dirtball as much as
you  do.  But  without deflectors we're easy game for spicejackers
and nosy Imps."
   "Hwuarrn? Nnrruahhnm?"
   "Right. Jabba's throwing the biggest bounty-hunting bash in the
sector  -  and you just know our names are gettin' bandied  around
over dessert. That's another reason to blow this joint. But like I
say,  if  the  ship had been undercover during the  sandstorm,  we
wouldn't be in this mess."
   Han  Solo  finished vacuuming sand out of the alluvial  dampers
and  wiped  his brow on his sleeve. Why does a free and unfettered
guy  like  me always end up on wasted planets like this,  when  he
could  be basking in the oceanside breezes of any gambling  resort
in the universe?
   Because  I'm  not  very  good  at  sabacc,  he  thought.  Lucky
sometimes, yeah. Rut not that lucky. Unlike some people I know,  I
gotta work for a living.
   Chewbacca  made a soft warning growl and Solo raised  his  head
and  looked around. Two bulbous faceted eyes were staring  at  him
out  of  spiny  green balls of flesh. The leather-garbed  humanoid
body beneath the head held a blaster in multisuckered fingers.
   "Han  Solo?" The voice from the long green snout spoke  through
an electronic translator.
   "Who wants to know?" Han knew who wanted to know. A Rodian with
a blaster is always a bounty hunter ... or a bill collector.
   "Greedo. I work for Jabba the Hutt."
   "Greedo  ...  oh yeah, I remember you - the kid  who  tried  to
steal  my  power  couplings. Okay, good for  you,  so  now  you're
workin'  for Jabba. By the way, I understand Rodian,  so  you  can
turn off the squawk box."
   Han  jumped down from the scaffolding as casually as  he  could
and  picked up a rag to wipe his hands. Hidden in the  rag  was  a
small  Telltrig-7 blaster, carefully placed there  for  just  this
eventuality.  Fortunately he didn't have to use it-his  mouth  was
his best weapon:
   "Listen . . . tell Jabba the truth-I came to Tatooine for  only
one reason: to pay him."
   Greedo  turned off the translator. Goa had suggested he use  it
to  make  sure  the "client" fully understood the gravity  of  the
situation. But if Solo really understands Rodian, III be  able  to
use untranslatable Rodian threats.
   "Neshki  J'ba  klulta  ntuz  tch krast,  Solo."  Jabba  doesn't
believe dorsal-spine parasites tell the truth, Solo.
   "Yeah,  well,  what does that overfed vermiform  know?  Do  you
really  think I'd come anywhere near this place if I  didn't  have
the money?"
   Greedo's hand tightened on his gun. He wasn't sure if insulting
one's  employer required special action on the part  of  a  bounty
hunter.  What  Solo  said  about being on  Tatooine  was  logical,
though.  If somebody was after your hide, would you fly  into  his
back pocket? This is going to be easy.
   "Skak,  trn kras ka noota, Solo." All right, then give  me  the
money,  Solo. "Vnu sna Greedo vorskl ta." Then Greedo will  be  on
his way.
   "Yeah, tell ya what, Greedo . . . tell ya what. It's not  quite
that simple. The loot is bolted into the frame of the Falcon here.
Secret  hiding place. Understand? Why don't you come back tomorrow
morning  and  I'll  hand it right over, easy as  pie.  How's  that
sound?"
   "Nvtuta  bork te ptu motta. Tni snato." No, get it  right  now.
I'll wait.
   I'm  not  letting this gulleyfish slip out of my grasp,  Greedo
thought . . . especially with Warhog watchin' me from the shadows.
   "I  can't  get  it  right now. Listen, if  you  can  wait  till
tomorrow,  I'll throw in a little bonus-a couple thousand  credits
just for you. How's that sound?"
   That sounded good.
   "Prog  mnete  enyaz  ftt  save shuss." Make  it  four  thousand
credits.
   "Four thousand? Are you crazy-? Oh, all right, ya got me over a
barrel,  pal. We'll do it your way. Four thousand for  you,  first
thing in the morning. It's a deal."
   Without another word, Solo turned his back on the bounty hunter
and  began cleaning a spanner. He palmed the little blaster,  just
in  case the green kid changed his mind. But a minute later Chewie
gave his "all clear" grunt and Solo relaxed.
   "Great, Chewie. Can you believe the nerve of that guy?  Now  we
got  to  finish  prepping the ship tonight. When that  punk  comes
around  tomorrow morning, all he's going to find is a  big  grease
spot on the hangar floor!"
   
   Warhog  Goa sipped a Starshine Surprise and glanced around  the
Mos  Eisley Cantina. The bounty-hunter crowd was thinning  out.  A
lot  of hunters had gotten their contracts and jumped. Some of 'em
were probably already stalking targets in the streets of cities  a
thousand  parsecs away. "Solo doesn't plan to pay you,"  he  said,
looking at his protege. "Don't you get it? It's a stall."
   Warhog  noticed the two Rodians sitting in the booth  near  the
entrance lobby. They nodded to him and he nodded back. "You  ought
to  meet those two Rodies, Greedo. They're good hunters. I'll  bet
they  can  teach ya stuff even I don't know. Want me to  introduce
you?"
   Greedo  looked down at his drink. Goa wouldn 't know about  the
clan  wars. I never told him. He wouldn't know about the time  the
ships came, hunting the Tetsus refugees. Tetsus just don't talk to
strange Rodians. He wouldn't know that, because I never told him.
   Yeah, but what's the point? I'm a bounty hunter now, that's the
important  thing.  Bounty hunters hang together,  drink  together,
trade war stories, help each other out of jams. So after I take my
first  bounty,  after Solo pays me and I hand the  money  over  to
Jabba,  after the word starts to get around . . . then  I'll  make
friends with those guys. They'll respect me and we'll have a drink
together and they'll tell me some great stories and I'll tell them
about how I saved Dyyz and Goa by blasting Gonn right through  his
electronic guts.
   ".  . . so, like I say, Greedo, there's two sides to every deal
with  Jabba. That's my lesson for today. If you collect the  debt,
you'll  be  in  Jabba's good graces. But if you  let  Jabba  down,
you're as good as dead."
   Greedo tried to sound scornful. "Don't worry, Warhog. Solo will
pay.  First we find out for sure if he's got the money  with  him.
Then,  if he doesn't hand it over, I'll kill him and take it.  ...
You   still  going  to  work  backup-in  case  the  Wookiee  tries
anything?"
   "Sure. That's the plan, ain't it?"
   ''Wknuto, Goa.'' Thanks, Goa.
   
   Han  Solo's  ship, the Millennium Falcon, was still sitting  in
the docking hangar When Greedo walked in shortly after sunrise the
next morning.
   Han  Solo  was  nowhere to be seen. Greedo tried  to  open  the
Falcon's hatch, but it was code-locked.
   Greedo  and  Goa  finally  found Solo and  the  Wookiee  having
breakfast at a little outdoor cafe behind the dewback stables.
   Greedo kept his hand on his bolstered gun, but didn't bother to
turn  off the safety because Goa had a rifle trained on the quarry
from the alley across the street.
   "Rylun pa getpa gushu, Solo?" Enjoy your breakfast, Solo?
   Greedo  tried to sound tough and relaxed, but in  fact  he  was
wound  up tight. If Solo stiffed him today, he wouldn't know  what
to  do.  Jabba  wouldn't  be  happy  if  he  killed  Solo  without
collecting the debt. The contract was for the money, not a corpse.
   "Greedo! I've been looking all over for you! Decide to sleep in
today?"  Han chortled to himself and took another bite of  dewback
steak. Chewbacca raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. He had his
bowcaster leaning against his leg, loaded and ready.
   "Fna  ho koru gep, Solo. Kras ka noota." Don't be funny,  Solo.
Give me the money.
   "Sure.  The money. Happy to oblige. You want something  to  eat
first? You look like you could use a good meal."
   Greedo  realized  Solo  was putting him on,  and  sudden  anger
flared  in  his  veins. Impulsively he reached  down  and  grabbed
Solo's  shirt. "Ka noota! Grot pleno ka Jabba spulta?" The  money!
Or would you like to explain to Jabba personally?
   "NNRRARRG!"  Instantly Chewie was on his feet, one huge  shaggy
arm  around Greedo's neck, the other gripping the bounty  hunter's
blaster hand.
   "Nfuto-!"
   "Thanks,  Chewie." Han stood up and casually  wiped  his  mouth
with  a  napkin. He reached over and took Greedo's weapon, snapped
open  the  chamber,  and removed the power  cell.  He  handed  the
useless blaster back to Greedo.
   "You know, kid, I was almost starting to like you. Now I'm  not
so  sure.  Let me give you some sage advice. Stay away from  slugs
like Jabba. Find an honest way to make a living . . . Let him  go,
Chewie."
   "Hnnruaahn!"  Chewie  released his  grip,  and  Greedo  tumbled
forward.  Han  stepped out of the way and Greedo  fell  against  a
table, sending dishware crashing.
   "Nice. Where does Jabba find these punks? What about the guy in
the alley across the street, Chewie?"
   "Hwarrun!"
   "Disappeared,  huh? Another half-baked bounty creep,  probably.
You'd think Jabba could buy the best to track a guy like me!"
   "Hurrwan nwrunnh."
   "Yeah,  I  agree. We're playin' with fire hanging around  here.
The  Falcon's prepped-we could have jumped this morning if Taggart
had  kept  his promise. If he doesn't show by tomorrow  with  that
load of glitterstim he wants transferred, we're history, okay with
you?"
   "WNHUAREN!"
   "I thought so."
   
   Jabba the Hutt was not amused.
   "Kubwa  funga  na jibo! You said this inexperienced  slime-wart
could  collect from Solo! I ought to toss you both into my private
dungeon and let you rot!"
   Or  words to that effect. The great worm huffed and rumbled and
oozed  foulness.  On either side of his throne platform,  Weequays
and  Nikto  brandished their weapons ominously. As usual,  Jabba's
audience  chamber was crowded with the dregs of a hundred galactic
civilizations.
   Warhog  Goa  was  abject.  He groveled shamelessly  before  the
bloated  drooling  crimelord. As he did so, he regretted  bringing
Greedo  back  here without the prize. But he had to  seek  another
audience,  to  persuade  Jabba to let  Greedo  kill  Solo  without
collecting  the debt. That was the key. Now the words tumbled  out
in  one breath-he had to say it all before Jabba pronounced  their
deaths!
   "Oh,  most incomparable Jabba, as you are well aware, Han Solo,
that  worthless  piece  of  dianoga  dung,  is  a  very  difficult
customer.  May I suggest that you allow my protege to simply  kill
Solo, and take his ship as payment for the debt he owes you?"
   Jabba  grunted and puffed his water pipe thoughtfully. Then  he
seemed to brighten, if that were possible. "Ne voota kinja.  Jabba
likes your suggestion. He will spare the superfluous life of  your
protege."
   He looked straight at Greedo before he spoke again. At a signal
from  Jabba,  the  silver protocol droid, K-8LR,  stepped  up  and
translated  Jabba's every evil word into the Rodian  tongue:  "You
may  bring  me  Solo so that I may kill him-or you  may  kill  him
yourself  and deliver his ship's papers to me. Jabba has  seen  in
his wisdom that this must be so."
   Greedo  breathed  a sigh of relief and bowed slavishly.  "Thank
you, great Jabba. Your wisdom is-"
   "Na  kungo! But you had better work fast! I now declare an open
bounty  on  Han Solo. And I raise the price for his  head  to  one
hundred thousand credits!"
   "One hundred thousand!" said Goa. "Every bounty hunter in the-"
   "Yes.  So  true. If your protege can't get Solo, somebody  else
most certainly will!"
   Then   Jabba  leaned  forward  and  once  again  fastened   his
malevolent eyes on Greedo. "And if you do not fulfill our bargain,
you  had  better  start  running, little green  insect.  Bring  me
Solo-alive or dead!"
   
   11.  The Cantina
   There was live music today. The patrons were in an ugly mood.
   Greedo  and  Goa  sat in the booth next to the lobby  entrance.
When Solo and the Wookiee came in, Solo pretended not to see them,
but  Chewbacca articulated a low growl as he passed Greedo. -"They
know we're here, Warhog."
   "Yeah. That's the idea. Are you ready to execute the plan?"
   "Nchtha  zno  ta.  Fnrt pwusko vtulla pa." I'm  not  sure.  I'm
getting a bad feeling.
   "Well,  if you're not ready, I suggest we head for hy-perspace,
before Jabba finds out. I've got work to do."
   "Where's Dyyz?"
   "He  left  this morning. Hitched a ride with 4-Lom and Zuckuss.
Dyyz  has a rich contract-a warlord who decided to evict the Hutts
from the Komnor system."
   "Sounds like a difficult job."
   "Very difficult. But Dyyz Nataz is the man to do it. And you're
the  right  hunter for the Han Solo hit, Greedo my  boy.  Are  you
ready?"
   Just  then  there  was a disturbance at the  bar.  Shouting,  a
scuffle,  then  the  sudden flash and drone  of  a  lightsaber.  A
dismembered arm flew through the air, landing near Greedo's chair.
The music stopped.
   Greedo and Goa had noticed the old man and the boy come in, and
they  had heard the bartender eject the droids. Goa had noted  the
quiet  intensity of the old man, and the thought had  crossed  his
mind: He's old, but I wouldn't want to test myself against him  in
a"blaster fight.
   The  room  was deathly silent. Greedo sucked in his breath  and
hooted softly. "Nice piece of work for an old man," he said.
   "Must  be  a Jedi," said Goa. "I thought their kind  were  long
gone."
   Greedo had never seen a Jedi.
   The  room  came  to life again, the band resumed tootling,  the
bartender's helper removed the mutilated arm. Somebody  ordered  a
round of drinks for the house.
   "Check it, Greedo. The old man and the kid are talking to  Solo
and the Wook. You're going to have to wait your turn."
   Greedo didn't respond. His veins were pumping excitement at the
sudden carnage.
   The  two  Rodian bounty hunters strolled in, and  Goa  motioned
them  over  to the table. Greedo looked at his beer, concentrating
on what he was going to say to Solo.
   "Boys  .  .  . I'd like you to meet Greedo . . . my apprentice.
Greedo, this is Thuku and Neesh, two fine bounty killers."
   Greedo  looked  up and saw two pair of huge eyes  studying  him
with detached curiosity. Did he detect hostility glinting in those
multifaceted orbs? The one called Thuku held out a suckered  hand.
"Wa tetu dat oota, Greedo."
   "Ta  ceko  ura  nsha,"  said Greedo, allowing  his  suckers  to
briefly  engage Thuku's. The three Rodians entered  into  a  short
conversation, while Goa looked on, amused. Neesh told Greedo  he'd
heard  that  Jabba  had awarded him Han Solo as  a  quarry.  Neesh
seemed  impressed.  Thuku warned Greedo  that  Solo  "has  already
killed two of Jabba's bill collectors ... Be careful, brother. You
could be the next."
   "Thanks  for the advice," said Greedo, with bravado.  "I'm  not
worried.  I've got Warhog for backup, in case Solo or the  Wookiee
try anything stupid."
   The  two fellow Rodians exchanged glances with Goa, and  Greedo
thought  he detected they were silently laughing at him. Yeah,  of
course  they think I'm a young fool. Well, that's the  way  it  is
when you're just starting out. I'll show 'em!
   Imperial  stormtroopers entered the bar, and  a  minute  later,
when  Greedo  looked across the room, Solo and  the  Wookiee  were
sitting alone. The old man and the boy had disappeared.
   After  the  Imps passed their table, Goa unhitched his  blaster
and placed it in front of him. "Okay, lad. This is your chance. If
the Wook tries to interfere, I'll blast him to red smoke."
   The  moment  had  come.  Greedo felt  a  mixture  of  fear  and
excitement. He closed his eyes and gathered his energies. Suddenly
his  mind  filled with a bright image of a jungle world,  dripping
green  neon leaves, a gathering of little huts and busy half-naked
green  bodies.  He saw himself, and his brother Pqweeduk,  running
under  the tall Tendril trees, running toward the village. He  saw
his  mother  standing in the clearing waiting  for  them.  He  saw
himself  and his brother run to her and she held out her arms  and
hugged  them both. Then he was inside the vision, looking up  into
her huge eyes. She was crying. "What's the matter, Mother? Why are
you  sad?"  "I am sad and I am happy, Greedo. I am sad because  of
what must happen. I am happy because you are coming home."
   Greedo snapped out of his trance and a feeling like an electric
shock went through him. What was that ? he thought.
   Goa  was staring at him with an annoyed look. "C'mon, kid.  Are
you  gonna  make  your  move? Solo and the Wook  are  startin'  to
leave!"
   The Wookiee, Chewbacca, passed their table and disappeared into
the  lobby. The perfect moment had arrived. Greedo stood up,  hand
on his blaster.
   
   "Oona goota, Solo?" Going somewhere, Solo?
   "Yes,  Greedo, in fact I was just going to see your boss.  Tell
Jabba I've got the money."
   "Sompeetalay. Vere tan te nachtvakee cheeta. Jabba warin cheeco
wa rush anye katanye wanaroska." Greedo snickered. "Chas kin yanee
ke  chusko!" It's too late, you should have paid him when you  had
the chance. Jabba's put a price on your head so large every bounty
hunter in the galaxy will be looking for you.
   "Yeah, but this time I've got the money."
   "Enjaya kul a intekun kuthuow." And I found you first.
   "I don't have it with me. Tell Jabba-"
   "Tena  hikikne. Hoko ruya pulyana oolwan spa steeka gush  shuku
ponoma three pe." If you give it to me I might forget I found you.
Jabba's  through  with you. He has no use for smugglers  who  drop
their cargo at the first sign of an Imperial cruiser.
   "Even I get boarded sometimes. You think I had a choice?"
   "Tlok  Jabba. Boopa gopakne et an anpaw." You can tell that  to
Jabba. He may only take your ship.
   "Over my dead body."
   
   Goa  saw  the  blaster coming out of Solo's holster  under  the
table.  He  relaxed  and leaned back, sipping  his  Sunburn.  Poor
Greedo, he thought.
   "Ukle  nyuma cheskopokuta klees ka tlanko ya oska." That's  the
idea. I've been looking forward to this for a long time.
   "Yes, I'll bet you have."
   With  a  tremendous explosion of light and noise Solo's blaster
propelled  a  bolt of energy through the wooden  table.  When  the
smoke cleared there was very little left of Greedo.
   "Sorry  about  the mess," said Solo, flipping the  bartender  a
coin.
   
   Spurch  Warhog Goa met with the two Rodians on Docking Bay  86,
as he made ready to board his ship, the Nova Viper.
   The  tall one, Thuku, handed Goa a chest of newly minted Rodian
coinage, pure gold, each coin embossed with the image of Navik the
Red.
   "The  Rodians  thank  you,  Goa.  We  would  have  killed   him
ourselves,  but  we can't let it be known we are hunting  our  own
kind."
   "His  clan  are  all sentenced to die," said  Neesh,  making  a
snorting noise with his green snout.
   Goa  picked  up one of the coins and watched it  glint  in  the
bright-hot Tatooine sun. "Yeah . . . but tell ya the truth,  boys,
this  is  one bounty I ain't too proud of. Least I didn't have  to
kill him myself. I knew Solo would take care of that."
   
   
   Hammertong: The Tale of the "Tonnika Sisters'
   by Timothy Zahn
   
   "It's a dilemma, really, that's what it is," Dr. Kellering said
in  that precise Imperial Prime University voice of his that  went
so  well with his young, upper-class-pampered face. And so  poorly
with  the  decidedly low-class tapcafe he and the two  women  were
sitting  in. "On the one hand there's the whole question  of  secu
rity,"  Kellering  continued.  "Especially  with  all  the   Rebel
activity in this sector. And I can assure you that Dr. Eloy and  I
aren't the only persons within the project who are concerned about
it."
   His  forehead wrinkled in upper-class-pampered perplexity. "But
on  the  other  hand, Captain Drome is extremely  hot-tempered  in
regard  to what he considers his personal territory. If he knew  I
was  even talking about this matter outside the compound, he'd  be
terribly angry. Especially with people like - well, like you."
   Seated across the table from Kellering, Shada D'ukal took a sip
from  her  cup,  the  wine carrying with it a hint  of  remembered
bitterness  and shame. Like most girls growing up  on  their  war-
devastated world, the Mistryl shadow guards had been the focus  of
all  her  hopes. They had been the last heroes of her people,  the
enigmatic  cult of warrior women still fighting to  force  justice
for  her  world  from  uncaring, even hostile,  officials  of  the
Empire. She had begun her training as soon as they would take her,
studying and working and sweating her way against the odds  until,
at  last,  she  had  been deemed worthy to be  called  a  Mistryl.
Assigned to a team, she had headed out on her first mission.
   Only  to  learn  that  the Mistryl were no longer  the  valiant
warriors of legend.
   They  were  mercenaries. Nothing more than mercenaries.  Hiring
out to useless, insipid people like Kellering.
   She  sipped at her wine again, listening with half  an  ear  as
Kellering prattled on, letting the memories fade. Now, a year  and
seven  missions later, the shame had faded to a dull ache  in  the
back of her mind. Someday, she hoped, it would be gone altogether.
   Beside  Shada,  Team Prime Manda D'ulin lifted a hand,  finally
putting  an  end  to Kellering' s ramblings. "We  understand  your
problem,  Dr.  Kellering," she said. "May I  suggest  that  you've
already made your decision. Otherwise the three of us wouldn't  be
sitting here."
   "Yes, of course." Kellering sighed. "I suppose I'm still -  but
that's  foolish.  The Mistryl may be somewhat  -  but  still,  you
certainly  come highly recommended. When my cousin was telling  me
about you, he said you had-"
   "The  mission, Doctor," Manda interrupted again. "Tell us about
the mission."
   "Yes.  Of  course."  Kellering took a  deep  breath,  his  eyes
darting  around the crowded tapcafe as if wondering which  of  the
humans  or aliens at the other tables out there might be  Imperial
spies.  Or  maybe he was just wondering what he was doing  outside
his  pampered  little academic world. Consorting with mercenaries.
"I'm  connected to a research project called Hammertong," he said,
his  voice  so low now that Shada could barely hear  it  over  the
background  noise. "My superior, Dr. Eloy, is senior scientist  of
the  group. A couple of weeks ago the Emperor's representative  to
the project informed us that we were all going to be moved to some
new location. We're to leave in three days."
   "And  you  don't  think  Captain  Drome  is  handling  security
properly?" Manda asked.
   Kellering shrugged uncomfortably. "Dr. Eloy doesn't. The two of
them have had several arguments about it."
   "So what exactly do you want from us?"
   "I  suppose-well,  I  really don't know," Kellering  confessed,
throwing  hooded looks back and forth between the  two  women.  "I
suppose  I  thought  we  could talk to  Captain  Drome  about  you
bringing  in  some people to help guard us en  route  .  .  ."  He
trailed off, apparently finally noticing the expression on Manda's
face.
   "Let  me  explain something about the Mistryl, Dr.  Kellering,"
she  said,  her  voice still polite but with an  edge  of  chromed
mullinine  to  it. ' 'Your cousin probably told you we  were  just
your  standard group of fringe mercenaries. We're not. He probably
told  you we sell our services to the highest bidder, no questions
or  ethics involved. We don't. The Mistryl are the warriors  of  a
forgotten  cause;  and  if  we  hire ourselves  out  as  temporary
security to people like you, it's because our world and our people
require  money to survive. We will not work with Imperial  forces.
Ever."
   Strong  words. But that was all they were. There  was  a  great
deal  of  simmering  hatred toward the Empire among  the  Mistryl,
anger  for their suspected complicity during the war and for their
complete  indifference since then. But with the remnant  of  their
people  living on the edge of survival, the simple cold truth  was
that  the  Mistryl couldn't afford to turn down anything  but  the
most  odious of offers from the most odious of people. Manda could
sound as high-minded as she wanted to, but in the end she and  the
team would accept Kellering's job.
   And  as she had seven times before, Shada would do her best  to
help  them  fulfill  the contract. Because the other  simple  cold
truth was that she had nowhere else to go.
   But of course, Kellering didn't know that; and from the look on
his  face, Manda might have just dropped a large building on  him.
"Oh,  no,"  he  breathed. "Please. We need you.  Look,  we're  not
really with the Empire-we're funded by them, but we're actually  a
completely independent research group."
   "I  see," Manda murmured, frowning thoughtfully. Making a  show
of  the decision-making process, probably in hopes of stifling any
protest on Kellering's part when she finally named her price. With
an Imperial-funded project, that price was likely to be high.
   It  was.  "All right," Manda said at last. "We can bypass  your
Captain  Drome  entirely  and run you a forward  screen  net  that
should flash out the sort of ambushes the Rebel Alliance likes  to
stage these days. You said three days till departure; that'll give
us  time to bring a few other teams in. We should be able to field
a minimum of ten ships in the screen, plus a two ship aft guard in
case  the  Rebels  try  something cute." She lifted  her  eyebrows
slightly. "The fee will be thirty thousand."
   Kellering's eyes bulged. "Thirty thousand?" He gulped.
   "You got it," Manda said. "Take it or don't."
   Shada  watched Kellering's face as it went through the  run  of
shock,  nervousness, and discomfiture. But as  Manda  had  pointed
out, if he hadn't already made his decision they wouldn't be here.
"All  right," he sighed. "All right. Dr. Eloy can cut you a credit
when we meet with him this afternoon."
   Manda shot Shada a quick glance. "You want us to meet with  Dr.
Eloy?"
   "Of  course." Kellering seemed surprised by the question. "He's
the one most worried about security."
   "Yes, but . . . where would we meet him? Here?"
   "No,  at the compound," Kellering said. "He almost never leaves
there. Don't worry, I can get you in."
   "What  about  Drome?" Manda asked. "You said  yourself  he  was
pretty touchy on the subject of outsiders."
   "Captain Drome isn't in charge of the project," Kellering  said
with precise firmness. "Dr. Eloy is."
   "Such  details seldom bother Imperial military officers," Manda
countered. "If he catches us there-"
   "He  won't," Kellering assured her. "He won't even know  you're
there.  Besides, you need to see how the Hammertong's been  loaded
aboard  the  ship if you're going to know how to properly  protect
it."
   Manda  didn't  look  happy, but she nodded  nevertheless.  "All
right," she said, her hand curling.into a subtle signal as she did
so. "I have a couple of matters to attend to here first, but after
that I'll be happy to come with you. Shada can go offplanet in  my
place and get the rest of the team assembled."
   "Understood."   Shada  nodded.  The  team   didn't   need   any
assembling,  of  course-all six of them were right  here  in  this
tapcafe,  with  their  two  disguised fighters,  the  Skyclaw  and
Mirage, parked in separate docking bays across town. But it was as
good  an excuse as any for Shada to disappear from sight. Backups,
after all, weren't supposed to be seen.
   "Good,"  Manda said briskly. "Have the others here in Gorno  by
nightfall.  In  the meantime-" She gestured Kellering  toward  the
door.  "We'll go deal with a couple of details, and then  go  meet
your Dr. Eloy."
   
   "They're  approaching the gate," Pav D'armon's  voice  murmured
from  one  of  the two comlinks fastened to Shada's  collar.  "Two
guards  visible,  but I see movement in the gatehouse  behind  the
fence. Could be as many as six or seven more in there."
   "Copy," Shada acknowledged, stroking a finger restlessly across
the  side  of her sniper's blaster rifle and wishing Pav  wouldn't
get so chatty on the air. Mistryl comlinks were heavily encrypted,
but   that  wouldn't  stop  the  Imperials  from  pinpointing  the
transmissions if they took it into their heads to do so. And  this
close to a major base, that was a distinct possibility.
   The  base.  Lifting her eyes from the section of  road  winding
through  the  hills  below-the road Manda and Kellering  would  be
traversing in a few minutes if they made it through the gate-Shada
studied  the  waves  of  rolling hills  that  stretched  into  the
distance  beyond the innocuous security fence cutting  across  her
view.  It  certainly looked like the agricultural test ground  the
signs  on the fence claimed it to be, not at all like the weapons-
bristling popular image of an Imperial military research base. But
its  strategic  location,  within fifty kilometers  of  the  Gorno
spaceport  and four major technical supply and transport  centers,
made its true identity obvious.
   Perhaps  too  obvious. Perhaps that was why  they  were  moving
everyone  out. She wondered how they would handle it: subtly  with
freighters, or blatantly with Imperial Star Destroyers.  Kellering
had  implied  this Hammertong thing had already  been  loaded  for
transport; a look at the ship they were using should give Manda  a
clue  as to how they were going to go about it. That would  affect
how their screen net would be put together-
   "They're  through,"  Pav  reported.  "Gate's  closing.  They're
headed your way."
   "Copy,"  Shada  said, frowning. There was  something  in  Pav's
voice . . . "Trouble?"
   "I  don't  know,"  Pav  said slowly. "It all  looks  okay.  But
there's something here that feels wrong, somehow."
   Shada tightened her grip on her blaster rifle. Pav might  be  a
chattercase  on  the com, but she hadn't survived long  enough  to
become Manda's team second without good combat instincts. "What do
you mean?"
   "I'm  not sure," Pav said. "They got through just a little  bit
too quick-"
   And  abruptly,  Pav's  voice dissolved  into  an  earsplit-ting
shriek of jamming static.
   With a curse, Shada ripped the comlink from her collar with her
left  hand, throwing it as far away from her as she could. So much
for Kellering's naive assurances of safety. In the split of a hair
the  thing  had suddenly gone sour . . . and Manda  and  Pav  were
right in the middle of it.
   With  Shada herself about to come in a close third. Beyond  the
fence,  from  over  the  next line of hills,  the  gleaming  white
figures  of  a  dozen stormtroopers on speeder bikes had  suddenly
appeared. Headed her way.
   Shada  cursed again, lining up her blaster rifle with her right
hand  as she groped for the switch on her backup comlink with  her
left.  If  they  were  lucky, they'd  have  a  minute  before  the
Imperials  found  that  frequency and locked  it  down,  too.  She
located the switch, flicked it on-
   "-trap-repeat,  a  trap,"  Pav was  saying,  her  voice  tight.
"They've  got Manda-she's down. Probably. And they're  coming  for
me."
   "Pav,  it's Shada," Shada cut in, squinting through  the  sight
and  squeezing off a shot. The lead storm-trooper's  speeder  bike
exploded  into a shower of sparks, pitching him to the ground  and
nearly doing the same to the two on either side of him. "I can  be
there to back you up in two minutes."
   "Negative,"  Pav  said.  The tension in  her  voice  was  gone,
leaving  a  sad  sort of resignation that sent  a  cold  chill  up
Shada's  neck. "They're already too close. I'll do what I  can  to
keep  them busy - you and Karoly had better get back to the  ships
and get out of here. Good luck, and good - "
   There was a brief crinkle of sound, and then silence.
   Ahead,  the  speeder bikes had shifted into evasive  maneuvers.
Shada   fired   four  rapid  shots,  catching   another   of   the
stormtroopers with the third of them. "Karoly?" she called  toward
her comlink. "Karoly? Are you there?"
   "They're  gone,  Shada," Karoly D'ulin said, her  voice  almost
unrecognizable. "They're gone. The storm-troopers - "
   "Snap  out  of  it,"  Shada snarled, keying the  Viper  grenade
launcher  attached to her blaster rifle barrel. The recoil  kicked
the gun hard into her shoulder as the slender cylinder blasted out
toward  the  approaching  stormtroopers.  "Can  you  get  to  your
speeder?"
   There  was  a  short  pause, and Shada could  imagine  Karoly's
earnest face as she pulled herself together. "Yes," she said. "Are
we retreating?"
   "Not  a  chance,"  Shada  said through gritted  teeth,  getting
halfway  to  her  feet and heading at a crouch toward  the  bushes
where her speeder bike was hidden. "We're heading in. Get moving."
The  approaching stormtroopers, finally presented with  a  target,
opened fire -
   Just as the grenade hit the ground ten meters in front of them,
exploding into a billowing cloud of green smoke.
   "We're going in?" Karoly echoed in disbelief. "Shada-"
   "I'm  clear."  Shada cut her off, slinging the rifle  over  her
shoulder  and kicking the speeder bike to life. Over the  roar  of
the  engine  she  could hear the thuds of her erstwhile  attackers
falling  out  of the sky as the specially formulated smoke  burned
into  the speeder bikes' power connectors. "Call Cai and Sileen  -
tell them to bring the ships in for backup."
   "But where are we going?"
   Shada  swung the speeder bike around. Manda and Pav were  gone,
and she knew that eventually the pain of that loss would catch  up
with her. But for right now, she had only enough room for a single
emotion.
   Rage.
   "We're going to teach the Imperials a lesson," she told Karoly.
Kicking  the throttle to full power, she jumped the fence,  curved
around the edge of the green cloud, and headed in.
   It was a little over ten kilometers from the outer fence to the
main  base  area, and for the first eight of them Shada  flew  low
over  the  rolling hills and wondered where in blazes the  vaunted
Imperial  defenses  were. Either they hadn't  thrown  this  ambush
together  until Kellering's ground car pulled up at the  gate,  or
else  they'd  assumed  their quarry  would  run  for  it  and  had
concentrated their forces out beyond the fence.
   Or else they were concentrating on Karoly. Blinking against the
wind pounding against her face, trying not to think about what she
might have gotten her teammate into, Shada kept going.
   She was two kilometers out when the Imperials seemed to finally
wake up to the fact they had an intruder in their midst . . .  and
those  two  kilometers more than made up for the preceding  eight.
Three  Mekuun hoverscouts rose from nowhere to meet her, bolstered
by  two  more squads of speeder-bike storm-troopers.  Off  to  the
side,  sections of two hills opened up, revealing a pair  of  what
looked  like Comar an-tiatmospheric guns. The air around  her  was
suddenly  thick  with blaster and laser bolts, some  missing,  the
rest  deflected by shields that hadn't really been  designed  with
this  kind  of  all-out attack in mind. Clenching her  teeth  hard
enough  to hurt, Shada kept going, maneuvering and returning  fire
on  pure  reflex. Off to her left, she could see another whirlwind
of Imperial activity near where Karoly should be coming in-
   And then, suddenly, the hoverscouts and speeder bikes seemed to
scramble  out of her path. The Comar guns shifted their  aim  away
from her -
   And  with  a  screaming roar the Skyclaw  shot  past  overhead,
spitting a withering fire of laser blasts at the Imperials.
   "Kan  si  manis per tarn, Sha," Sileen's voice blared from  the
Skyclaw's belly loudspeaker. "Mi nazh ko."
   "Sha kae," Shada shouted back, shifting fifteen degrees to  her
left  as per Sileen's instructions and permitting herself a  flash
of  cold satisfaction. The Imperials might be able to jam comlinks
and  slice sophisticated encrypts, but she would bet starships  to
groundworms they wouldn't have the faintest idea what to  do  with
Mistryl  battle language. To her left, she could see Cai  and  the
Mirage  now,  running  cover for Karoly,  and  she  made  a  quick
estimate  of  their intersect point. Just over  the  next  row  of
hills,  she  decided. Dropping a little lower to the  ground,  she
braced herself for whatever Sileen had sent her toward.
   She  topped the hills; and there, nestled in a wide valley, was
a  complex of perhaps twenty buildings, ranging in size from  flat
office  blocks  to a single win-dowless structure the  size  of  a
capital  ship maintenance hangar. The Hammertong base,  without  a
doubt.
   And  lying in the middle of it all, dominating the scene by the
sheer  unexpectedness of its presence there, was  the  long  sleek
shape of a Loronar Strike Cruiser.
   "Sha  re  rei  som kava na talae," Sileen's voice boomed  again
from  above  her.  Without waiting for an  answer,  both  fighters
veered off to the right.
   A  motion  to  her left caught Shada's eye, and she  turned  as
Karoly's  speeder bike slid into formation beside  her.  "You  all
right?" Shada called.
   "Yes,"  Karoly shouted back. She still looked ner- , vous,  but
at  least she didn't look as if she were going to freeze up again.
"What did Sileen say? I didn't catch it."
   "More Imperials coming," Shada said. "She and Cai are going  to
intercept."
   "What about us?"
   Shada  nodded toward the Strike Cruiser. "We're going  to  make
the  Imperials hurt a little. Bow hatchway's open-let's try to get
there before they get it sealed."
   They found out immediately what two of the smaller buildings on
the  periphery of the complex were for, as sections of  wall  fell
away  and four more Comar guns opened fire. But it was too  little
too  late. Between the harassment from the two fighters  and  the-
small  size  and maneuverability of the speeder bikes  themselves,
Shada  and Karoly made it past the hot drive nozzles at the Strike
Cruiser's stern and into the relative shelter of its flank with no
damage apart from burned-out shields.
   "Pretty  rotten  security they've got here," Karoly  huffed  as
they  headed toward the bow hatchway. An instant later she  nearly
had  to swallow those words as, from the ground beside the landing
ramp,  a dozen Imperials opened fire with blaster rifles. But  the
two  speeder  bikes had the edge in both firepower  and  targeting
accuracy,  and  they'd  covered  no  more  than  half  the  Strike
Cruiser's  four-hundred-fifty-meter length  before  that  nest  of
opposition had been silenced.
   "Now  what?" Karoly asked as they braked to a halt at the  foot
of the ramp.
   "We  do  some  damage," Shada said, half  standing  up  on  her
speeder bike and taking a quick look around. There was still  some
resistance, mostly from the Comars and the handful of speeder-bike
stormtroopers that hadn't yet been blown out of the sky.  She  and
Karoly  should  have enough time to make their way to  the  Strike
Cruiser's bridge, drop a canister or two of their corrosive  green
smoke  where  it  would do the most good, and get the  blazes  out
again.
   And then, over the distant hills ahead, a new group of Imperial
forces appeared, burning through the air toward them like scorched
mynocks.  "Uh-oh," Karoly muttered. "I take it  back  about  their
security. Maybe we'd better get out while we still can."
   Shada  took a deep breath, her last views of Manda's and  Pav's
faces  floating up from her memory. "Not until we've  hurt  them,"
she  said, swiveling around and pointing her speeder bike  at  the
ramp. "Stay here long enough to give me a two-minute warning, then
you can take off."
   Karoly hissed between her teeth. "Get moving," she gritted  out
as she dropped her speeder bike into the limited protection of the
ramp  and  unslung  her blaster rifle. "I'll cover  you.  Make  it
fast."
   "Bet  on  it,"  Shada agreed tightly, trying to  visualize  the
standard  Strike  Cruiser layout as she headed up  the  ramp.  She
would have to go forward about ten meters along the exit corridor,
then  starboard  to  the central corridor,  then  forward  another
twenty  meters  to  get  to  the bridge. Standard  Strike  Cruiser
complement was something over two thousand crewers; if  there  was
even a fraction of that number aboard who felt like getting in her
way  .  .  .  but  she would just have to do what she  could.  She
reached  the top of the ramp, swerving to the side as  she  passed
under the hatchway arch to avoid the exit corridor bulkhead-
   And lurched to an abrupt halt. "Mother of-"
   "What?"  Karoly's voice snapped from the comlink on her collar.
"Shada? What is it?"
   For a moment Shada was too stunned even to speak. Stretched out
in  front  of  her,  where the command rooms, crew  quarters,  and
combat stations should have been, was a vast cavern of open space,
three  hundred  meters long and nearly fifty in diameter,  running
all  the  way  from the bow to the main drive section.  A  heavily
reinforced deck had been built across the bottom of the huge room,
connected  to  the  outer  hull by an intricate  spiderwebbing  of
support lines and bracing struts.
   And extending down die center of the chamber for at least three-
quarters of its length was a three-meter-diameter cylinder studded
with  thousands  of  pipe connections and multicolored  power  and
control   cable  linkages.  Carefully  wrap-protected,   just   as
carefully static-fastened to the deck, all ready for travel.
   The Hammertong.
   "Shada?" Karoly called again.
   Shada  swallowed,  glancing around. The chamber  seemed  to  be
deserted,  its crew or workers probably those who'd been  shooting
at them from the foot of the ramp. To her left, at the far forward
end  of  the chamber, the standard Strike Cruiser bridge had  been
replaced  by a simplified freighter-style cockpit, also  unmanned.
And from the looks of the status displays- and the way those drive
nozzles  had  been humming when she and Karoly had passed  them-it
looked  as  if they'd been running an active status check  on  the
flight systems when the Mistryl attack had interrupted them.
   Which meant the ship should be pretty much ready to fly ...
   "Change  of  plans,"  she  told Karoly,  swiveling  around  and
gunning the speeder bike forward toward the cockpit setup. "Get in
here. And seal the door behind you."
   She  was running the start-up procedure at the Strike Cruiser's
helm  by  the time Karoly joined her. "Mother of space and  time,"
Karoly  breathed,  backing  up to the  copilot's  seat,  her  eyes
goggling  at  the room behind them. "Is that the Hammertong  thing
Kellering was talking about?"
   "I  don't  know  what else it could be," Shada  said,  mentally
crossing  her  fingers as she eased in the repulsorlifts.  A  ship
this  size wasn't really designed to come this deep into a gravity
well  .  . . but it seemed to be lifting okay. The Imperials  must
have  added  more  repulsorlifts  while  they  were  gutting   the
interior. "Get the comm adjusted to our frequency, will you?"
   "Sure." Still keeping half an eye behind them, Karoly sat  down
and busied herself with the comm. "What's the plan?"
   "The  Imperials went to a lot of work to build that  thing  and
modify a ship to transport it," Shada said, giving the displays  a
careful  scan.  For  all  their arrogance, the  Imperials  weren't
stupid, especially when it came to hardware as impressive  as  the
Hammertong.  If  their ground defenses had been low-profile,  they
were  bound to have some heavy space-based weaponry nearby to back
it up.
   But  if  it  was  there, it wasn't showing up on the  displays.
Hiding around the horizon? Or could the Mistryl counterattack have
caught the whole bunch of them by surprise?
   Either way, there was no percentage in waiting around for  them
to  get  their  seats under their rears. "You got Cai  and  Sileen
yet?" she asked Karoly.
   "Almost,"  Karoly  said,  her hands busy  on  the  board.  "I'm
running a split-freq mix . . . there we go."
   "Shada?  Karoly?" Sileen 's voice came over the speaker.  "What
in blazes are you doing?"
   "We're giving the Empire a bloody nose," Shada said. The Strike
Cruiser  had cleared the boundary of the base now and was starting
to  pick up speed, leaving what was left of the speeder-bike force
behind them.
   "Shada  -  look, we're all upset about Manda and  Pav,"  Sileen
said carefully. "But this is just crazy. You're going to bring the
whole Imperial fleet down on top of us."
   "They  need to know they can't just go around killing Mistryl,"
Shada  retorted. "Not without paying dearly for it. Karoly  and  I
can handle it ourselves if you want to leave."
   There  was  a  hissing sigh from the speaker. "No, we'd  better
stick  together," Sileen said. "Anyway, what can the Empire do  to
us that hasn't already been done?"
   "I'm  in,  too," Cai said. "One small question: Now that  we've
got the Hammertong, what are we going to do with it?"
   Shada glanced back at the long silent cylinder behind her,  the
enormity of what she'd gotten them into belatedly starting to sink
in. What were they going to do with the Hammertong? She and Karoly
could  nurse  the  Strike Cruiser along  for  a  short  flight  by
themselves,  but that was it. Anything beyond that -  fancy  maneu
vering,  combat, even basic running maintenance - was out  of  the
question.  "We'll  have to ditch the ship," she told  the  others.
"Someplace  close by. Find a way to hide it, then see  if  we  can
disassemble  the Hammertong into pieces we can put aboard  one  of
our own freighters."
   "Sounds tricky," Karoly said. "You got someplace in mind?"
   "We've  got company," Sileen cut in before Shada could  answer.
"Imperial Star Destroyer, coming out of hyperspace aft."
   "Got  it," Karoly said, swiveling around to the sensor  section
of  the board. "Confirm one Imperial Star Destroyer. Launching TIE
fighters."
   "The  base  probably called for help," Shada said,  keying  the
navcomputer.  This  was  it:  no second  thoughts,  no  chance  of
grounding  the  Strike Cruiser and escaping aboard  the  fighters.
They  were  committed now. "Cai, Sileen, here  comes  your  course
feed- code Bitterness. Make the jump to lightspeed as soon as  you
can; we'll be right behind you."
   There  was a brief pause. "You sure this is where you  want  to
go?" Sileen asked.
   "I  don't  see us having a lot of choices," Shada  said.  "It's
close,  it hasn't got much of an Imperial presence, and the locals
don't ask a lot of questions." She could imagine Sileen gazing out
at  the  Strike  Cruiser and wondering just how  far  the  locals'
indifference was going to stretch. But-
   "All  right," was all Sileen said. "You want both of us to come
with you, or should I head out and try to scare up a freighter?"
   "That's  a good idea," Shada agreed. "Go ahead. Cai and  Karoly
and I can handle this end."
   "Okay. Good luck."
   The  Skyclaw  flickered  with pseudomotion  and  vanished  into
hyperspace.  "Here we go," Shada muttered, keying in their  course
and hoping fervently that the Imperials hadn't torn the hyperdrive
apart  as  part of the ship's preflight check. Those TIE  fighters
back there were getting uncomfortably close, and there wasn't much
margin for error here. "Everything set there, Karoly?"
   "Looks like it," Karoly said, checking over her own board. "You
going to let me in on the big secret of where we're going?"
   "No  secret,"  Shada said, reaching for the hyperdrive  levers.
"Just a useless little hole in space. Called Tatooine."
   
   It  was not so much a landing as it was a marginally controlled
crash;  and by the time the Strike Cruiser had skidded to  a  halt
against one of the rippling sand dunes, it was clear to Shada that
the  ship would never leave there again. Not without a great  deal
of assistance.
   "Terrific  landing,"  Karoly commented,  her  breath  coming  a
little  heavily  as  she  shut down the  drive.  "I  presume  it's
occurred  to  you  that we stick out here like a  Wookiee  wearing
landing lights."
   "Not  for  long  we won't," Shada said, checking the  displays.
"That  cloud  to  the  west is the leading edge  of  a  sandstorm.
Another hour and no one's going to find us. Come on, let's go take
a look at our new toy."
   They had the wrap-protection off the first couple of meters  of
the  Hammertong by the time Cai joined them. "Any trouble?"  Shada
asked.
   "Not  really,"  Cai  said, stepping up to  the  Hammertong  and
peering closely at it. "I'm not sure they even picked me up coming
in. They sure didn't hail me."
   "Usually no one bothers with ships that aren't coming into  the
spaceport  at Mos Eisley," Shada said. "A lot of contraband  comes
through Tatooine, and everyone pretty much looks the other way."
   "I'm  glad  one  of  us keeps up with these things,"  Cai  said
dryly. "So this is the Hammertong, huh? Any idea what it is?"
   "Not  yet," Shada said. "How's your astromech droid doing these
days?"
   "Deefour? Erratic but functional. You want me to go get him?"
   Shada  nodded.  "We'll want to get a technical readout  at  the
very least. Is the Mirage ready for that sandstorm?"
   "As  ready as it's going to be," Cai said, heading back  toward
the  hatchway. "I tried to position it to keep a passage clear  to
both  ships, and we can put the hatchway deflector shields up just
to make sure. I'll be right back."
   The full force of the sandstorm hit about ten minutes after Cai
and the droid returned; and it took less than ten minutes more for
Shada  to  wonder  if this whole idea might not have  been  a  big
mistake.  Even through the thick hull they could hear the drumming
of  the  sand against the ship, a drumming that was growing louder
with  each  passing minute. The plan had been to hide  the  Strike
Cruiser  from  probing Imperial eyes; it would be a rather  costly
victory if they all wound up entombed inside it.
   Cai  was apparently thinking along the same lines. "That's  all
die  bolts  down  there," she said, climbing out  from  under  the
Hammertong and handing her hydrospanner to Karoly. "I'm  going  to
go  check  on  the storm. Make sure we're not getting  buried  too
deep."
   "Good  idea," Shada said, returning her attention  to  her  own
line  of bolts. She finished them, waited as Karoly finished hers,
and then together they eased the massive access panel off.
   The  Hammertong's inner workings weren't nearly as  complex  as
the  number  of  pipe  and power connections  poking  through  the
surface would have suggested. Most of the power and control cables
seemed to run to a series of multihelix prismatic crystals  and  a
group  of  unlabeled but identical black boxes; the piping  seemed
mostly  connected to coolant lines and sleeves. "Maybe  it's  some
new  kind  of  power  core,"  Shada  suggested.  "It's  a  modular
design-see how the pattern of connectors repeats every five meters
down  the  side?  We ought to be able to take it  apart  at  those
spots."
   "Maybe," Karoly said, prodding thoughtfully at one of the black
boxes  with the end of her hydrospanner. "Deefour, see if you  can
find  a  place to tie in. Might as well start pulling a  technical
readoutr-we're going to want everything we can get on this thing."
   "Hey!"  Cai  called from the cockpit area. "Shada, Karoly-you'd
better come see this."
   She  was hunched over the main display, fiddling with the fine-
tuning,  when  the  other two reached her.  "What  is  it?"  Shada
demanded.
   "I'm  not sure," Cai said. "Hard to tell through all the  sand,
but  I think there's a battle going on up there. An Imperial  Star
Destroyer against something about the size of a bulk freighter."
   Shada  leaned over the display, heart pounding. If  Sileen  had
been  unexpectedly fast at bringing in transport for them  .  .  .
"Can you scrub the image any more?" she asked.
   "I'm  at the limit already," Cai said. "It's the sandstorm-wait
a minute, there's a break. It's a Corellian Corvette."
   Shada  let  out  a quiet sigh. Not one of the Mistryl's  ships,
then. "I wonder what's going on."
   "I  don't know," Cai said slowly. "Wait a minute. Two more Star
Destroyers coming in from hyperspace."
   "That's a lot of firepower for a planet like Tatooine,"  Karoly
said. "They only had one Star Destroyer guarding the Hammertong."
   "Unless one or more of these were supposed to have been  there,
too,"  Shada  suggested. "Could be they got pulled  away  to  help
chase that Corellian."
   "Either  way, the Corellian must be pretty important to  them,"
Cai  said.  "We  could  be in the middle of something  really  big
here."
   Shada  looked 'back at the Hammertong and the diminutive  droid
working  alongside it. Cai was right . . . and  suddenly  she  was
feeling very short on time. "Cai, do you think we could get one of
those modules off the Hammertong?''
   "We  could  try. Probably take a couple of days with  just  the
three of us and Deefour. Why?"
   "I  don't  think we're going to be able to wait for  Sileen  to
bring  back a ship," Shada said. "If she hasn't made it in by  the
time  we get one of those modules off, we'd better take what we've
got and get out of here."
   "You'll never get one of those modules into the Mirage," Karoly
objected. "It's way too big."
   "I know," Shada said. "That's why, if it comes to that, you and
I  will go to Mos Eisley and hire ourselves a freighter. Come  on,
let's get started."
   
   "Over   there,"  Shada  said,  pointing  toward  a  dilapidated
building  across  the sandy Mos Eisley street and  double-checking
her datapad. "That's the cantina."
   "Doesn't  look like much," Karoly said, swinging  the  Mirage's
antique  speeder over toward it. "You really think we're going  to
find a good pilot in there?"
   "Someone  in the Mistryl thought so." Shada shrugged.  "It  was
the top name on the contingency list for Tatooine."
   "I  doubt  that's  a  really  telling  recommendation,"  Karoly
grumbled, letting the speeder coast to a stop. "I don't like this,
Shada. I really don't."
   "Brea,  not  Shada,"  Shada corrected her. "And  you're  Senni.
Don't forget that inside or this whole thing could fall apart."
   "It's  got  a good chance of doing that all by itself,"  Karoly
shot  back.  "Look,  just  because a couple  of  stormtroopers  on
traffic  duty  bought this charade"- she gestured sharply  at  the
slinky jumpsuit and hived-hairdo wig she was wearing-"doesn't mean
anyone who actually knows the Tonnika sisters is going to fall for
it. They're not."
   "Well,  we  certainly can't use our own names and  IDs,"  Shada
pointed  out,  trying  to  hide her  own  nervousness  about  this
masquerade.  "This  place is crawling with stormtroopers  already,
and  if  they haven't got listings on us yet, they will soon.  The
Mistryl  have been running this camouflage prematch system  for  a
long  time now, and I've never yet heard of it failing. If it says
the two of us can pass as Brea and Senni Tonnika, then we can."
   "Looking  like them and acting like them are two very different
things,"  Karoly  countered. "Besides which, pretending  to  be  a
couple of criminals is not my idea of keeping low."
   She  had  a  point, Shada had to admit. Brea and Senni  Tonnika
were professional con artists-good ones, too-who were said to have
separated   an  impressive  amount  of  wealth  from  an   equally
impressive  list of the galaxy's rich and powerful.  Under  normal
circumstances, borrowing their identities would indeed  not  be  a
smart way to stay inconspicuous.
   But the circumstances here were far from normal. "We don't have
any  choice,"  she said firmly. "Complete strangers  automatically
draw  attention,  and a place like Mos Eisley is  always  crawling
with  informants. Especially now. Our only chance of  keeping  the
Imperials  off  us is to look as if we belong here. To  everyone."
She  looked out at the cantina. Karoly was right; the place didn't
look  very inviting. "If you'd rather, you can stay out  here  and
watch the door. I can find a pilot by myself."
   Karoly sighed. "We're going to have to talk someday about these
sudden surges of recklessness. Come on, we're wasting time."
   Shada  had held out the hope that, like certain other  criminal
dens  she'd  heard of, the cantina's interior would  be  a  marked
improvement over its exterior. But it wasn't. From the dark, smoke-
filled  lobby and flickering droid detector to the curved bar  and
secluded booths along the walls, the cantina was as shabby as some
of  the  less choice tapcafes on their own world. Karoly had  been
right: Being number one on Tatooine wasn't saying much.
   "Watch the steps," Karoly murmured beside her.
   "Thanks," Shada said, catching herself in time not to trip over
the  steps  leading down from the lobby to the main  part  of  the
cantina.  She  hadn't realized until then just how much  her  eyes
were  having  to  adjust from the bright sunlight outside  to  the
dimness  of the interior. Probably deliberately designed  to  give
those already inside a chance to check out any newcomers.
   But  if  any of the patrons were overly curious about  her  and
Karoly,  they  weren't  showing it. Around the  room,  humans  and
aliens  of  all sorts were sitting or squatting at the tables  and
booths  or  leaning  against the bar, drinking a  dozen  different
liquids  and  chatting.  in a dozen different  languages  and  not
paying the least bit of attention to the new arrivals. Apparently,
the  Tonnika sisters were familiar enough to the clientele  to  be
known on sight.
   Or  else minding one's own business was the general rule  here.
Either way, it suited Shada just fine.
   "What now?" Karoly asked.
   "Let's  go  over to the bar," Shada said, nodding to  an  empty
spot against one side. "We can see the room better from there than
from  a  table or booth. We'll get a drink and see if we can  find
anyone from our listings."
   They  made their way through the general flow of bodies to  the
bar. Across the room, a Bith band was belting out some bouncy  but
otherwise nondescript tune, the music not quite able to drown  out
the mix of conversations. Partway around the bar a tall not-quite-
human  was  smoking from an oddly shaped loop pipe and gazing  off
broodingly into space; beyond him, an Aqualish and a badly scarred
man  were  drinking and glaring around at other customers;  beyond
them, another tall human was holding a quiet conversation with  an
even taller Wookiee.
   "What'll you have?" a surly voice asked.
   Shada focused on the bartender standing there in front of them.
The expression on his face matched his voice; but there seemed  to
be some recognition behind the indifference in his eyes.
   Enough to risk an experiment. "We'll have the usual," she  told
him.
   He  grunted  and  busied himself at the bar. Shada  glanced  at
Karoly's  suddenly  aghast  expression, winked  reassuringly,  and
turned  back as the bartender put two slender glasses in front  of
them. He grunted again and walked away.
   Shada  picked up her glass, willing the tension to flow out  of
her. "Cheers," she said, lifting the glass to Karoly.
   "Are you crazy?" Karoly hissed back.
   "Would  you rather I had ordered something way out of character
for us?" Shada asked, taking a careful sip. Some kind of Sullustan
wine, she decided. "Let's get started."
   Still  glowering, Karoly pulled the slender cylinder  of  their
spies'  scanner/datapad from her jumpsuit and flicked it on.  "All
right,"  she muttered, glancing back and forth between it and  the
cantina's  patrons. "The fellow with the loop pipe  .  .  .  never
mind,  he's an assassin. Those two Duros over there ... no listing
here for them."
   "Their flight suits look too neat for smugglers, anyway," Shada
said.  Across  the bar, an old man with white hair and  beard  and
dressed  in  a brown robe stepped up to the Wookiee and  his  tall
companion. There was a short conversation between the two  humans,
and then the tall human gestured to the Wookiee and wandered away.
"What about that Aqual-ish over there?"
   "I was just checking him," Karoly said, peering down at the end
of  the  scanner.  "Name's  Ponda  Baba,  and  he's  definitely  a
smuggler. That scarface beside him-"
   "Hey!" the bartender barked.
   Shada  stiffened, her hand reaching reflexively for her  hidden
knife.
   But  the bartender wasn't looking at her. "We don't serve their
kind here," he snapped, gesturing sharply.
   "What?" came a voice from behind her.
   Shada  turned around. At the top of the steps stood a boy about
her  own  age,  dressed in loose white clothing  and  frowning  in
puzzlement  at  the  bartender. Beside  him  were  two  droids,  a
protocol  droid  and an as-tromech unit similar to  Cai's  Deefour
model. "Your droids," the bartender growled. "They'll have to wait
outside-we don't want them here."
   The  kid  spoke briefly to the droids, who turned and  scurried
back  out. Continuing down the steps alone, he moved over  to  the
bar  and  gingerly wedged himself in between the Aqualish and  the
old man in the brown robe.
   "The scarface is named Dr. Evazan," Karoly said. "I've got  ten
death sentences listed here for him."
   "For  smuggling?" Shada asked, frowning at the brown-robed  old
man.  There was something about him; some sense of quiet alertness
and self-control and power that set the hairs tingling on the back
of her neck.
   "No,"   Karoly  said  slowly.  "Botched  surgical  experiments.
Yecch."
   "We'll keep him in mind as a last resort," Shada said, her eyes
and  thoughts  still on the brown-robed man. Whoever  he  was,  he
definitely  didn't  fit  in with the rest  of  the  clientele.  An
Imperial  spy,  perhaps? "That old man over there-do  a  check  on
him,"  she  told Karoly. The kid was still standing on  his  other
side,   gawking  around  like  a  tourist.  Were  they   together?
Grandfather  and grandson, maybe, in from the countryside  to  see
the big city?
   And  then,  abruptly, the Aqualish gave the  kid  a  shove  and
snarled  something  at him. The kid looked at  him  blankly,  then
turned back to the bar. Stepping away from the bar, smiling rather
like a predator preparing himself for lunch, Dr. Evazan tapped the
kid on the shoulder. "He doesn't like you," he said.
   "Sorry," the kid breathed, starting to turn away again.
   Evazan  grabbed a handful of the kid's clothing and yanked  him
back  around, "I don't like you, either," he snarled, shoving  his
mangled  face close to the kid's. Around them, conversations  came
to  a  halt  as  heads turned to look. "You just watch  yourself,"
Evazan continued. "We're wanted men."
   "Uh-oh," Karoly said quietly.
   Shada  nodded silently. The kid was in for it now - she'd  seen
enough  tapcafe  fights to know a setup when she saw  one.  "We're
staying out of it," she reminded Karoly.
   "But if they get arrested - "
   Shada  cut  her off with a sharp gesture. Smoothly, gracefully,
as  if he'd been fully aware of the situation from the start,  the
old  man  had turned away from his conversation with the  Wookiee.
"This  little  one's not worth the effort," he said soothingly  to
Evazan. "Come, let me get you something."
   It  was, Shada realized, as neat a face-saving gesture as she'd
ever seen. Evazan and the Aqualish could now accept a drink, maybe
snarl  and  posture a little more, and then move on with  whatever
passed for personal honor intact.
   But unfortunately for the old man, Evazan wasn't interested  in
a peaceful setdement. For a split second he glared at the old man,
his  predator  look  hardening into something  ugly  and  vicious.
Conversation at the bar had all but ceased now, every  eye  turned
toward  the -violence about to break. From their alcove  the  band
played on, oblivious to what was happening.
   And  then, with a roar, Evazan shoved the kid violently to  the
side to crash into one of the tables. His hand swung up, a blaster
gripped in it. Beside him, the Aqualish also had his blaster  out,
an  urgent  "No blasters - no blasters!" from the bartender  going
completely unnoticed. The weapons swung up, targeting the old man.
   They  never  got there. Abruptly, the old man's  hand  exploded
into brilliant blue-white light, a flickering hard-edged fire that
slashed  with  surgical precision across his two attackers.  There
was  a blaster shot that ricocheted into the ceiling, a scream and
gurgling roar -
   And  then, as abruptly as it had begun, it was over. Evazan and
the  Aqualish collapsed out of sight beyond the bar,  their  moans
showing they were at least temporarily still alive. From where she
stood,  Shada could see the Aqualish's blaster lying on the floor,
still clutched in a hand no longer attached to its owner.
   For  another moment the old man remained as he was, his glowing
weapon  humming,  his  eyes  flicking around  the  cantina  as  if
assessing  the  possibility of more trouble. He could  have  saved
himself  the  effort. From the casual way the other  patrons  were
turning back to their drinks, it was obvious that no one here  had
any  particular affection for the downed smugglers. At  least  not
enough to take on the old man over it.
   And  it  was  in  that second's worth of pause that  Shada  was
finally  able to identify the weapon the old man had used  against
his attackers.
   A lightsaber.
   "You  still  want to know who he is?" Karoly asked  dryly  from
beside her.
   Shada licked at her lips, a fresh tingle running dirough her as
die  old man closed down his weapon and helped the kid back to his
feet.  A Jedi Knight. A real, living Jedi Knight. No wonder  she'd
sensed something odd about him. "I doubt he's for hire," she  told
Karoly,  taking  a deep breath and forcing her mind  back  to  die
business  at  hand. If the Jedi Knights of the  Old  Republic  had
still been in power when their world was destroyed ... "Well, that
eliminates  Evazan and the Aqualish," she said  to  Karoly.  "Keep
looking."
   They  spent  the  next  few minutes sipping  their  drinks  and
surreptitiously scanning the room, then spent a few  minutes  more
talking  to three of the most likely prospects. But to  no  avail.
Two  of  the smugglers were already under contract, though one  of
them  offered with a leer to take them along as passengers if they
were  nice to him. The third smuggler, an independent, was willing
to  talk,  but made it clear that he wasn't planning to  move  his
ship until this sudden Imperial focus on Tatooine had calmed down.
   "Great,"  Karoly  grumbled as they returned to  their  previous
spots at the bar. "Now what?"
   Shada  looked around. A few new faces had come into the cantina
since  they'd  begun their search, but most of them had  the  look
about  them of men who didn't want to be disturbed. She looked  in
turn  at  each of the booths lining the walls, wondering  if  they
might have missed someone.
   And  paused. There, right behind them, were the Jedi Knight and
the kid. Talking to the Wookiee and a man she hadn't seen come in.
"Check him out," she said, nodding toward the latter.
   Karoly  peered at the scanner readout. "Name's Han  Solo,"  she
said. "Smuggler. Does a lot of business with Jabba the Hutt- "
   "Put  it  away,"  Shada  interrupted her,  looking  toward  the
cantina lobby. "Quick."
   Karoly  followed her gaze, and Shada felt her stiffen. Striding
down  the  steps toward the bar, heavy weapons held at the  ready,
were  a  pair  of stormtroopers. Who clearly weren't  here  for  a
drink.
   "I wonder if there's a back door out of here," Karoly murmured.
   "I  don't know," Shada said, running a finger along her slender
wineglass  as  the Imperials summoned the bartender  over.  Thrown
against  the face of a storm-trooper helmet, it ought to slow  him
down  long enough for her to slide her knife blade into a critical
junction ...
   The  bartender  pointed somewhere behind them.  Shada  frowned,
then understood. "They must be asking about the Jedi Knight,"  she
said, turning to look at the booth. A knot of aliens brushed past,
momentarily blocking her view. They continued on -
   The  old  Jedi  was  gone. So was the kid.  The  storm-troopers
stepped up to the booth, eyed Solo and the Wookiee a moment,  then
moved on. For a moment, as they looked around, their armored masks
seemed  to  pause on Shada and Karoly. But they said nothing,  and
continued on their way toward the rear of the cantina.
   Karoly nudged her. "Now's our chance," she said. "Let's go talk
to him."
   Shada turned back. Solo and the Wookiee had left the booth now,
Solo heading for the lobby while the Wookiee went in the direction
the  stormtroopers  had gone. Probably where the  back  door  was,
which  would  explain  how the Jedi and the kid  had  disappeared.
"Right,"  Shada  agreed, taking one last sip from  her  glass  and
putting it back on the bar. She turned again -
   To  find  that Solo was no longer walking toward the lobby.  He
was,  instead, backing into a booth at the wrong end of a  blaster
held  by  a dirty-looking Rodian. "Uh-oh," Shada said. "Friend  of
his?"
   "Doubt it," Karoly said, palming the scanner. "Hang on ...  his
name's Greedo. He's a bounty hunter."
   For  a long moment Shada stared at the quietly tense discussion
in  the  booth, trying to decide what to do. Taking  action  would
jeopardize her cover as Brea Tonnika, and certainly there  was  no
shortage  of  smugglers in the cantina. But  there  was  something
about  the  way Solo carried himself that she liked. Or maybe  the
fact that he'd been talking widi the Jedi Knight . . .
   "I'm going to take him," she told Karoly. "Get ready to back me
up."
   She  reached for her knife; but before she could draw it,  Solo
solved  the  problem on his own. From the booth came  a  flash  of
muffled blaster fire, and the Rodian slumped over onto the  table.
Warily,  Solo  slid out of the booth, bolstered his  blaster,  and
continued on toward the lobby, flipping a coin to the bartender as
he passed.
   Karoly  let out a'breath. "Good thing we weren't interested  in
Greedo. This isn't a very healthy place to hang around."
   "No  kidding," Shada said. "Let's go catch Solo before he  gets
away."
   And  then, from behind her, a sweaty hand closed on her  wrist.
"Well, well, well," a voice said. "What have we here?"
   Shada  turned.  The sweaty hand belonged to a  sweaty  Imperial
colonel,  his  uniform  streaked with sandy  dust,  a  maliciously
pleased  look  on his face. Behind him were the two  stormtroopers
who'd  come  through  earlier.  "Brea  and  Senni  Tonnika,  I  do
believe," the colonel went on. "How nice of you to drop back  into
sight  again. You can't imagine how brokenhearted Grand Mqff Argon
has  been since your departure. I'm sure he'll be pleased  to  see
you  again."  He  lifted an eyebrow. "As well as  the  twenty-five
thousand you stole from him."
   Smiling sardonically, he gestured to the storm-troopers.  "Take
them away."
   
   The  police station cell was cooler than the cantina had  been,
but  that  was  about  all it had going for  it.  Small,  sparsely
furnished,  streaked with Tatooine's ubiquitous sand, it  had  all
the charm of a used transport crate.
   "Did  you  catch when they'd be moving us out?"  Karoly  asked,
leaning against a wall and gazing dolefully at the door.
   "Didn't sound as if it would be anytime soon," Shada said. "The
colonel  said  something  about finishing  up  the  search  before
getting us transferred to his ship."
   Karoly's  lip twitched. Clearly, she was also appreciating  the
irony  here:  The  Imperials'  search  had  already  ended,   only
they.didn't know it.
   Or  maybe they did know it. Maybe the colonel was just  playing
along  with  the  masquerade while he  sent  out  for  the  proper
interrogation equipment.
   Shada  looked  around the room. A single bunk, a  reading  lamp
fastened to the wall over one end, primitive refresher facilities,
a  barred  door,  and  a one-way observation window  opposite  it.
Limited resources, and no privacy to use them.
   Which left only their combat training. And the possibility that
the Imperials still didn't know they were dealing with Mistryl. "I
just hope they feed us before then," she commented to Karoly. "I'm
starving."
   Karoly's eyebrow twitched. "So am I," she said, looking around.
"Maybe  I  should beat on the bars and see if I can get  someone's
attention."
   "Go  ahead," Shada said, stretching out on the bunk and letting
her  hand  rest idly on the reading lamp above her head, examining
it with her fingertips. It was fastened to the wall over the bunk,
but a little work with her belt buckle ought to get it off. Behind
it  would be power cables . , . "On second thought, you might want
to  try that mirror instead," she said to Karoly, nodding back  at
the spy window. "Someone's probably watching it."
   "Okay," Karoly said. She stepped over to the window and pressed
her face against it, blocking the view into the cell. "Hey! Anyone
there?"
   Quickly, Shada pulled off her buckle and got to work as  Karoly
kept  up  the noise. She got one of the three fasteners  loosened;
did the second; started on the third-
   "Shut up the noise!" someone snapped.
   Shada  paused, palming the buckle, as a man in a faded  uniform
appeared at the door. "We're hungry," she complained.
   "Too  bad," he growled. "The meals come in two hours. Now  shut
up or I'll have you strapped down and muzzled."
   "Two  hours'?" Shada repeated. "We'll never make it that  long.
Can't you get us something to tide us over?"
   "Please?" Karoly added, smiling encouragingly.
   The  guard's lip twisted; and he was just opening his mouth for
what  would probably have been a memorable comeback when  a  young
man in civilian clothing stepped into view. "Problems, Happer?''
   "Always,"  the  other growled. "I thought  you  were  off  till
tonight."
   "I am," the younger man said, peering thoughtfully at Shada and
Karoly. "Heard you were drowning in prisoners; figured I'd come in
and take a look. Who do we have here?"
   "Brea  and  Senni Tonnika." Happer threw a glower  at  the  two
women.  "Very special prisoners of Colonel Parq. And none  of  our
business, if you ask me. If the Imperials want to lock up half  of
Mos  Eisley, the least they could do is provide their own  holding
tanks."
   "And do their own ID checks?"
   "Don't  remind me." Happer grunted. "I've got fifteen  of  them
running  right  now,  with about thirty more in  the  hopper."  He
glared  again at the prisoners. "Look, Riij, do me a  favor,  will
you?  Go down to Stores and pull a couple of ration bars for these
two.  I've  got  to go down to the check room - the sifter's  been
needing  a  lot of babysitting today, and those stormtroopers  are
starting to get snotty."
   "I'll handle it," Riij assured him. "Have fun."
   Happer  grunted again and disappeared down the corridor.  "So,"
Riij said, gazing at them again. "Brea and Senni. Which is which?"
   "I'm Brea," Shada said carefully. There was something about the
way he was looking at her that she didn't at all care for.
   "Ah," he said. "I'm Riij - Riij Winward. You know, I could have
sworn I heard you two had gotten on a transport heading out toward
Jabba the Hurt's three hours ago."
   Shada's  heart  seemed  to  seize up inside  her.  The  Tonnika
sisters  were here? On Tatooine? "We came back," she said  through
suddenly dry lips. "I guess we shouldn't have."
   "I guess not." Riij paused. "I heard something else interesting
too,  just after this big Imperial droid search came down all over
Mos  Eisley a couple of days ago. It seems the Empire's  also  put
out   an  urgent  search-and-detain  order  for  a  stolen  Strike
Cruiser."
   "A  Strike Cruiser?" Shada repeated, putting as much  scorn  as
she  could  into  her  voice. "Oh, I'm sure. People  steal  Strike
Cruisers all the time."
   "Yeah,  I  thought  that sounded pretty strange  myself,"  Riij
agreed. "So I went over and talked to a pal of mine at the control
tower to see if that was even possible. You know what he told me?"
   "I'm dying to hear."
   "He  said he'd picked up something sneaking in toward the  Dune
Sea  an  hour or so before that Star Destroyer showed up  and  all
these Imperials dropped in on us. Something just about the size of
a   Strike  Cruiser."  Riij  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "Interesting,
wouldn't you agree?"
   "Tremendously," Shada said, fighting to keep her  sudden  dread
out  of  her voice. So they had spotted the Strike Cruiser,  after
all.  And  Cai was in big trouble. "Were the Imperials pleased  to
hear this?"
   "Actually,  he  hasn't told them yet," Riij  said,  eyeing  her
closely.  "He was going off duty at the time and didn't feel  like
holding a question session with a bunch of stormtroopers. 'Course,
once  they came down in force and took over the tower, he was even
less  inclined  to  remember  stuff like  that.  That  happens  on
Tatooine."
   "I  see,"  Shada murmured. They were still in trouble,  but  at
least they still had a little breathing space. "You'll forgive  me
if  lost Imperial property isn't high on my list at the moment. We
have more pressing problems of our own."
   "I'm sure you do," Riij said solemnly. "Number one being how to
get  out of here before Happer finds out you aren't Brea and Senni
Tonnika."
   Shada felt herself tense up again. She'd suspected he knew, but
had been hoping fervently that she was wrong. "That's ridiculous."
   "It's  all  right," Riij said. "The microphones  in  this  cell
haven't  worked in three months. I popped out the circuit  fuse  a
few minutes ago too, just to make sure."
   Shada  glanced at Karoly. She looked as puzzled as Shada  felt.
"All  right,"  she  said, looking back at Riij. "Fine.  Let's  cut
through the smoke here and tell us what you want."
   Riij seemed to brace himself. "I'll let you out," he said.  "In
exchange for some of whatever's in that Strike Cruiser,"
   Shada  frowned at him. "What are you doing, running a smuggling
service on the side?"
   "Not  smuggling." He shook his head. "Information.  To  certain
interested parties."
   "What parties?"
   "It's  not  important." Riij smiled faintly. "On Tatooine,  one
normally doesn't ask that question."
   "Yes,  well,  we're new here," Shada countered, thinking  hard.
This  could be an Imperial trick, she knew: a way to get  her  and
Karoly  to  tell  them  where they'd hidden  the  Hammertong.  But
somehow  that  seemed  a little too subtle for  people  who  owned
interrogator  droids and normally had no compunction  about  using
them.  "All  right," she said. "But only if  you  can  find  us  a
freighter that can handle something three by five meters."
   Riij frowned. "Three by-?"
   "Hey,  Riij!"  Happer's voice called from  down  the  corridor.
"Gotta  go-something  big brewing over  at  Docking  Bay  97.  The
Imperials  have called the whole duty force in to run backup.  Can
you watch things here a while?"
   "Sure, no problem," Riij assured him.
   "Thanks."
   Happer  ran off, his footsteps cut off by the boom of a closing
security door. "Well?" Shada prompted.
   "I  can  get  a  freighter," Riij said,  forehead  wrinkled  in
thought.  "The  problem's  going to be  getting  it  fast  enough.
There's a sandstorm sweeping in across that part of the Dune Sea-a
big one. It'll hit in a couple of hours, and there's a good chance
it'll bury your ship for good."
   "Then  we haven't got much time, have we?" Shada said. "Get  us
out of here, and let's go."
   
   The  wind was already picking up across the sand dunes as  Riij
set the transport ship awkwardly down at the edge of the makeshift
tunnel  leading  to the Strike Cruiser. "How long  have  we  got?"
Shada  asked, shouting to be heard over the wind as the  three  of
them  half walked, half slid their way down the sand to the  hatch
way.
   "Not long," Riij called back. "Half an hour. Maybe less."
   Shada  nodded back, keying the panel open and stepping  inside.
On  the  deck  just  inside the hatchway lay the  segment  of  the
Hammertong they'd removed, its loadlifters still attached.  Across
the  huge  empty room Deefour was warbling to himself as he  poked
around  the  rest of the huge cylinder, searching  for  any  last-
minute  bits  of  data  he  could add to his  extensive  technical
readout  of  the  device. There was no sign of Cai.  "Cai?"  Shada
called. "Da mala ci tri sor kehai."
   "Sha  ma ti," Cai replied, emerging from hiding behind  one  of
the support struts and bolstering her blaster. "I was starting  to
think you weren't going to make it back in time."
   "We  may  not  have,"  Shada said grimly.  "We've  got  another
sandstorm   breathing   down  our  necks.  There's   a   transport
outside-you and Karoly get that Hammertong segment aboard."
   "Right," Cai said. "Karoly? Grab the lifts on that end."
   Together they got the Hammertong segment off the floor and  out
the  hatchway  as  Shada  went forward  to  the  Strike  Cruiser's
cockpit.  As  it had before, the flying sand was interfering  with
the  sensors, and she had to adjust the fine-tuning several  times
before she was able to get a good view. As far as she could  tell,
there were no longer any Star Destroyers over Tatooine. They  must
have   assumed  their  escaped  prisoners  had  already  made   it
offplanet. Keying off, she headed back to where Riij was  crouched
beside the end of the Hammertong cylinder, his face pressed  close
to  one of the openings. "So there it is," she said. "What do  you
think?"
   He  looked  up at her, his face pasty-white. "Do you know  what
you have here?" he whispered. "Do you have any idea?"
   "Not really," she said warily. "Do you?"
   "Look  here,"  he said, pointing to a plate. "See?  'D.S.  Mark
Two. Module Seven, Prototype B. Eloy/ Lemelisk.' "
   "I see it," Shada said. "What does it mean?"
   Riij  straightened up. "It means this is part of the  prototype
superlaser for the Death Star."
   Shada  stared at him, a shiver running up her back.  "What's  a
Death Star?"
   "The  Emperor's latest grab for power. Like nothing you've ever
seen." Riij looked back along the Ham-mertong's length. "And we've
got a piece here of its main weapon."
   "A  piece?"  Shada  frowned, following his gaze.  A  solid  two
hundred meters of laser- "You mean this isn't all of it?"
   "I  don't  think so," Riij said. "Module Seven,  remember?"  He
looked at Shada sharply. "I've got to have that piece you cut off.
It's absolutely vital."
   "Forget it," Shada said. "If this really is a weapon, my people
can find a better use for it than you can."
   "We'll pay you anything you want."
   "I  said  forget it," Shada said again, brushing past him.  Cai
was going to need help-
   And  abruptly, she was spun back around by a hand on  her  arm.
Reflexively, she reached up to break his
   grip-
   She  froze,  staring  at  the blaster that  had  appeared  from
nowhere in Riij's hand. "Is this how you keep your bargains?"  she
demanded.
   "You  have to let us have it," he said, his voice low. "Please.
We need to know everything we can about the Death Star."
   "Why?"
   He  swallowed  hard.  "Because we're likely  to  be  its  first
target."
   Shada stared at him. Tatooine was going to be the first target?
Ridiculous.
   And  then, suddenly, it fell into place. "You're with the Rebel
Alliance, aren't you?"
   He nodded. "Yes."
   Shada  focused on the blaster in his hand. "And this  thing  is
important enough to you to kill me in cold blood?"
   He  took a deep breath, let it out in a hissing sigh. "No,"  he
conceded. "Not really."
   "I didn't think so," Shada said. "Mish kom."
   And  in  the blink of an eye, it was all over. Cai,  coming  in
from behind the Hammertong, had Riij's blaster. And Riij. "What do
you  want  me to do with him?" she asked, handing the  blaster  to
Shada.
   Shada  looked at Riij, half bent over in Cai's grip.  "Let  him
go," she said. "He can't stop us now. Anyway, he's sort of on  our
side."
   "If  you  say  so," Cai said, releasing her hold  on  his  arm.
"We're ready to go as soon as you are."
   "All  right."  Shada pursed her lips. "Riij, can you  beat  the
storm in that airspeeder you had aboard the transport?"
   He nodded. "If I can get going in the next few minutes."
   "Fine. Cai, get it unloaded. And then you or Karoly get Deefour
aboard and get the ships ready to fly."
   "Got  it."  With  one  last look at Riij, Cai  headed  for  the
hatchway.
   Riij was still standing there, looking at Shada. "I'm sorry the
deal's fallen through," she told him, trying to ignore the pang of
guilt  twisting through her stomach. He'd risked a lot  for  them,
and  it looked as if he were going to wind up with nothing. "Look,
if  you can get back in here after the storm, you're more than wel
come to what's left of the Hammertong."
   "Let  me make you a counteroffer," Riij said. "Join us.  You've
already said we're on the same side."
   Shada  shook  her head. "We're barely making it  ourselves.  We
don't  have  the  time or the resources to take  on  the  galaxy's
problems. Not now."
   "If  you  wait too long, there may not be anyone left to  fight
with you," he warned.
   "I  understand," she said. "I guess it's a chance we'll have to
take. Good-bye. And good luck."
   The  sand  was shaking the transport's hull by the  time  Shada
finished double-checking the Hammertong's restraints and  made  it
back  up  to  the bridge. "We all set?" she asked  Karoly  as  she
strapped herself in.
   "Yes. Riij get off all right?"
   Shada nodded. "Looks as if just in time, too."
   Karoly  threw her a sideways look. "I'm not sure it was such  a
good idea to let him go."
   "If  we  start  killing anyone who gets in our  way,  we're  no
better  than  any  other mercenaries," Shada  said.  "Besides,  he
doesn't like the Empire any more than we do."
   The comm pinged. "I'm ready," Cai's voice came.
   "Same here," Shada told her. "Is Deefour all settled in?"
   "Deefour?" Cai echoed. "Didn't Karoly take him?"
   "I thought you had him," Karoly said.
   For  a  long  moment she and Shada just stared at  each  other.
Then,  with  a  muttered curse, Shada jabbed at  the  comm  panel.
"Riij? Riij, come in."
   There  was  a hiss of sand-driven static; and then the  other's
voice  came  faindy  over the speaker. "This is  Riij,"  he  said.
"Thanks for the loan of your droid. I'll leave him with the Bothan
shipping company on Piroket; you can have him back when you return
the freighter."
   Anodier crackle of static and he was gone. "You want me  to  go
after him?" Cai asked.
   Deefour, with a complete technical readout on the Hammertong  .
.  .  "No," Shada told her, smiling in spite of herself at  Riij's
ingenuity. "No, it's all right. We owe him that much. And if  he's
right,  he  and  his friends are going to need all  the  help  and
information they can get."
   Her  smile faded. "D.S. Mark 2" the plate on the Hammertong had
said.  Death  Star, Mark 2, perhaps? A second generation  of  this
thing Riij was so afraid of?
   It  could  be.  And if so, the Mistryl might have to  seriously
consider that offer to join up with the Rebel Alliance.
   And if not all of the Mistryl, perhaps Shada would do so on her
own.  Maybe there she would find something she could truly believe
in.
   But in the meantime, she had a package to deliver. "Fire up the
repulsorlifts," she told the others. "Let's go home."
   
   
   Play It Again, Figrin D'An: The Tale of Muftak and Kabe
   by A. C. Crispin
   
   Muftak  whiffed  the chilly, moist air with his short,  tubular
proboscis, testing it, trying to determine whether it was safe. As
he  sniffed,  the huge four-eye searched the street  for  infrared
afterimages  with his night-eyes, the larger, lower  pair  in  his
furry visage. Here, in the older part of Mos Eisley spaceport, the
darkness was nearly absolute, only lightened by the tiny gray half-
moon scuttling overhead.
   Gesturing to his small companion, Kabe, to stay behind him, the
shaggy  giant  crept forward to a better vantage  point  behind  a
large  garbage  receptacle. As he scanned, his  four  black  ball-
bearing  eyes  gleamed in the darkness of his face. Automatically,
his  olfactory  organ  filtered out  the  stench  of  the  rotting
garbage,  the rankness of unwashed bodies, both alien  and  human,
and   the  sharp,  musky  scent  of  his  Chadra-Fan  friend   and
accomplice.
   No  one  here recently. He waved a massive, fur-covered paw  at
his companion. "Come on," he rumbled, "the sandtroopers are gone."
   Kabe scampered out, her fanlike ears and little snout twitching
indignantly.  "I could have told you that long ago!" she  scolded,
in  her  squeaky,  double-time voice. "You  are  so  cursed  slow,
Muftak!  Slower than a bantha, that's for sure. We'll never  reach
home before daybreak! And I'm tired."
   Muftak gazed down at her, patiently enduring her tirade.  Kabe,
despite all her streetwise sophistication, was still a child. He'd
adopted  her  when  he'd found the baby Chadra-Fan  wandering  the
streets.  "We must be extra cautious," he reminded her.  "Imperial
troops  are everywhere. The sooner we reach home, the safer  we'll
be. Let's go."
   Kabe  subsided  sulkily, and started after  him.  "Why're  they
here,  that's  what  I'd like to know. Do you know,  Muftak?"  She
didn't  wait for a reply, and the four-eye held his peace.  Muftak
knew a great deal about the comings and goings in Mos Eisley,  but
generally,  he  only  divulged what he knew for  a  price.  "Ships
landing  all night!" she complained. "What the hell is  going  on,
anyway?  The Hutt's hiring them, that's what it is. He's going  to
cut us out completely. And if he won't take us back, we'll have to
beg!"
   Muftak  emitted an exasperated buzzing sound. "The Bloated  One
isn't part of this. This is Imperial business."
   Kabe's  sharp  little face blazed in Muftak's infrared  vision,
and  he  saw  her expression change. "Can't we go to  the  cantina
today?"  she  demanded, changing the subject. "Spacers  go  there,
drunk spacers with fat pockets. Last time we were there we ate for
a week on what I lifted. Please, Muftak?"
   "Kabe."  Muftak sighed, a faint humming noise in the stillness.
"I'm  not  so  stupid as all that. I know you never  miss  a  good
pocket, but the real reason you want to go to the cantina  is  for
juri juice." Absently, the four-eye inspected the twisty alleyways
that opened onto the street. "Two cups and I'll have to carry  you
home . . . the way I always do."
   Kabe's only response to this truism was an audible sniff.
   Dawn  came rapidly on Tatooine, and the desert sky was  already
taking  on the faint silver sheen that presaged the rising of  the
suns.  Muftak  lengthened his, strides, tempted to  pick  Kabe  up
bodily and really hurry. It was his fault they were so late.
   Expert  thieves  though they were, neither  Kabe's  skill  with
electronics nor Muftak' s great strength had prevailed against the
new  time-lock  devices that all the Imperial  hangars  now  bore.
Worse, one of the sandtroopers had spotted them ... but humans had
very poor night vision, and, to them, all exotic aliens tended  to
run together. In the dark, Muftak hoped, he could Ve been mistaken
for a Wookiee or one of the other large bipeds. Kabe was about the
same size as a Jawa.
   Stealing  Imperial  property was extremely risky  -  but  these
days, there was little else they could do. Any pay off would  have
justified  their effort, given them the wherewithal  to  buy  back
their  burglary  franchise  (lost due to  an  ill-advised  bit  of
pickpocketry  by  Kabe) from the Hutt. Everything  of  value  that
didn't  belong  to  the  Empire either belonged  to  or  had  been
declared  off-limits  by Jabba - and nobody was  crazy  enough  to
cross the Hutt crime lord.
   In  order  to  reach "home" - a tiny cubicle in  a  section  of
abandoned tunnels beneath Docking Bay 83- they had to pass through
the marketplace. Risky, but they had no choice.
   Kabe  bounced as she walked, half skipping, her restless energy
undepleted despite their night's labors. Muftak shuffled  rapidly,
though  he  felt almost too weary to place one huge,  padded  foot
before  the  other.  Suddenly, the tops of the  whitewashed  domes
gleamed;  moments later, everything was splashed  with  gold.  The
first  sun was rising. Muftak instinctively switched over  to  his
day-eyes, obscuring some details, revealing others. They passed  a
street vendor setting up for the day, then another.
   Mos  Eisley  was  a hellhole at best, and recent  changes  made
survival  even  more uncertain. The increasing  Imperial  presence
added  an  unpleasant  new  dimension to Jabba's  corrupt  regime.
Muftak's and Kabe's lives had never been easy; the two of them had
scrabbled  for years to eke out a living. Now, with  the  Senate's
inaction, things were growing worse. Previously, the four-eye  had
shared  his  little friend's indifference to politics, not  caring
who was in power, as long as they let him alone,
   But  the  sandtroopers were even worse than the  Hutt's  thugs.
Cold, cruel, brutal, they were like killing droids. Hundreds-maybe
thousands-had  been arriving during the last two days  to  enforce
the will of that ancient, rotting Emperor who lived far, far away.
Tightening the Empire's grip on my world . . .
   Bzzzzz.  Muftak's remote laughter echoed in  his  head  like  a
dancing bee. My world? Ridiculous! Bzzzzz . . .
   Since  there were no other creatures on Tatooine even  remotely
like  him,  Muftak knew only too well that this was not  his  home
world.  When he'd awakened that day long ago, standing beside  his
shredded  cocoon, he'd figured that his people had  originated  on
another  world-which one, he had no idea. He'd  spent  a  lifetime
searching for information about himself, and, in the process,  had
learned  much  about Tatooine, its deserts so different  from  the
lush  paradise of his dreams. Knowledge, the four-eye  found,  was
power,  of  sorts. Denizens of Mos Eisley knew that if you  wanted
information  about almost any activity or person on Tatooine,  you
went to see Muftak.
   Since  he'd  "adopted" Kabe, an orphan like  himself,  the  big
alien's  hazy dream-memories had receded into the background.  For
all practical purposes, Tatooine was his world.
   The  second  sun was rising as they made their way through  the
main  square of the marketplace. It was already getting  hot,  and
Muftak  felt his dew-wet, diaphanous fur drying out. Reaching  the
main  street,  the pair turned west, toward their  little  burrow,
trying  to hurry without looking suspicious. The fences  were  set
ting  up quickly and efficiently, displaying freshly stolen booty.
Muftak  glanced nervously at several blasters, priced well  beyond
his  means, trying to look as though he had nothing better in  the
world to do than shop. Kabe skittered about, muttering to herself,
whiffing  the  air,  then squinching up her muzzle  with  disdain.
"Look  at  that trash." She snorted. "If you'd let me rob  Jabba's
town  house,  I'd give them some real stuff to fence.  It'd  be  a
snap, and we'd be set up for life."
   This  was  such an old argument Muftak didn't bother to  reply.
The  Hutt  was  currently  occupying his desert  palace,  but  his
residence  in  Mos  Eisley was still fully guarded.  The  four-eye
lengthened his stride. Sanctuary lay just ahead ...
   Suddenly a mechanical-sounding voice barked, "You there,  Talz,
halt!" The voice belonged to an Imperial soldier.
   Hastily, Muftak obeyed, then turned, slowly and ponderously, to
face,  the sentry. As he did so, he was careful to conceal  Kabe's
small  form  with his huge body. Knowing the plan, she darted  off
and  ducked behind a public dew collector. Signaling to her behind
his  back  to  stay  out of sight, Muftak faced the  white-armored
human.
   Only  then did it strike him ... the word the trooper had used.
"Talz."  What was a Talz? Slowly he felt the truth sink  in,  like
moisture  in the desert. The Imperial trooper must have recognized
his  species! The word "Talz" reverberated through Muftak's  mind,
his  heart.  Talz  .  .  .  yes! It was part  of  the  meaningless
vocabulary he had found in his brain after his "birth." Talz means
me. I am a Talz!
   Muftak  shook his head, pushing this revelation to the back  of
his  mind.  There  was  a  more immediate  dilemma  to  face.  The
sandtrooper,  blaster drawn, was staring at him,  waiting.  Muftak
let  the  air  filter  out slowly from his  proboscis,  humming  a
little. "Yes, Officer. What can I do for you?"
   "We  are  looking  for two droids, one bipedal  and  the  other
wheeled, traveling unaccompanied. Have you seen them?"
   Not  looking  for  us, no, by the Force, not  looking  for  us.
Looking for those two droids, like all the others . . . "No,  sir.
I haven't seen any droids this morning. But if I do, Officer, I'll
let you know."
   "See that you do. All right, Talz, on your way." As the trooper
began  to turn away, curiosity overcame Muftak's caution.  "Excuse
me, sir," he began, scratching his head nervously. "I noticed that
you seem to recognize-''
   There  was a whooshing sound and an aircar appeared from around
a  corner. As it approached, Muftak saw two Imperial troopers, one
dressed  in  the blue uniform and short-billed cap of an  officer.
The Talz took a cautious step back, but resisted the urge to run.
   The sentry snapped to attention as the aircar stopped.
   The  officer,  a  pale, sagging man with  a  supercilious  air,
inclined  his  head briefly and commanded, "Your  report,  Trooper
Felth."  His  words  sounded lifeless, barely different  from  the
mechanically filtered voice of Felth.
   "Nothing  to  report, Lieutenant Alima. It's been  very  quiet,
sir."  Muftak  tensed. He recognized that name. His  friend  Momaw
Nadon  had  told  him  about a Captain Alima,  the  butcher  who'd
decimated the hammerhead's home world. Could this be the same man?
His rank was different, but . . .
   "Interrogate  everyone you see, Felth. Don't  take  any  chance
with  this  local  scum . . . and keep your blaster  ready.  These
bastards will as soon kill you as look at you."
   "Yes, Lieutenant."
   "What about that one?" Alima drew his pistol and pointed it  at
Muftak. "An ugly bug . . . has he seen the droids?"
   "No, sir."
   Muftak   gathered  his  courage.  Things  were  becoming   very
interesting.  Worth a little risk. "Sir, respected  representative
of our beloved Empire, I am well connected in the more . . . shall
we  say,  obscure . . . sections of Mos Eisley.  It  would  be  my
pleasure to uncover this information for you, if I can."
   The  officer's  eyes were very dark as he stared  hard  at  the
Talz. "See that you do, four-eyes. Now get on about your business.
Don't dawdle . . . off with you!"
   Kabe  was only a little distance away, still hiding behind  the
dew collector, and Muftak walked in that direction without looking
back. As he passed, the little one joined him, chattering happily.
"They  let  you  go!  I  thought they had  us,  didn't  you?  What
happened?"
   "They  weren't  looking for us, Kabe. Just two unlucky  droids.
But  something very . . . important happened. A chance  encounter.
That trooper knew who . . . what ... I am. I am a Talz! Kabe . . .
this may be the clue I've been looking for."
   The  Chadra-Fan looked up at Muftak, squinting her little  eyes
against  the  morning sun. "But, but . . . you're not going  away,
now,  are  you? You can't go. We need each other. We're  partners,
aren't we?"
   Muftak  gazed down at his friend, feeling a strange emotion,  a
distant  tugging  that he had never felt before. Gigantic  hanging
purple flowers filled his mind's eye. He scraped a claw across his
domed  forehead.  "Don't worry, little one. I'd  never  leave  you
alone. Right now, we're going back to get some sleep. Then I  have
some  inquiries to make . . . and before evening,  I  must  go  to
Momaw Nadon's house, find out if he knows anything about the  race
called  the  Talz. And perhaps . . . give him some information  in
return."
   "But  what  about  the  cantina?" Kabe wailed.  "You  promised,
Muftak!"
   The  Talz  ignored this palpable untruth. "You  will  get  your
wish, little one. We'll go tomorrow."
   Chairman's  cantina was, as always, bursting with  disreputable
life. Momaw Nadon was already at their usual spot, and Muftak took
the seat opposite, against the wall. The hammerhead pushed a drink
across  the table. "Welcome, my friend." From the position of  his
eyestalks  and the tone of his grayish skin, Muftak  deduced  that
the  Ithorian  was  glad  to  see him, but  also  apprehensive-not
unexpected, in view of their meeting yesterday.
   The  Talz  picked  up  his drink, a polaris  ale  appropriately
tepid,  and  thrust his proboscis into the liquid,  drawing  deep.
"Things  are  going well, Momaw. Last evening I planted  the  seed
that you desired. Alima now thinks you know the whereabouts of the
droids."
   "Planted  the seed." Momaw Nadon blinked slowly. With his  eyes
squinched shut, all semblance of a face vanished. "A good  way  to
express  it.  If  all  goes as planned, the 'seed'  will  come  to
fruition  before  this day is over." One eyestalk  swiveled.  "Did
Alima pay well?"
   Muftak buzzed with amusement. "Five hundred. The -Imperial chit
he issued proved worthless, of course."
   "Not surprising," Nadon said.
   Muftak  ran  a  claw  through his hair,  scratching  nervously.
"Momaw . . . what will become of you? Alima is ruthless. Now  he's
looking for you."
   "He  has  found  me," Nadon admitted, his dual  voice  a  harsh
whisper. "Do not worry, my friend. All is unfolding as it must."
   The  Talz  took  another sip of ale, reluctant to  pursue  this
depressing subject.
   "No  matter  what  happens  today," the  Hammerhead  continued,
"things here in Mos Eisley are changing. Yesterday you learned the
name  of  your  species. Soon you will discover the name  of  your
world,  and  where  it is located. Then . . . what?  Will  you  go
home?"
   Muftak let out a tiny buzz, rising in pitch. "Home. It is  such
a  simple word. In my native language, the word is 'p'zil.'  "  He
paused,  unwilling  to  reveal such intimate  details  even  to  a
friend.  "If  I have dreamed truly, it is a cool, wet world,  with
wide,  rich jungles beneath a deep indigo sky. My dreams are  full
of  huge flowers shaped like giant bells, all colors, hanging high
in  the  lush foliage. I climb to those flowers, treading along  a
strong  ridged  petal.  Deep in the center darkness  lies  a  rich
reservoir of nectar. I drink, marvelous rippling flavors  ..."  He
sighed. "This ale is only a pale reflection."
   The  Ithorian  bobbed  his eyestalks in  understanding.  "Those
dreams  are true, my friend. Racial memories, no doubt,  to  guide
you when you emerge from your cocoon. Just as you were born with a
knowledge  of your native language. I have never heard of  such  a
people  as  the Talz, but they are obviously unique and  of  great
value.  You  must return and join your essence with that  of  your
people. It is the Law of Life."
   "I haven't thought that far, I'm afraid," said Muftak. "I don't
have  the  credits to pay for such a trip. And . .  .  what  about
Kabe?  The  galaxy  is  in turmoil. Even if I  could  obtain  safe
passage for us, I can't trust her. She only thinks of herself. How
can I take her with me?"
   Momaw Nadon closed his eyes for a long moment. "I may not  live
out  the  day,  so  I  cannot help you.  But  you  will  think  of
something. Let us drink - "
   Suddenly  Kabe bobbed up at Muftak's side. "He won't  serve  me
again!" she sputtered angrily. "Damn that Wuher. And damn Chalmun!
I'll  feed  the  Sarlacc with them both. They won't  sell  me  any
juice,  Muftak. My credits are good, damn it! Damn them  all!  You
know that I - "
   Muftak  interrupted  her with a loud buzz. "Calm  down,  little
one. What did Wuher say?"
   "He said he wanted no tipsy Ranats robbing his customers. Me, a
Ranat! Muftak, can you go talk to him? Please?"
   Muftak  stroked his proboscis slowly, thinking.  "His  reaction
isn't  surprising,  considering what happened last  time  we  were
here,  Kabe. But . . . I'll speak to him." He raised his glass  to
Momaw Nadon. "After all, this is a celebration . . . of sorts."
   
   Kabe's  ears  twitched  with distaste as Figrin  D'an's  sextet
swung  into  yet  another off-key, off-tempo  number.  The  little
Chadra-Fan's hearing was as sensitive as Muftak's sense of  smell,
and  this "music" was particularly jarring. But Chalmun's  cantina
was  the cheapest source of juri juice around, so she endured  it.
She  guzzled the dregs from her cup, feeling the pleasant rush  of
the liquor.
   Licking  the  last drops from her whiskers,  she  held  up  her
tumbler.  "More,  Wuher.  More  juri  juice!  I'm  thirsty!"   The
bartender  glanced  across the room at Muftak, muttered  something
under  his breath, then grudgingly took the glass and refilled  it
with the ruby brew. Kabe grabbed it eagerly.
   Suddenly, the bartender straightened, scowling angrily. Was  he
getting  ready to summon the bouncer? Kabe stood poised, ready  to
run  to  Muftak, but all Wuher did was order some moisture boy  to
get his two droids out of the cantina.
   Relaxing,  Kabe studied the customers closest to her,  scanning
expertly for pockets to pick. With a little juri juke in her,  she
was twice as fast and twice as clever. No one was safe.
   The  identity of the two customers on either side of  her  gave
her  pause;  Dr. Evazan and Ponda Baba weren't good prospects.  It
was  one  of Kabe's secret prides that she'd once managed to  pick
both their pockets, dropping a few trinkets from the good doctor's
purse  into Baba's pocket at the same time - but they'd been  very
juiced then . . . which they weren't at the moment. High, perhaps,
but not enough to tempt her. The risk wasn't worth it.
   The two prospects beyond Evazan were definitely more promising.
The grungy moisture boy who'd been dumb enough to bring the droids
in  was standing on her immediate right. The man he'd entered with
was  an old fellow with a beard the color of Muftak's fur, wearing
a coarse brown cloak with a hood - no doubt made by a Jawa tailor,
Kabe  thought, amused. She recognized neither of them, which meant
they weren't from Mos Eisley. Good! Wide-eyed desert dwellers  usu
ally  presented  easy  pickings. Beyond them  was  the  contraband
runner  Chewbacca, but she dismissed him without a second thought:
Not only did he not possess pockets to pick, but everyone knew  it
wasn't wise to upset a Wookiee.
   Muftak  was  still in deep conversation with Momaw Nadon.  Damn
him,  too.  Suppose  he finds his home world, what  then?  He  'II
probably  want  to go there ... and then, by the  Force,  where'tt
that  leave me? Kabe had a brief vision of herself, stuck  in  Mos
Eisley, with no one to make Wuher serve her juri juice ... no  one
to  protect  her  from outraged victims when her  fingers  weren't
quick enough . . .
   She'd  be  all alone. Kabe took a deep draft of juice, thinking
of  her  small,  secret hoard - so secret that even Muftak  didn't
know  about  it. It wouldn't last long . . . a tenday, maybe.  And
then what? No doubt about it, trouble was coming, unless she found
a way to distract the Talz.
   A  tall,  thin  humanoid down the bar was  puffing  away  on  a
hookah.  Expertly, she located his credit pouch. Easily accessible
.  .  .  but something, she wasn't sure what, held her back.  Ears
twitching, she strained to pick up his vibrations. For some reason
she couldn't define, he sounded wrong. When his gaze brushed hers,
the  fur  on the back of her neck crawled suddenly, as if  someone
had draped something limp and dead across her shoulders.
   Not him, Kabe thought, shuddering. Definitely not him.
   The  boy, she decided. He was obviously nervous, but not really
alert. And then the old man. There was something about the old man
that  betokened  a quiet competence, despite his  shabby  clothes.
She'd have to be extra careful with that one.
   Suddenly Kabe sensed movement on her left from Ponda Baba.  She
ducked  back,  barely  in time to avoid  a  vicious  elbow  as  he
deliberately shoved the boy. "Out of my way, human excrement!"  he
bellowed  in  Aqual-ish. Oh no, she thought,  here  we  go  again.
Whiskers  twitching, Kabe scurried behind the old desert  dweller,
then peeked cautiously out, carefully putting her half-empty glass
on the bar.
   The  boy  obviously didn't understand the big alien's language.
He glanced up, startled, then silently moved away and went back to
his  drink. Kabe poised herself for action; when Evazan and  Ponda
Baba's newest victim lay charred and smoking, she'd have only a mo
ment to snag his purse before he was dragged away.
   Maybe, she thought, now would be a good time to do the old one.
His  attention was fixed on Ponda Baba. Perfect. Now, if she could
only  find  his  purse ... "I have the death  sentence  on  twelve
systems!"  Evazan's  loud voice hurt her ears.  Hmm.  That  was  a
promising little bulge. Just a little closer ...
   The  old man stepped forward-and his pocket slid away from  her
fingers. Cautiously, Kabe followed. There was a sudden exodus away
from  the  bar, and Kabe realized the fight was about to start-but
she was determined to snatch the credits before she too retreated.
   "This  little  one isn't worth the effort," the old  human  was
saying, his soft, pleasant voice carrying an undercurrent of  true
authority. "Come, let me buy you something."
   Ponda Baba roared in inarticulate rage, Evazan let
   out a bellow, and the young human flew past her, landing in  an
ignominious heap beneath a nearby table.
   "No blasters! No blasters!" screamed Wuher.
   There was a sound like tearing silk, and Kabe shrank closer  to
the  old desert dweller, cowering until she was almost covered  by
his  cloak.  Ponda  Baba shrieked, Evazan howled  with  pain,  and
something dropped to the floor with an ominous thud.
   Kabe  peered out, to see that the thing on the floor was  Ponda
Baba's  arm, fingers still twitching as they tried without success
to  fire  the  blaster again. The old man stepped back gracefully,
and  the searing blade of light that was his weapon (a weapon Kabe
had  never  seen  before) flicked out. Abandoning all  thought  of
robbery,  she scampered back. As the old man helped the  youngster
up, the boy staggered, staring in disbelief at the still-twitching
arm . . . and his heel crunched down on Kabe's toes.
   She squeaked shrilly at the sharp pain. Damn! Humans are heavy!
Whimpering,  limping, Kabe retreated into the darker  recesses  of
the  room,  waiting  for them to clean up.  Luckily,  they  hadn't
spilled her juri juice ...
   
   "You  mean  you'll  help me?" Kabe stared  up  at  her  friend,
amazed.
   Muftak  nodded. "There'll never be a better time  to  take  the
town  house.  The Hutt is away at his palace and the  city  is  in
chaos."
   The   little   Chadra-Fan  gazed  at   him   goggle-eyed,   the
aftereffects of juice slowing her thoughts. Suddenly, she  dropped
her  half-eaten  falotil fruit to the dusty floor of  their  lair,
jigging ecstatically. "I knew you had it in you, Muftak!"
   He  nodded, wishing he were as confident. The Hutt's  vengeance
would  be  terrible indeed if they were caught, but the  store  of
treasures in Jabba's town house, deliberately displayed  to  tempt
the  greedy,  would  be easy pickings if Kabe's "secret"  entrance
panned  out. The Talz had made his decision on the way  home  from
the  cantina,  carrying the unconscious Kabe in the crook  of  his
arm.
   Muftak looked around the dwelling they'd shared for almost five
years.  Kabe's  little nest, his sleeping perch, a  trunk  holding
their few possessions. Nothing, really. And the future would  only
be worse.
   "We'll be able to leave this dump," said Kabe, as if she'd read
his  thoughts.  "Maybe buy our own cantina. Live in  real  style."
Disdainfully,  she scratched a crumbling wall,  sending  a  little
avalanche  of dirt onto the floor. "The credits will  be  worth  a
little risk, you'll see."
   The  Talz scratched his head, buzzing softly. "There's no sense
in waiting. Tonight."
   Kabe nodded happily.
   
   Nighttime.  Muftak,  surprisingly agile for  his  size,  pulled
himself,  over the lip of the roof, until he was crouched  on  the
main  dome of Jabba's town house. Cautious as always, he drew  his
ancient blaster, scanning the rooftop for signs of life. The  moon
was  heading down, losing its luster among distant clouds, leaving
them in near-total darkness.
   Ahead  of  him,  Kabe was already halfway up the  dome,  moving
quickly.  She  stopped  suddenly, and Muftak  made  out  a  large,
crescent-shaped  orifice  just  below  the  dew-collector   array.
Replacing  the  weapon in the sling across his back,  he  climbed,
claws scrabbling, up the rough pourstone surface.
   "See,  Muftak," the Chadra-Fan whispered, knotting the climbing
rope  she'd carried to the dew-collector base, "it's just  like  I
said.  It  hasn't changed since I discovered it. Just the standard
security  net. Hear that? Air currents singing along the edges  of
the metal door. One good shove, and it'll give."
   Muftak crouched beside the portal. "Hard to believe," he  said.
"Can you hear anyone inside?"
   Kabe  listened, ears twitching. "Just snores on another  floor.
No one moving around."
   "Then  here  goes." The Talz got a good hold on  the  sill  and
pushed.  The access portal slowly gave, bending inward,  then  the
hinges broke and the metal fell away. A muffled clank sounded from
somewhere below.
   "The  vibrations haven't changed," Kabe exulted. "What'd I tell
you, Muftak? This'll be a cinch for sure!"
   Before Muftak could stop her, Kabe swung herself over and  down
into  the darkness. The Talz heard her chittering quietly  as  she
climbed,  and knew she was listening for echoes. "Nothing  unusual
so  far," she reported. "I'm almost dow - " Hearing her break off,
Muftak  flung  himself down, head through the hole, straining  his
night-eyes.  Below  him, Kabe dangled, spinning  slowly,  a  paw's
length from the floor.
   "Kabe, what's happening? Why'd you stop?" Muftak demanded.
   "Shhh."  As  he watched, Kabe changed position, turning  upside
down,  then  lowering her head until her ear was  just  above  the
carpet. She chittered again. "Oh, bantha dung . . ." he heard  her
mutter.
   "What is it?"
   "A  noise, below the floor . . . something down there. The  air
has  to go around it, and it hums . . . metal, probably." Suddenly
she  let out a terrified little squeak. "Don't come down yet! It's
some kind of trap! There's a spring actuator ..."
   Muftak  watched as she clicked, trying to gauge the  structures
below  the floor. "Standard joists over here ..." she muttered,  a
few  seconds later. With a couple of vigorous wiggles,  she  swung
back and forth, then dropped her pry bar as a test.
   "No  change!"  she cried, then leaped off herself.  "Just  land
right here ..."
   When  Muftak was down, they left the dome room, and crept  down
the  dark  stairway.  At  the bottom, Kabe heard  the  distinctive
electronic hum of an alarm. Quickly, the little Chadra-Fan located
and deactivated it.
   To  their right, an archway led into a large room, a lounge  of
some  sort,  outfitted with luxurious, plush furniture.  One  wall
held  an  open curio cabinet filled with small golden statues  and
bejeweled antique weapons. Muftak gasped softly . . . the  plunder
of a hundred worlds-theirs for the taking!
   Cautiously,  they  entered. Working with feverish  haste,  they
began stuffing valuables into the sacks they'd brought.
   "We'll  be  out  of here before you know it,"  Kabe  whispered,
sliding a particularly ornate pipestand into her bag. "Now  aren't
you sorry you didn't-"
   Two lights winked on in the lounge's anteroom. A droid, turning
itself on. Kabe froze in terror. Muftak drew his blaster.
   "Oh,  forgive  me for interrupting you," said the  droid  in  a
melodious  tone. "I've been waiting for ... by the  way"-its  tone
changed-"what  are you doing here at this time of  night?  I  know
that Master Jabba's friends are a little . . . unusual, but ..."
   Muftak  took a step toward the machine. "We belong  here.  Your
illustrious  master asked us to fetch some of his  possessions  to
transport to his palace."
   The  droid  took  a  few  mincing steps into  the  room.  "That
explains it then. Bzavazh-ne pentirs o ple-urith feez?"
   Muftak  did a double take. His language. "Where did  you  learn
that?"
   The droid tilted its head, and its illuminated eyes seemed full
of  satisfaction.  "Oh,  friend  Talz,  I  am  conversant  in  the
languages  and  customs  of your planet,  Alzoc  Three,  and  four
thousand  nine hundred and eighty-eight other worlds. I am  Master
Jabba's protocol droid, Kay-eight Ellarr. Master Jabba couldn't do
without  me.  Admittedly, I've never had a chance to use  my  Talz
module  before. I'll just check with Master Fortuna to see if  you
are telling the truth."
   Kabe,  under control now, was moving slowly toward  the  droid,
trying  to  look pleasant. She uncoiled her climbing rope.  "We're
telling the truth, droid. You don't have to check."
   "Oh, but I do, friend Chadra-Fan, k'sweksni-nyip-tsik. You have
no  idea  what  trouble I'd get into if I didn't-"  Suddenly  Kabe
sprang  and  wrapped the rope around its limbs.  "The  restraining
bolt, Muftak!"
   "My friends, please don't-" K8LR was moaning like a Jawa street
beggar. "Oh! Master Jabba will punish you-" It began to fight, but
the  Talz loped forward, and with a single motion collared it  and
grabbed the bolt affixed to its chest. K8LR was struggling, trying
to  free  itself  of  the ropes around its body,  but  Muftak  was
desperate. With a quick wrench, he ripped the bolt free.
   When the bolt came off, the.droid stopped struggling.
   "Oh,  thank  you," it said. "You have no idea how  much  better
that  feels. I never liked working here. Never. That Jabba ...  so
uncouth! And the rogues that work for him! Things I've seen  would
curl  your proboscis, friend Talz. Now, if you don't mind, I think
I'll be leaving. Could you untie me?"
   "Be   quiet,  droid!"  Kabe  pricked  up  her  ears,  listening
intently.  When  she detected nothing, they began  gathering  loot
again.   K-8LR,   still   half  trussed,  followed   them   about,
complimenting them on their selections in a metallic whisper.
   "Kay-eight  Ellarr,"  Muftak said,  stuffing  a  tiny  figurine
carved  from  living ice into his furry abdominal pouch,  "if  you
really  are  grateful,  tell us where  the  Hutt  keeps  his  most
valuable treasures."
   The  droid  stopped, appearing to think. "There  are  Corellian
artifacts  on  the walls of his audience chamber that  are  beyond
price,  if my memory banks are correct. And a shapework  from  the
earliest days of human civilization."
   "Take us there!"
   
   As  Muftak  and the droid headed for the door, talking  in  low
voices about the location of Alzoc III, Kabe hastily pried a large
fire-gem from the eye of a sculpture. She stuffed it into  one  of
the  myriad pockets of her robe, joining the other small valuables
she'd  secreted about her person. I'll never have to pick  pockets
again, she thought
   They followed the droid back into the hall and to the right. As
they tiptoed along, Kabe's ears twitched at a noise so soft no one
else  could have heard it. Breathing. Agonized, rasping . . .  and
aware.  She  halted before the third door. "Who is in this  room?"
she demanded of K-8LR. "Whoever is in here is awake."
   K-8LR  stopped. "It is one of my former master's  victims,  I'm
afraid.  A  human courier. They have been torturing him  for  days
with a nerve disrupter."
   Muftak  motioned her on, but Kabe hesitated. "Do you  know  how
much  Valarian would pay for a nerve disruptor?" she whispered  to
the Talz. "Droid, can you open it?"
   "Certainly, madam." K-8LR interfaced with the lock and the door
swung open.
   Muftak shifted nervously, scratching his head. "Kabe, let's not
get involved with this. It stinks in there."
   The  Chadra-Fan  ignored her friend, marching  into  the  room.
Reluctantly, Muftak followed.
   A  naked, frail, sallow man with an air of infinite sadness lay
strapped  onto a bunk, moaning. As they entered, his eyes fastened
on  them. The nerve disruptor, a small black box mounted on a tall
tripod,  stood by the bed. Kabe went over and, resolutely ignoring
the human, began to disconnect it.
   "Water," the man pleaded in a ghastly husk of a voice. "Water .
. . please."
   "Be  quiet,"  Kabe snapped. Even as her fingers  moved,  deftly
unscrewing  little  components, she  remembered  the  days  before
Muftak  had  found  her, when she'd wandered the  streets  of  Mos
Eisley, hungry . . . and nearly crazed with thirst. Unable to stop
herself, she looked up at the human. Their eyes met.
   "Water," rasped the man. "Please . . ."
   Kabe's  fingers  slowed, then, cursing under  her  breath,  she
pulled a small flask from her belt and held it out. "Here's water.
Now  leave  me alone." With his arms restrained, the  human  could
only gaze at the flask longingly.
   "I'll  give  it  to you, sir," said K-8LR, coming  forward.  He
raised the human's head, and held the water to his lips.
   The  nerve disruptor was finally detached. Kabe stuffed  it  in
her  sack.  "This alone will buy us enough juice for a  lifetime!"
she said triumphantly.
   The human finished the water and licked his cracked, impossibly
rough  lips. He eyed them carefully. "You two . . . are interested
in credits. How'd you like to earn thirty thousand, quick, without
risk?"
   Muftak,  restless,  was keeping a lookout on  the  hall.  Kabe,
already   turning   to  leave,  halted.  She  regarded   the   man
suspiciously. "What d'you mean, human?"
   "My  name  is Barid Mesoriaam. Remember that name,  because  it
will  be your password. If you deliver a datadot to a certain  Mon
Calamari  who  will be in Mos Eisley for the next  few  days,  the
credits are yours."
   Kabe considered. "A datadot. Thirty thousand? But where'll  you
get it? How do we know - "
   "You'll  just have to trust me. As to the location of  the  dot
..." Mesoriaam closed his mouth and worked his tongue against  his
teeth. When he opened it, there was a tiny black circle visible on
the tip of his tongue. Kabe plucked the datadot off.
   Muftak,  who'd returned to the bedside in time to hear most  of
the  exchange, stared wide-eyed at the man. "What is on  this  dot
that is of such value?" he asked.
   Mesoriaam tried to raise himself, but he was too weak. "That is
not  for  you  to  know. Tell the Mon Calamari it is  for  General
Dodonna's eyes only."
   "Barid Mesoriaam is a participant in the Rebellion against  the
Empire,"  said K-8LR smugly. "They wish to restore  power  to  the
Senate, as I understand it. No doubt the datadot has something  to
do with Rebel plans."
   The  Talz  stroked his proboscis, thinking. "Here, Muftak,  put
this in your pouch," Kabe ordered, holding out the datadot.
   Muftak  complied.  "Rebels,"  he repeated  meditatively.  "Kay-
eight,  what  was  Jabba trying to get out of him?  Was  he  under
Imperial order to do this?"
   "My  former master does not play favorites," replied the droid.
"He  sells to the highest bidder. Unfortunately for him, no matter
how Mesoriaam was tortured, he revealed nothing."
   "Since  you  know  what I am and what this dot contains,"  said
Mesoriaam,  "there  is  nothing  to  stop  you  from  selling  the
information to the Prefect. But, if you do, remember that there is
no  place  for nonhumans in the Empire. In the proud days  of  the
Republic, all beings had equal status. Look around you and tell me
if that is still the case."
   Kabe  scowled  impatiently. "If your friend'll give  us  thirty
thousand,  I  don't  care what he-" She whirled  around  abruptly.
"What was that?"
   Lights came on in the hall. "Oh, no," said K-8LR. "This doesn't
seem to be a very promising turn of events."
   Muftak drew his blaster. "Let's get out of here. Now."
   
   The Talz held his breath as he reached the hallway, brandishing
his blaster, but no one was in sight. Kabe followed, trying to fit
one more prize in her already full bag. "Jabba's audience chamber,
Muftak. That shapework must be worth millions!"
   Muftak  gaped at her, incredulous. "Kabe, are you crazy?  We've
got to-"
   From  out  of  the lounge sprang two burly, porcine  Gamorreans
brandishing  axes, grunting obscenely. Muftak shoved  Kabe  behind
him,  and  they backed away from the newcomers. The Talz triggered
his  blaster  -  but nothing happened. "Shoot them, Muftak!"  Kabe
shrilled.
   Muftak emitted a frustrated hum. "I'm trying!"
   Encumbered  by  his  sack, he examined the weapon  as  best  he
could, backpedaling all the while. The Gamorreans squealed at each
other,  evidently  making plans. Desperately, Muftak  wiggled  the
power  supply into better contact, saw the ignition coil begin  to
glow  hot.  Got  it.  Aiming, he fired at the nearest  guard.  The
weapon  spat,  and  the  bolt of energy caromed  off  the  guard's
axhead,  which it was using as a shield. The Gamorreans dived  for
cover, just as a tiny Jawa appeared from another door, firing  its
blaster.  Muftak  coaxed out a few more shots,  sending  the  Jawa
scurrying back into hiding.
   "This  way!"  Kabe  was  heading  past  the  main  entrance,  a
reinforced blast door big enough to admit the enormous  Hutt.  One
glance told Muftak it was electronically locked.
   The  Chadra-Fan scurried in the direction of the audience room.
"There's  another  exit in here - hold them off  while  I  get  it
open!"
   "Hold  them  off?" Muftak cried. "How?" He followed  Kabe,  and
they  dashed into the huge, circular audience chamber.  Dominating
the far end of the room was the Hutt's ornate wooden dais; over it
hung  a  gigantic  tapestry depicting a grotesque  scene  of  Hutt
family life.
   Just  as Kabe had promised, there was another, smaller  door  -
but  it  too  bore an electronic bolt. "Now what?" Muftak  gasped.
"We're trapped!"
   "Maybe I can get it open ..." Kabe said uncertainly. "But  I'll
need  time . . ." Pulling out the nerve disruptor, she set  it  on
the  floor, pointing at the doorway, then turned it on. "I'll  use
this to block the entrance!"
   Time  was against them - they'd only gotten halfway across  the
chamber  before more Gamorreans charged through the door,  howling
like  Tusken  Raiders. One was armed with a blaster. Lethal  bolts
ricocheted  behind them as Muftak grabbed Kabe and  dashed  across
the chamber, taking cover behind Jabba's audience dais.
   The  blaster bolts halted abruptly, and the two thieves  peered
out  to  se'e  the four Gamorreans staggering in the  entranceway,
yowling  with pain and fury. Sighting carefully, Muftak cut  three
of  them down with well-placed shots. The fourth escaped back into
the hall.
   Kabe started crawling for the door. "I'll open-"
   All hell broke loose. Ten guards of various species appeared at
the  doorway,  each  of them loosing a barrage  of  blaster  fire.
Kabe's  disruptor  held  them back for the  moment,  but  the  two
friends were pinned down behind the dais.
   "We  can't  hold  out much longer like this."  Muftak  grunted,
sighting  and  firing into the gaggle of guards  jammed  into  the
entrance.,  "Sooner  or  later one of their  shots  will  hit  the
disruptor-and then they'll be in here."
   Kabe's only response was a terrified squeal. Muftak peered over
the  dais,  searching for a good target, and glimpsed chalky-white
albino  features  at the back of the crowd.  Bib  Fortuna  .  .  .
Jabba's Twi'lek major-domo, who was doubtless directing the battle
from  the  safety of the hallway. A whistling snarl from  overhead
attracted  his  attention, and he glanced up to  see  a  huge  net
hanging from the ceiling, large enough to cover the entire  middle
of the audience chamber. Word had it that the net contained kayven
whistlers, flying carnivores with appetites as large and sharp  as
their  teeth.  Jabba  used the kayven to "influence"  recalcitrant
business associates into deals favorable to the Hutt.
   Aiming  at  a  hulking  Abyssin's torso,  Muftak  squeezed  off
another  shot, and was rewarded when the being went  down  with  a
scream.  "Muftak,  what  are we going to  do?"  Kabe  bleated.  He
glanced down at her, saw her huddled, quivering, against his side.
   "If  we could only get that door open," the Talz muttered, half
to himself. But it was too far away . . .
   Another  blaster  shot sizzled overhead, so close  that  Muftak
threw  himself  over Kabe, almost mashing her  flat.  A  crackling
filled  the air; the tapestry behind them was now burning  in  one
spot and smoldering in several others. That's it . . . we'll never
get  out of here alive, he thought. I'll never get off this  sandy
hell,  never see Alzoc III . . . never taste the nectar  of  those
flowers-
   "Get off me!" Kabe squeaked beneath him. Muftak levered himself
up,  gasping and gagging on smoke. Kabe stared at the fire  round-
eyed. "Muf-tak ..." she wailed.
   The Talz squinted against the smoke tendrils, trying to aim. He
fired  at  a  Gamorrean, but blurred vision made him miss.  Return
fire  caromed off the furniture. One blaster bolt struck the nerve
disruptor, shattering it.
   Now  they'll  be  all over us! Muftak thought, but  the  guards
still  held back. Evidently they hadn't realized that the entrance
was now clear - either that, or the smoke deterred them. Maybe Bib
Fortuna ordered them to stay back, figuring the fire will get  us,
he thpught. That way he doesn 't risk losing any more guards.
   Without warning, the exit door swung open.
   Fresh  night  air  rushed in, fanning the flames,  sending  the
smoke  eddying in billows. Muftak grabbed the two sacks  of  loot,
shoving  them  into Kabe's hands. "Run for it!" he ordered.  "I'll
cover you!"
   The Chadran-Fan hesitated. "But what about you?"
   "I'll be right behind you!" he lied. Someone as small and quick
as  Kabe might be able to make it out the door, under the cover of
his  fire,  but  Muftak, with his lumbering bulk,  didn't  have  a
chance.  But  at least Kabe would live. With the wealth  in  those
sacks, she'd be set for life . . .
   "Go!" he cried, literally booting her out from behind the dais.
He  fired  at  the  guards, catching a glimpse  of  her  scuttling
through  the smoke out of the corners of his left eyes. A hail  of
fire forced him down again, but not before Muftak was rewarded  by
the  sight of Kabe vanishing through the door. Thank the Force for
that.  He  settled  back,  his blaster scorching  his  paw  as  he
prepared to sell his life dearly . . .
   
   Gasping,  choking,  Kabe staggered out the exit  and  into  the
night.  The heavy sacks of loot weighed her down, but she'd sooner
have  cut  off her arm than lose them. Ducking through a gate  and
into a walled garden, she sagged against a life-size sculpture  of
Jabba,  gulping  air.  Behind her she  could  hear  blaster  bolts
whining. Where was Muftak?
   Peeking through the gate at the exit from the audience chamber,
the  Chadra-Fan  watched as clouds of smoke  billowed.  With  each
passing second, the pain in her pounding heart and straining lungs
eased.  Still no Muftak. Kabe glanced up the street,  hearing  the
distant sounds of firelighters and water sellers converging on the
Hutt's town house from all directions.
   Where in the name of the Force was Muftak?
   Kabe  winced  at  the  sounds of more  blaster  fire  from  the
audience  chamber. Smoke darkened the night, obscuring the  stars.
The entire room must be ablaze . . . Muftak!
   Grimly,  the  little Chadra-Fan realized that  her  friend  had
never  intended to follow her. He'd given her the chance to escape
at  the price of his own life. Slowly, she picked up the two laden
sacks. She'd be crazy to throw away the Talz's last gift to her  .
. . Muftak wanted her to get away-with the loot.
   Kabe  took  a  step toward the gate on the other  side  of  the
garden, heading for the alley. Images flashed before her eyes,  of
herself,  starving, whimpering in alleys, too weak to run,  almost
too  weak to walk. Muftak had picked her up, tucked her under  his
arm,  and  carried her home to his den . . . had bought water  for
her, and food . . .
   Kabe took another step . . .
   The sacks slipped from the Chadra-Fan's fingers, thudded to the
sandy  ground  near the sculpture's stone tail. Kabe  kicked  them
viciously,  knowing they wouldn't last two seconds  out  here,  no
matter  how  she  tried to conceal them. "Damn you,  Muftak!"  she
squealed -
   - and, turning, raced back into the audience chamber.
   Chittering loudly, Kabe could pick up Muftak's presence by  his
vibrations, even through the engulfing smoke. The Talz  was  still
where  she'd left him, but the room was now filled with  advancing
guards.  Muftak  was  returning fire, but the  power  pak  in  his
blaster  was clearly running low - the beam flickered as she  scut
tled across the floor of the audience chamber.
   Eyes  watering, coughing as she tried to sense vibrations, Kabe
picked up a shape in front of her. A Rodian. She leaped, fastening
her  sharp  teeth  in  the guard's leg. He shrieked,  dropped  his
blaster  and  turned, trying to club her away with his  fist.  The
Chadra-Fan  let  go, grabbed the blaster, and shot  the  guard  at
point-blank  range. "Muftak!" she shrilled. "Come on!  I'll  cover
you!"
   Somehow, despite the melee, he heard her. Kabe chittered wildly
amid  the  chaos  of smoke, flame, and scuttling bodies,  and  was
rewarded  with the sound of the Talz crawling out from behind  the
dais.
   Crouching down, she made herself as small a target as possible,
all  the  while  firing wildly at anything moving. She  could  see
Muftak;  he  was  lumbering toward her, knocking aside  guards  as
though  they  were children, using his enormous  bulk  to  flatten
anything in his path.
   "Over here!" Kabe called. "The door!"
   Muftak  headed  toward  her - only  to  be  confronted  by  two
Gamorreans, grunting and squealing threats. Kabe took careful aim,
and  shot  one  in the back. His partner whirled toward  her,  and
Muftak kicked him aside.
   Suddenly   a  new  voice  called  out.  "Friend  Talz!   Friend
Talz-stand away from the center of the room, please!"
   Kabe glanced up, through the smoke, to see K-8LR leaning out of
a  window halfway up the wall of the dome. Muftak obeyed, changing
the  direction of his charge just in time to avoid a huge net that
tumbled  down  from the apex of the dome, engulfing  most  of  the
guards.
   Shrieks  and  squeals from the guards mingled with  the  savage
hootings of kayven whistlers. The net heaved wildly.
   One  long stride later, Muftak reached the Chadra-Fan,  scooped
her up without pausing, then raced out the open door.
   "Put me down!" Kabe squeaked, the moment they were clear of the
town house. Quickly, she hurried over to the shadow of the statue,
but, of course, the sacks were gone.
   The Chadra-Fan's shoulders sagged. "Bantha dung!"
   "Kabe  .  .  . you came back . . ." It was Muftak, and  he  was
regarding her incredulously, his eyes still clouded with smoke. "I
thought you'd be halfway home by now."
   Kabe  kicked  the  crumbling garden wall disgustedly.  "Muftak,
you're  so cursed stupid! Of course I couldn't leave you in there,
when  you're too dumb to get out of there by yourself. You'd  have
been bantha fodder for sure!"
   The  Talz  regarded her quizzically, then, suddenly, he  buzzed
with  soft amusement. "Kabe . . . you saved my life. You and  Kay-
eight. You came back to save me." The Chadra-Fan put both hands on
her  hips  and glared at him. "Well, of course I did,  you  idiot!
We're partners, aren't we?"
   Muftak  nodded. "That's for sure, Kabe. Partners.  Come,  let's
get out of here."
   The  two began skulking along, automatically moving in shadows,
avoiding  passersby.  Behind them, the blaze was  spreading.  "The
walls won't burn," Muftak observed, "but the interior is going  to
be gutted, at this rate."
   "Jabba's  so  rich  he'll  fix it up, no  problem,"  Kabe  said
truthfully. "Muftak... one thing puzzles me. Who opened the door?"
   "It  must have been the droid," the Talz replied. "I only  hope
that  Bib Fortuna didn't see it helping us out. If he did, there's
no hope for Kay-eight Ellarr."
   "Where will we go now?" Kabe, ever-practical, asked.
   "Momaw  Nadon's  house. He'll hide us ... if  he's  alive.  And
there  were  no reports of his death, so he must have  managed  to
outmaneuver Alima somehow."
   "But we can't stay here . . ." Kabe wailed. "Our lives won't be
worth Sarlacc spit if Jabba finds out who messed up his house!"
   Muftak  gave her a long look. "You're right ... we  can't  stay
here.  We're  getting  out of Mos Eisley and off  Tatooine  before
anyone can inform on us."
   "How,  Muftak?  We lost almost all of our loot!"  Which  wasn't
quite  true . . . Kabe could feel the small bulges of half a dozen
gems in her robe.
   "Have  you forgotten the datadot?" Smugly, the Talz patted  his
furry belly.
   Kabe stared at him, wide-eyed, then began to chatter happily to
herself. "Thirty thousand! And it will all be ours! And you didn't
even  want to go into that room ... I practically had to drag you!
I told you you'd never regret this night, Muftak, didn't I? Didn't
   Silently, the big Talz nodded agreement.
   
   Two  nights later, in the secret hiding place beneath the roots
of the Ithorian's carnivorous vesuvague tree, Muftak faced the Mon
Calamari that Momaw Nadon had conducted there to meet him.  "Barid
Mesoriaam  said this was to be for General Dodonna's  eyes  only,"
the Talz said.
   "I understand," the fish-being said, holding out a finned hand.
"The datadot, please?"
   "First,  our  payment,"  Kabe piped up.  "Do  you  think  we're
stupid?"
   Silently,  the Mon Calamari produced credits from a pouch  that
made  the  Chadra-Fan's eyes gleam avidly. Muftak hastily  counted
it. "There is only fifteen thousand here," he complained. "We were
promised thirty."
   "I  have something better than credits, to make the rest of the
payment," promised the Rebel contact, reaching into his pocket.
   "What  could  be  better than credits?"  scoffed  Kabe,  openly
contemptuous.
   "These-" the spy said, holding up two official-looking  stamped
and  sealed  documents. "Two letters of transit, signed  by  Grand
Moff Tarkin himself. With these, you can go anywhere!"
   Muftak stared at the documents, all four eyes huge. Letters  of
transit!  With  these they'd be able to reach Alzoc III-and  then,
perhaps, Chadra, Kabe's world of origin.
   "But  obtaining passage out of Mos Eisley is still no easy task
..."  Muftak said, taking the precious documents and stowing them,
along with the credits, in his pouch. Gravely, he handed over  the
datadot.
   "Passage  has  been  arranged, my friend,"  Momaw  Nadon  said,
stepping out of the shadows. "You leave tonight. Perhaps, now that
you  have  those  . . ."-the Ithorian cocked one eyestalk  in  die
direction of the letters of transit-"you will one day be  able  to
aid the Rebellion again."
   "Don't  count on it, Momaw," Kabe squeaked. "We're in diis  for
ourselves, not for any Rebellion, right, Muftak?"
   The Talz scratched his head, and didn't answer.
   
   Kabe  craned  her neck to peer out the porthole  of  the  small
freighter,  gazing  down at the golden world below  them,  turning
lazily  in the light of its double suns. "I never diought I'd  see
Tatooine from here," she chirped, a little uneasily. "I could  use
a drink, Muftak."
   "Not  while  we're in space, little one," the  Talz  said.  "We
don't  want  you getting sick. But on Alzoc... ah,  there  is  the
finest of nectar to sip!"
   "What about juri juice?" she demanded, taken aback. "Don't tell
me they don't have any juri juice, Muftak!"
   Muftak  hummed  softly. "I have no idea, little one,"  he  said
gently.  Every time the Talz moved, he could feel the  letters  of
transit in their place of concealment. First Ahoc III, he thought.
Then,  perhaps,  Chadra  .  . . and from  there?  Who  knows?  The
Rebellion has been far more charitable to us than the Empire  ever
was or would be . . . perhaps, after we have seen our home worlds,
it will be time to think once again of the Rebellion.
   Kabe  was  still gazing out the porthole, muttering disgustedly
to  herself about the lack of juri juice. But suddenly she glanced
up  at  her  large friend, her little eyes twinkling.  "I've  just
thought of one more reason I'm glad to leave Mos Eisley, Muftak."
   "What is that, little one?"
   "At  least  I'll never have to listen to that . . . that  noise
Figrin  D'an  makes  again!  Especially  his  rendition  of   'The
Sequential  Passage of Chronological Intervals.' That  one  really
hurt my ears . . ."
   Muftak stroked his proboscis, buzzing softly with amusement.
   
   
   The Sand Tender: The Hammerhead's Tale
   by Dave Wolverton
   
   The  cantina was crowded now that the afternoon suns beat  down
on  Tatooine,  yet  even sitting with his friend  in  the  crowded
cantina,  Momaw Nadon felt somehow alone. Perhaps it  was  because
Nadon  was  the  only  Ithorian-or Hammerhead-on  the  planet.  Or
perhaps it was the news that his longtime friend Muftak bore.
   Muftak  the  hairy  white four-eye drank  a  cup  of  fermented
nectar,  slurping with his long proboscis, and said with  palpable
excitement, "Talz is the name of my species-at least that is  what
the  stormtrooper  called  me, and  as  soon  as  he  said  it,  I
recognized the word. Have you heard of the Talz?"
   Nadon  had a perfect memory. "Unfortunately, I have never heard
of  your  species, my friend," Nadon answered, the words from  his
twin  mouths  cutting  through the room in  stereo.  "But  I  have
contacts on other worlds. Now that we know your species, we may be
able to learn where your home lies."
   Muftak  got a faraway look in his eyes as he sipped his  drink.
"Home."
   "These  Imperial  stormtroopers  that  questioned  you,"  Nadon
asked, "what were they after?"
   "I  have heard," Muftak said, "that they are searching for  two
droids  who evacuated a Rebel ship and dropped into the Dune  Sea.
The Imperials are conducting a door-to-door search, even now."
   "Hmmm..." Nadon considered. He couldn't tell what the Imperials
were  really  after. Often they would visit a planet,  pretend  to
investigate  a minor infraction as an excuse to bully the  locals,
then  leave  a  garrison of gunslingers to "ensure the  peace."  A
small force of stormtroopers had been onplanet for some time.  Now
it looked as if the Empire were raising the stakes on Tatooine. At
this very moment, all over the planet, residents of the underworld
were  scurrying to hide illegal drug shipments, forging documents.
Nadon  saw worried faces in the crowded bar. There was no  telling
how  long  the  new Imperial forces might stay or  what  direction
their investigations might take.
   Muftak  laid a heavy claw on Nadon's arm in warning. "There  is
something  more that I must tell you, my old friend. The Imperials
that stopped us were led by a commander named Lieutenant Alima, an
older human from the planet Coruscant."
   At  the mention of Alima's name, Momaw Nadon's blood went  cold
and  the muscles of his legs tightened, preparing him to run.  "It
would  be  a  great favor," Nadon said, "if you could discover  if
this  man  once  led  the Star Destroyer Conquest  in  its  attack
against a herdship on Ithor."
   "I  have  already  begun asking around,"  Muftak  answered.  "I
noticed  that the men in Alima's command did not respect  him-they
looked away when he gave orders-and even his subordinates retained
a healthy distance from him."
   "Which means?" Nadon asked.
   "This  Alima is an outcast among his own men- probably recently
demoted, on his way down in the ranks. There is a good chance that
he  is  the one who betrayed your people. If he is, what will  you
do?"
   Nadon  stopped  his digestive processes for a  moment,  sending
extra  blood to his brains as he considered. Alima was  a  vicious
man.  Contacting him would be dangerous, but Nadon knew  he  could
not  resist confronting the man who was responsible for his exile.
"I  don't know what I will do," Nadon said. "If this Alima  is  my
old  foe, tell him that you know of an enemy to the Empire who may
be  harboring the droids. Sell him my name. . . . And make sure he
pays you well." It was an ironic moment. For years now, Nadon  had
spied  for  the Rebellion and had sought to hide this affiliation.
Now he was asking a friend to sell him out.
   "One  more  thing," Muftak said with a note of  warning.  "This
Alima  was brought in by Lord Vader as an interrogator. Word  from
the desert is that he's already killed fifty of our citizens."
   "I know the type of man I am dealing with," Nadon said heavily.
   
   That  evening,  as  the  lavender-  and  rose-colored  suns  of
Tatooine  dipped  below  the horizon,  Nadon  felt  restless.  His
sympathies  for the Rebellion were widely known, and  he  did  not
doubt  that the Imperials would soon come to question him-probably
even torture him.
   Over  the years, Nadon had used his share of his family fortune
to invest in farming ventures on a hundred worlds. His investments
were  paying such handsome dividends that he had gained a fortune,
and usually at this time of night he would have been hard at work,
managing his wealth. But tonight he was ill at ease.
   To  calm himself, Nadon decided to engage in an ancient Harvest
Ceremony,  so  he took his hovercar to a nameless  valley  in  the
mountains  north of Mos Eisley. There, Nadon had planted leathery,
shade-giving Cydorrian driller trees. With their far-reaching root
systems, the driller trees had quickly formed a thriving grove.
   Nadon  went to the healthiest specimen and pulled a  series  of
thin  golden  needles from a pouch at his belt, then inserted  the
probes  into the tree bark so that he could harvest gene  samples.
As  a  part of the gene-Harvest Ceremony, he talked softly to  the
tree  as he worked. "With your gift, my friend," he told the tree,
"I  will splice the DNA for producing your long root systems  into
the  native  Tatooine hubba gourd. The hubba gourd serves  as  the
staff  of life to Tatooine's wild Jawas and Sand People.  And  so,
because of this little pain I have inflicted, many people will  be
served.  For  this harvest I thank you. And I thank  you  for  the
greater harvests to come."
   When  he had collected his samples, Nadon lay back on the  warm
sand, watched the stars burning in the night skies, and remembered
home. Nadon had a flawless memory, so he replayed incidents in his
mind, and as he remembered, the sights and smells and emotions all
came  to  him  new  again so that he was lost to the  present.  He
relived  the  time  that he and his wife Fandomar  had  planted  a
small,  gnarled Indyup tree to commemorate their son's conception.
For  a  moment in his memory, Nadon knelt beside his wife  digging
beneath  a  sun-splattered  waterfall  in  the  steaming  Ithorian
jungle,  then  cocked his head to listen to an  arrak  snake  that
burst into song from the heights of a nearby cliff.
   Then  he  recalled  being a child, gently  inhaling  with  both
mouths the sweet smell of a purple donar flower.
   After  the  rush of memories, Nadon felt frail,  wasted.  Home.
Nadon  could  not  go home. Once, he had been  revered  among  his
people  as  a  great  High Priest, an Ithorian  renowned  for  his
knowledge of many agricultural ceremonies. But then Captain  Alima
had  come  with his Star Destroyer and forced Nadon to reveal  the
secrets of Ithorian technology to the Empire.
   Nadon's people had banished him. As his punishment, Momaw Nadon
had chosen to live on this dreary world of Tatooine-the equivalent
of  an  Ithorian hell. Where once he had led his people in  caring
for  the vast forests of Ithor, Nadon now tended the barren  sands
of  Tatooine. As penance for his crimes, he struggled  to  develop
plants  that  could thrive in these deserts, hoping  that  someday
Tatooine would become a lush and inviting world.
   Nadon  replayed  his first memories of Alima,  captain  of  the
Imperial Star Destroyer Conquest. Alima had been a young man  with
dark  hair,  a craggy face, and fierce eyes. Nadon had been  newly
married, High Priest of the Tafanda Bay.
   On  his  native Ithor, Nadon's people lived in immense floating
cities  called  herdships,  which  used  repulsorlift  engines  to
constantly sweep over the forests and plains, and the Tafanda  Bay
was  the largest and finest of Ithor's planetary herdships. Inside
each  herd-ship,  hundreds of biospheres were painstakingly  repro
duced down to the microscopic flora and fauna of the topsoils. The
Ithorians  harvested plants from the biospheres of the ships,  but
particularly  on their huge groundships, they also harvested  from
the  abundant forests of Ithor-taking nourishment from fruits  and
grains,  creating  medicines from saps and  pollens,  using  plant
fibers  to  create fabrics and ultrastrong porcelains,  harvesting
minerals and energy from otherwise unusable roots and stems.
   The  study  of plants and their uses was the lifework  of  most
Ithorians,  and  the greatest of the students became  priests  who
guided others, prohibiting the people from harvesting plants  that
could think or feel. Only those plants that slept, those that were
not  self-aware, could be harvested, and then only under  a  rigid
law:  For every plant that was destroyed in the harvest, two  must
be planted to replace it. This was the Ithorian Law of Life.
   As  a  High  Priest, Nadon had spent decades in the service  of
life,  until  Captain  Alima came seeking  excuses  to  board  the
Tafanda  Bay,  then  demanded  to know  the  secrets  of  Ithorian
technology.  At  first Nadon had refused to  reveal  his  secrets,
until  Captain Alima trained his Star Destroyer's blasters on  the
sentient  forests of Cathor Hills. Thousands of the Bafforr  died,
trees  that  had been Nadon's teachers and friends in  his  youth.
Neither  the trees nor the Ithorians had the weapons to fight  the
Empire.
   When  the  forest was destroyed, Captain Alima had  turned  his
weapons  on the Tafanda Bay and ordered Nadon to surrender.  In  a
last-ditch effort to save his own people, Nadon had no choice  but
to relinquish the secrets of Ithorian technology to Alima.
   As   punishment   for   revealing  the  Ithorian   agricultural
ceremonies, Nadon could still hear the elders' judgment ringing in
his  ears, "We banish you from Ithor and from our mother  jungles.
Go and consider your evil actions in solitude."
   Home.  Nadon  found  himself both envying  Muftak  and  feeling
gratitude that perhaps the hairy creature would find joy.
   Nadon  was interrupted from his reveries by a comlink  call  on
his personal channel.
   "Nadon," Muftak said over audio, "I just sold your name to this
Lieutenant Alima. You had better get home to meet him. Be careful,
my old friend."
   "Thank you," Nadon said.
   
   When  Momaw Nadon reached Mos Eisley, his house was quiet. With
the  suns  down,  many  of the townspeople were  on  the  streets,
enjoying  the cool evening. Out across the Dune Sea,  winds  raced
over  the sand, raising clouds of dust. Static discharges  in  the
dust  clouds  made the night growl with the sound of  distant  dry
thunder.
   Nadon  unlocked his door, checking the doorjamb  for  any  sign
that someone might have forced their way in before him. The air in
his  house  was  rich  with the smell of water,  and  dreeka  fish
chirped among the reeds of the pond in his living room. Everywhere
in  the  dome,  creepers climbed the pourstone  walls  toward  the
skylights.  Small  trees shivered under the  weight  of  a  breeze
produced by fans.
   Nadon made his way over a paved trail into one of his many side
domes, to a small grove of Bafforr trees that glowed pale blue  in
the  starlight  under black leaves. Nadon knelt  before  them  and
wrapped  his  long leathery gray fingers around the trunk  of  one
tree. The bark was smoother than glass.
   "My  friends,"  Nadon whispered. "Our enemy  Captain  Alima  is
coming. I do not know how to admit this, but I wish to kill him."
   The  bark  hummed under his touch, and a pure and holy  feeling
enervated  him, as if light entered his every pore.  The  soothing
mind-touch of the sentient trees nearly overwhelmed him  with  its
beauty,  but  the  trees were displeased by his confession.  Above
him,  the  black  leaves trembled, hissing the words,  "Noooo.  We
forbid it."
   "He  slew  the Bafforr of Cathor Hills," Nadon said. "He  is  a
murderer.  And  he  killed your brothers so  that  he  could  gain
greater prestige among evil men. His every intent was impure."
   "You  are  a priest of Ithor," the woods whispered.  "You  have
vowed to honor the Law of Life. You cannot slay him."
   "But  he  killed your kin," Nadon reasoned. He did not know  if
the  Bafforr  understood  him. Each tree  in  itself  had  limited
intelligence,  but  through  their intertwining  roots  they  were
connected  and  thus formed a group intelligence. A  large  forest
grew  wiser in lore than any other being, but these few trees were
not,  a great forest. Still, Nadon had not come for their counsel,
only for their permission.
   "Our kin would have died in time," the Bafforr reasoned. "Alima
only hurried their end."
   "Just as I wish to hurry Alima's end," Nadon said.
   "You  are  not  like Alima." The trees sharpened the  focus  of
their mind-touch, and Nadon gasped at the beauty he felt as rivers
of  light cascaded through him. The profound peace that settled in
his  bones  was  meant both as a reward and a  warning.  While  he
basked  in the glow, he dreaded the moment when he would  have  to
leave  the sacred grove and return to the mundane world.  "If  you
break  the  Law of Life," the Bafforr said, "we will no longer  be
able to tolerate your touch."
   "I  would  not kill him myself," Momaw Nadon pleaded. "I  would
command  the vesuvague tree to strangle him, or I would  have  the
alleth consume him or the arool poison him."
   "All  of these are lower life forms than us," the Bafforr said,
"and  they respond to your command as if they were common weapons.
But once again, we warn you, you cannot break the Law of Life."
   The  mind-touch  of  the Bafforr withdrew abruptly,  and  Nadon
choked out a sob as he was suddenly excluded from the group  mind.
He fell to his face and began to weep.
   "Fancy meeting you here," an unfamiliar voice said. Momaw Nadon
turned.
   Beneath  a  glow  globe that shone like a moon stood  an  aging
human in an Imperial uniform. Emerald-winged moths fluttered about
the  globe,  and  for a moment the human eyed their  bright  green
wings.
   Alima's face was fatter than when Nadon had last seen him,  and
his  voice  had grown hoarser with age. His cheeks had sagged  and
his  hair  was  graying, but Nadon recognized him. He  would  have
recognized  that  face anywhere. "I see you are  still  a  priest,
crying  over  your sacred trees," Alima said. He waved  a  blaster
toward the grove.
   "And  I see that you are still a servant of evil," Nadon  said,
"though somewhat fallen in rank."
   Alima chuckled. "Believe me, my old friend," he countered,  "my
fall from grace was carefully orchestrated. Only a fool would want
to  be  captain  of Lord Vader's flagship: The mortality  rate  is
phenomenal.  Still,  Vader finds uses  for  me  even  as  a  lowly
lieutenant  -  which is why I'm here. So, tell me - enemy  of  the
Empire - where the droids are. I paid good money to learn the name
of one who was said to be harboring them."
   "Then  you  wasted  your  money," Nadon retorted,  hoping  that
Muftak  had  extorted plenty. "I don't know the  location  of  any
droid."
   "But  you  are an enemy of the Empire, serving the  Rebellion,"
Alima whispered dangerously. "I'm sure of it!"
      "I know nothing about any droids," Nadon answered softly. He
checked  Alima's  location. The warrior stood close  to  an  arool
cactus.  Nadon  could command it to strike, but in  order  to  get
within  range of its stinging spines, Alima would have to  move  a
couple of steps farther down the path.
   Nadon got up from die forest floor, stepped onto the path,  and
backed away from Alima, hoping to lure him a meter.
   Alima  followed  Nadon's eyes, glanced at the  arool.  "Do  you
really  think  I'm so stupid as to walk into your traps,  Priest?"
Alima asked.
   Alima raised his blaster and pointed it at Nadon, then abruptly
swiveled and fired into the grove of blue-glowing Bafforr. A  tree
exploded  into flame, its trunk splitting under the impact.  Black
leaves  rusded and waves of pain rippled from the woods, battering
Nadon's senses as if they were mighty fists.
   "You  will  devote  all  of  your resources  to  finding  those
droids,"  Alima said. "Look to your friends within the  Rebellion.
If you do not have a location on the droids by tomorrow evening, I
will  sew your eyes open and make you watch as I take a vibroblade
and  slice  each limb off your precious Bafforr trees,  one  at  a
time.  Then I'll drop a thermal detonator in your living room  and
fry the rest of your damned vegetable friends. Believe me, if your
family were here or if I thought there was anything that you loved
more in life, I would gladly destroy it, too - "
   "I'll  kill you - " Momaw Nadon shouted, his stereophonic voice
ringing through the dome surprisingly loud.
   "You?"  Alima asked. "If I thought you had it in you, I'd  have
brought a squadron of men. No, you'll cave in to my demands,  just
as you have in the past!"
   Alima turned and walked away, unconcernedly, and Nadon could do
nothing but watch helplessly even though rage burned within him.
   When Alima had left, Nadon went to his grove to see if he could
save the wounded Bafforr, but the pale blue sheen of its glasslike
trunk was already turning black in death.
   He  reached out for the trees with his mind. Nadon fell to  his
knees  in the mossy turf under the dark leaves and pleaded,  "Now?
Now may I kill him?"
   The  leaves  of the living Bafforr trees circling  him  rustled
dimly in response. "What? What happened? Who touches us?"
   Momaw  Nadon  listened to the trees' voices. Their  number  had
been  reduced from seven trees down to six- just below the  number
needed for the grove to achieve true sentience. He could not  tell
how  much  they might understand. "Momaw Nadon, a friend,  touches
you. Our enemy killed a member of your grove. I wish to punish him
for his act."
   "We  understand. You cannot break the Law of Life," the Bafforr
whispered with finality. "We forbid it."
   Nadon  backed away without closing his eyes in the  traditional
sign  of  acceptance. Perhaps the Bafforr were willing to die  for
their principles, but Nadon could not sit by quietly and let them.
   He  considered his options. He amid search for the droids, give
in to Captain Alima's demands.
   The  thought  was  so revolting that it caused  Nadon  physical
pain,  made  his  eyes  feel gritty and  itch.  Nadon  rubbed  his
forehead  between his eyes with his long thin fingers,  physically
stimulating a pleasure-inducing gland along the ridge of his  brow
so that he could think clearly again.
   If  the  Empire wanted those two droids so badly, then  it  was
imperative that the Empire not get them.
   No, Nadon had to fight. Lieutenant Alima was a dangerous man-as
vicious  as  they  come. He would leave a  trail  of  charred  and
mutilated victims behind in his search for the droids, and  sooner
or later, someone would tell him what he wanted to know.
   As  much as Nadon detested violence, he knew that Alima  was  a
monster,  someone who must be destroyed. It would be a small  loss
to  the  Empire,  an  ineffectual blow, but  Alima  represented  a
constant, undeniable threat to the Rebel Alliance.
   Just  as  importantly, by letting Alima live,  Nadon  would  be
allowing  the man to kill more plants, more people. Nadon couldn't
allow Alima to live.
   In  another room a sprinkler system softly hissed to life,  and
Nadon took that as a signal to leave. He checked his utility  belt
for some credit chips, then went out the front door.
   Down  the  street,  he  spotted three stormtroopers  on  guard,
standing  together talking. They didn't hide the  fact  that  they
were watching his house. Nadon had to walk past them. The flashing
red  lights on their blaster rifles testified that the rifles were
set to kill. As Nadon passed, one of the stormtroopers peeled away
and followed at a discreet distance.
   The  streets were crowded now that full night had hit  and  the
blistering  temperature had fallen to a comfortable  level.  Nadon
passed  through  the  markets  and  had  no  trouble  losing   the
stormtrooper.
   Nadon  made  his way to Kayson's Weapons Shop. The gruff  human
who  owned  the shop had been in business forever, but  Nadon  had
never set foot on the premises. It took less than five minutes  to
buy  a  heavy blaster and a holster that could be concealed  under
Nadon's cloak, then the Ithorian was back out the door.
   He  wandered the streets aimlessly for nearly an hour,  without
any  kind of plan. He simply hoped to spot Lieutenant Alima,  pull
his  blaster,  and shoot the human. Nadon knew that  nothing  much
would  be accomplished by such an action. He would kill the human,
but in the end he would forfeit his own life. The precious Bafforr
trees  in  his  home would be uprooted by whoever  took  over  his
house, and one way or another he would never be able to speak widi
them  again. But at least they would not be tortured by the  likes
of Alima.
   He  set the blaster to kill, then searched the streets until he
heard  the  scream of fire sirens in his own neighborhood.  For  a
moment  he  was struck with horror, fearing that Lieutenant  Alima
had  already come to burn his house, but as he ran up the streets,
Nadon saw that some trader's home was a roaring blaze.
   Firelight  reflected  from the column of  smoke,  lighting  the
streets and alleys in a dull red.
   From every home, people were running toward the house with foam
canisters.  Water was so precious on Tatooine that the authorities
would probably let the house burn rather than waste the water used
in  the  foam extinguishers, but if the hapless owner of the  home
was  in  the  vicinity, he might purchase enough  canisters  -  at
inflated prices - to rescue his valuables.
   From  the  corner of his eye, on a side street, Nadon  glimpsed
the  dark uniform of an Imperial officer with its billed  cap.  He
turned   just  in  time  to  recognize  Lieutenant  Alima  walking
steadfastly up the hill toward the fire.
   Nadon  rushed  up  the street parallel to  Alima's  path,  then
turned  down the next alley, running toward Alima. He  pulled  out
his blaster, fumbled with it momentarily. The gun was not made  to
accommodate an Ithorian's extraordinarily long, thin fingers,  and
Nadon could hardly get his finger into the trigger guard. He found
that  his hearts were racing, thumping wildly in his chest like  a
pair of Jawas in a struggle.
   Nadon  huddled against a wall, and checked the side streets  in
three directions. He could not see anyone. Good. There would be no
witnesses.
   Alima  walked into the open not a meter away, and Nadon shouted
his name, pulled the blaster up level to Alima's face.
   Alima turned and looked at the Ithorian calmly, glanced at  the
blaster.
   "Come  here,  into the alley!" Nadon commanded.  His  mind  was
racing,  and he could not think what to do. He thought of  pulling
the  trigger,  but he wanted to talk first, to tell Alima  why  he
felt  he  had  to do this. Perhaps, Nadon thought,  he  will  even
repent.  Perhaps he will turn away from the Empire.  Nadon's  legs
cramped,  aching  with the desire to run, his  species'  preferred
response for coping with danger.
   Alima  laughed. "You can't kill me with a blaster set to Stun,"
he  said.  Nadon knew he had set the blaster to Kill,  but  feared
that  perhaps  it  had been knocked off the setting  by  accident.
Nadon  glanced  down  in  horror at the indicator  lights  on  the
blaster, saw the red flashing lights of the Kill setting. Just  as
Nadon realized his mistake, Alima dodged from Nadon's line of fire
and pulled his own blaster.
   A  blue  bolt tore through the darkness, slamming Nadon between
his stomachs, knocking the big Ithorian into the stone wall at his
back.  For a moment, it seemed that a white sun blazed before  his
eyes,  and then Nadon found himself lying on the ground in a  dark
alley,  and  someone was kicking his right eyestalk.  Blood  oozed
from  the  wound. Nadon reached up with his long arms,  trying  to
cover his eyestalks, and he moaned loudly.
   His attacker stopped kicking, apparently more from being winded
than from any desire to offer mercy. "You pacifist species are  so
pathetic  in  battle," Alima said, standing over  Nadon,  panting.
"You're lucky that my blaster was set to Stun!"
   Nadon  groaned, and Alima waved two blasters in his face. "Find
me  those droids! You have until sunset tomorrow!" He pointed  his
blaster between Nadon's eyes and pulled the trigger again.
   
   Nadon  woke  with  a  throbbing ache in his eyestalks.  It  was
nearly  dawn, and a pale light washed through Mos Eisley,  turning
the  pourstone  buildings to golden domes. Nadon wiped  the  blood
from  his face with his cloak, then managed to crawl to his knees.
He  felt as if he stood in a whirling fog that threatened to sweep
him  away,  and  he  leaned against the side of the  building  for
support.
   Stupid. I was stupid, he realized. For one split second,  Nadon
had  had  the  opportunity to kill Lieutenant Alima,  and  he  had
failed to do so. Even though Nadon understood intellectually  that
the  Empire  could  only be overthrown by violence,  his  Ithorian
nature had not allowed him to kill.
   Nadon closed his eyes, tried to blink away the pain. He glanced
up.  A  thin  smoke  hung over the city, and people  were  already
beginning to scurry for cover from the morning heat.
   Nadon  got  up  and  wearily headed for home,  his  ears  still
ringing.  He shook his head, tried to clear it. He went into  his.
house,  sat beside a pool and washed the blood from his  eyestalk.
During the cool of the night, moisture had condensed at the top of
the  dome. Now it sometimes fell like droplets of rain. Above  his
head  was  a  large gorsa tree, a stout flowering tree  that  used
phosphorescent  flowers to attract night insects for  pollination.
Now  that morning had come, the pale orange phosphorescent flowers
were folding in on themselves.
   In  Mos  Eisley  it  was rumored that Momaw Nadon's  house  was
filled  with  carnivorous plants. Nadon encouraged  the  rumor  in
order  to  keep out water thieves. Besides, the rumors were  true,
but  those  who  walked  through the  biospheres  under  the  High
Priest's protection did not have anything to fear.
   Nadon went to a side dome where vines and creep ers hung from a
large, red-barked tree that stood beside a pool. Nadon said, "Part
your vines, friend."
   The  tree's limbs quivered, and the vines parted, exposing  the
trunk.  In  the  dim light of morning, four human  skeletons  were
revealed  hanging from the limbs near the trunk of the tree,  each
with  a  thick  creeper wrapped around its neck  -  hapless  water
thieves.
   Nadon  fumbled beneath some thick grass near the tree's  trunk,
pulled  at a handle until a concealed door jerked upward. A  light
flipped on below him, showing the ladder leading down.
   Nadon  had secreted many a Rebel in the room below, and  for  a
long  moment he considered climbing down himself, hiding.  Perhaps
in this concealed chamber, he would be able to disappear from view
for  a while. Alima could ignite a thermal detonator in this room,
but  there  was  a chance that Nadon could ride out the  firestorm
intact, remain hidden.
   He had enough food stored here to last for weeks. And Nadon was
sorely tempted to climb down.
   But  he  couldn't. He couldn't let Alima kill his  plants.  One
last chance, Nadon thought. When Alima comes this evening, I might
be able to kill him yet.
   Nadon  got  up,  strolled through his biosphere,  touching  the
limbs  of trees, stroking the gentle fronds of ferns, tasting  the
scent of moisture and undergrowth, the life all around him.
   There was no other way, Nadon realized.
   He  would have to remain and fight, though it cost him all.  In
the  evening,  Alima would come. Nadon knew that Lieutenant  Alima
would be true to his word. He would sew Nadon's eyes open and make
him  watch as he slew the Bafforr. It would gratify Alima's little
Imperial  heart  to know how he had tortured an Ithorian,  leaving
Nadon  alive to bear witness to the Empire's cruelty. Alima  would
then incinerate the house.
   Momaw  Nadon considered what that would mean. All of his plants
would  be  destroyed, all of his notes. "fears of  work  would  be
wasted.  Nadon considered the plants, decided that he  would  take
some containers outside, saving the specimens that showed the best
hope of improving the ecology of Tatooine.
   The  Bafforr would die - they could not be uprooted -  but  the
Bafforr  had accepted their fate, and Nadon realized that  now  he
must accept his.
   For  years  Momaw  Nadon  had  hidden  on  this  rock,  seeking
cleansing,  trying to overcome the anger that insisted  he  should
fight back against the Empire. The elders of Ithor had balked when
he  suggested  that  the  Empire was a  weed  that  needed  to  be
destroyed.  His  elders would have let the Imperials  destroy  the
Bafforr  forests of Cathor Hills, trusting that some shred  of  de
cency  left in Alima would make him stop short of genocide against
an entire species. His elders would have forgiven the Empire.
   But  in  all his years seeking spiritual cleansing,  Nadon  had
never  been convinced that he was wrong. He believed that  he  had
been right to try to save what he could.
   Nadon was not above killing an insect to save a tree.
   So,  Nadon had to resist the Empire the best he knew how.  Even
if  that meant he had to watch the Bafforrs be destroyed. Even  if
it  meant  he  himself was destroyed. He could not  just  let  the
Empire crash him.
   Nadon  was exhausted, but could not sleep. He decided  to  calm
himself  by  continuing  his Harvest  Ceremony.  He  went  to  his
laboratory  on the east wing of the house, opened the fruit  of  a
large  Tatooine  hubba gourd, and removed some  pale,  transparent
seeds.  Using tiny robotic manipulators, he carefully opened  four
young seeds and removed the zygotes.
   Using his genetic samples from the Cydorrian driller trees,  he
put  the  DNA  into  a  gene splicer. Mine  genes  controlled  the
drillers'  root growth. Nadon took these genes, spliced them  into
the  hubba gourd zygotes, then returned the gourd's zygotes  to  a
nutrient mixture so that they could grow.
   The  whole  painstaking  ritual calmed  Nadon  immensely,  even
though  he  knew  that  soon most of his work  would  probably  be
destroyed.  The  task  took nearly twelve hours,  and  when  Nadon
looked  up  from his work, he saw by the shadows on the wall  that
nightfall was approaching. Soon, Alima would come.
   Time to say good-bye, Nadon whispered. At this time of the day,
his  good  friend Muftak would be trying to cool  himself  off  at
Chalmun's  cantina-a difficult task considering the  thickness  of
the four-eye's furry white pelt.
   Nadon went to the cantina, thinking furiously, wondering how he
might best lure Alima into the dangerous depth of his own personal
biosphere.
   The  cantina  was  as busy as usual-bustling with  disreputable
aliens. It was a tough place, frequented by cruel beings.
   Sure  enough,  Nadon found Muftak sitting  alone  at  a  table,
sipping  polaris ale while his partner in crime, the little  thief
Kabe,  chittered and wandered about in the darkness, begging Wuher
the  bartender  for  juri  juice and eyeing  the  pockets  of  the
cantina's inhabitants.
   Nadon spoke to Muftak of inconsequential things- the price that
Muftak  had  gained for selling Nadon's name, Muftak's  dreams  of
home. Always, Nadon tried to accentuate the positive, to leave his
friend uplifted, but Nadon's own thoughts were dark, and when they
drank  a  toast,  Nadon  found himself offering  comfort  that  he
himself could not receive.
   Suddenly  there was a disturbance in the cantina:  A  hideously
scarred human named Evazan and his alien sidekick Ponda Baba  were
picking  a fight with some wide-eyed local moisture boy.  "I  have
the  death sentence on twelve systems!" the scarred human  warned.
Nadon  looked at the small group. The moisture boy was unfamiliar,
some  farmer from the desert who had come in only moments  earlier
with  the  old  mystic Ben Kenobi. Nadon had seen  Ben  only  once
before,  when he'd come into town to shop. Nadon had  noticed  the
pair because the barkeep Wuher had shouted for them to leave their
droids  outside.  Evazan and Ponda Baba were  regulars,  had  been
hanging around the spaceport for weeks.
   Suddenly,  Ponda Baba swung a clawed arm, bashing the  moisture
farmer  across the face, sending the boy crashing against a table.
Ponda  Baba then pulled a blaster free just as Wuher shouted  from
behind the bar, "No blasters!"
   Old Ben Kenobi whipped out an ancient lightsaber. It hummed  to
life,  flashing  blue as he slashed off Ponda Baba's  arm,  sliced
Evazan's  chest Then he flipped off his lightsaber and  cautiously
backed away with the young moisture farmer in tow.
   Nadon  followed  Ben Kenobi with his eyes  as  the  music  went
silent.  The  bloodshed nauseated Nadon. Old Ben Kenobi  took  his
young  friend to the back of the cantina, and together they  spoke
with  the  Wookiee smuggler Chewbacca, then retired to  a  private
cubicle with Chewbacca's partner, Han Solo.
   "I  think I should be going," Nadon said to Muftak. "Things are
getting hot in here."
   "Please,"  Muftak said heavily. "One last drink for old  times.
I'm buying."
   This  was such an unusual offer that Nadon didn't dare  refuse.
They  ordered another round, and Nadou sat talking for a few  more
moments  with Muftak, said his good-byes. A moment later, Ben  and
his  moisture boy got up from their table at the back of the  bar,
and  a seed of thought sprouted in Nadon's head. He wondered  what
business  the  old mystic from the Jundland Wastes might  have  in
town with smugglers, especially bringing a moisture farmer in tow.
   Then he remembered the droids that Ben Kenobi had with him, and
Momaw  Nadon  saw the truth: Ben Kenobi was trying to smuggle  the
droids off Tatooine.
   In that one second, Momaw Nadon's hearts beat wildly and he saw
his  salvation. Nadon knew exactly where to look for  the  droids,
and if he told Alima, then the lieutenant would spare his life.
   But  as  old  Ben Kenobi passed him, the mystic glanced  calmly
into  Nadon's eyes, and somehow, Nadon suspected that Kenobi  knew
what  he  was thinking. Ben and the moisture boy walked past,  yet
Ben said nothing to Nadon.
   "Did  you see the way he looked at you?" Muftak asked. "Like  a
Tusken  Raider staring down a charging bantha. What do  you  think
that was all about?"
   "I  have no idea," Nadon said. Yet he looked down at the table,
ashamed  even to have thought of sacrificing someone  else  in  an
effort to escape his own pain.
   Nadon  fell  silent  for  a moment, glanced  around  the  room.
Certainly,  if  Nadon  could figure out what was  happening  here,
others  might also. Yet Ben Kenobi was not a regular in town,  and
few  in the cantina would have recognized him. No one followed the
old mystic out.
   Muftak laid a hairy paw on Nadon's smooth gray-green arm.  "You
are  afraid,  my old friend. Your worries weigh on you.  Is  there
anything that I can do?"
   Blaster fire erupted from a cubicle at the back of the cantina,
and Han Solo stepped out, bolstered his blaster. He puffed out his
chest in false bravado, threw a credit chip to Wuher as he left.
   Muftak put a hairy paw to his head and scratched.
   "I  think  I had better be leaving, too," Momaw said. "I  don't
want to be here if the Imperials come to investigate."
   Momaw  hurried out, looked up at the suns dropping  toward  the
horizon. Time for the torture to begin.
   He  glanced up in despair, wishing that he were like Han  Solo,
wishing  that he could kill someone who merited death,  then  walk
away  calmly. But he couldn't. Even in his deepest rage, he  could
not  harm  another. And so, there was nothing left to do but  save
what he could.
   Momaw Nadon breathed deeply for a moment, then hurried home and
began  carrying the most valuable of his plant samples and setting
them outside the back door in the hope that they would escape  the
fire.
   The   streets   were  nearly  deserted,  except   for   a   few
stormtroopers that watched the house.
   When  this is done, Nadon promised himself as he worked, I will
go home. I will repudiate the elders and their foolish traditions.
I  will bear the limbs of the burned Bafforr trees in my arms, and
I will show the elders my scarred eyes, and then they will see how
monstrous the Empire has become, and they will know that  we  must
fight.
   Nadon chuckled to himself. Somehow, his spiritual eyes had been
sewn open long ago. He'd seen the evil, known he had to fight  it.
But  when Alima came and made the act physical, then Nadon's scars
would  bear witness to his people. The Ithorians were not a stupid
species.  They  were  not as hopelessly pacifistic  as  Lieutenant
Alima  and his Empire believed. Though they might never go to  war
themselves, they could still help fund the Rebellion. Perhaps this
one small evil act could turn against Lieutenant Alima in the long
run. The Empire's evil will betray itself, Nadon told himself.
   As  he considered the possibilities, Nadon felt a strange  rush
of hope. Perhaps his suffering would be worth something after all.
Perhaps  he could end this seclusion, return to his wife  and  his
son and the vast forests of Ithor.
   And as Nadon considered the possibilities, he realized that his
loneliness  and suffering here as an outcast on Tatooine  did  not
hurt  so  much. His deepest regret, he found, was not the pain  he
had endured, but that his work here - his plant samples - would be
destroyed. On Ithor, the people had a saying: "A man is his work."
Never had the saying felt more true. By destroying the results  of
Nadon's  labor  here on Tatooine, Alima would destroy  a  part  of
Nadon.
   Nadon  stood  gazing down at his little plants sitting  in  the
sunlight  outside  the  door, decided to  carry  them  across  the
street, give them a better chance of survival.
   The  muted  explosions of blaster fire punctured  the  air  and
began  echoing  from buildings. Nadon looked up from  his  labors.
Down  the  street, stormtroopers that had been guarding his  house
all began running toward the spaceport. Nadon looked up in time to
see  Han  Solo's old junker, the Millennium Falcon, blasting  into
the sly.
   So,  Nadon  realized,  old  Ben Kenobi's  droids  made  it  off
Tatooine.  He  watched the ship for several moments to  make  sure
that none of the planetary artillery fired on the Falcon. When  he
was  certain  that  the  ship had gotten away,  he  found  himself
running behind the stormtroopers toward the docking bays.
   Outside the bays, some Imperial captain stood before dozens  of
stormtroopers  and port authorities, shouting in a  frantic  rage:
"How  could  this happen? How could you let all four of  them  get
away? Someone must be held accountable, and it won't be me!"
   There  at  the  back of the crowd, Nadon saw  Lieutenant  Alima
standing nervously, staring toward the ground. No one was stepping
forward  to  claim  responsibility for Solo's  breakout,  and  the
frantic  look  in  the captain's eye suggested that  he  needed  a
scapegoat.
   The  evil of the Empire will turn against itself. A man is  his
work. You cannot break the Law of Life.
   Nadon realized what he must do. He could never kill a man,  but
he  could stop Alima. He could sabotage the man's career, get  him
demoted even further.
   Nadon  called out to the Imperial captain: "Sir, last  night  I
informed Lieutenant Alima that a freighter owned by Han Solo would
be  blasting out of here with two droids as its primary  cargo.  I
suspect  that your lieutenant's negligence in letting Solo  escape
goes  beyond ineptitude, and should be considered criminal  in  na
ture."
   Nadon  looked at Alima, wondering if he could make such charges
stick. Nadon had a perfect memory. He would never get tangled in a
snare of his own lies, so long as he chose those lies carefully.
   "No!" Alima shouted, giving Nadon a pleading look that betrayed
profound  horror.  The Imperial captain was already  fixing  Alima
with  a  dark stare. Stormtroopers stepped aside, clearing a  path
between the two men.
   The  captain  glanced back at Nadon. "Would you swear  to  this
under oath, Citizen?"
   "Gladly," Nadon said, seeing ways that he could make his  false
testimony  stand up in a military tribunal. The two had met  alone
in  Nadon's house. Surely Alima had listed his meeting with  Nadon
in  his  personal  logs. Nadon knew! that as Ithorians-a  race  of
peaceful  cowards-his  people  were  known  as  easy  targets  for
intimidation.  Nadon  could  claim that  Alima  had  tortured  the
information  from  him.  Certainly, with the  bruises  and  bloody
eyestalks, he could show that he'd been tortured. There was a good
chance that Alima would be demoted-perhaps even imprisoned.
   The captain glanced back at Alima and said, "You know what Lord
Vader  would do if he were here." Before Nadon had time to  blink,
the  captain  pulled his blaster and fired into  Lieutenant  Alima
three  times. Blood and gobbets of roasted flesh spattered  across
the courtyard.
   Nadon stared in shock, realizing belatedly that the captain had
not wished to convene a tribunal. He simply needed a scapegoat.
   "I  will  expect  your testimony to be recorded,"  the  captain
said.  Momaw  Nadon stood blinking, unable to move, and  the  suns
seemed  to  have  gone  cold.  He  wavered,  feeling  faint.   The
stormtroopers all began walking away, apparently heading toward  a
transport so they could leave Tatooine. The Law of Life  kept  run
ning  through  Nadon's  mind  like  a  litany.  "For  every  plant
destroyed in the harvest, two must be cultivated to replace it."
   Nadon knew that his act would require penance. The blood  of  a
man  was  on  his  hands, and such a stain  could  not  easily  be
removed.  But  surely  the Bafforr would understand.  Surely  they
would forgive him.
   At  last, before the Imperial medics could arrive, Nadon forced
his legs to move. Numbly, he went to the warm corpse, leaned over,
and took two golden needles from his belt. He inserted the needles
and  removed the genetic samples. On Ithor were cloning tanks that
would  allow  him to create duplicates of Alima. For his  penance,
Nadon would nurture Alima's (win sons. Perhaps in their day,  they
too  would  grow  wise  and kind, serving  as  Priests  on  Ithor,
promoting (he Law of Life.
   Nadon  packed  the  needles in his utility  belt,  then  headed
toward his biosphere. There would be so much to do before he  left
Tatooine-depositions to give the Imperials, plants to be  uprooted
in  preparation for the move, hubba gourd seeds to be sown in  the
wilds.
   A  stiff  wind kicked up, and stinging sand blew  in  from  the
desert.  Nadon closed his eyes against it, and allowed himself  to
become lost for a moment in the memory of his wife's final embrace
as  he was banished from Ithor, and in the memory he relished  the
scent  of  his young son. "I will be waiting here for you  if  you
ever  return," she had said. And for the first time in ages  Momaw
Nadon walked free and his steps felt light. He was heading home.
   
   
   Be Still My Heart: The Bartender's Tale
   by David Bischoff
   
   On his way to work, Wuher, after-double-noon shift bartender at
the  Mos  Eisley Spaceport Cantina, was accosted. To make  matters
worse, the accoster was his least favorite of the many things that
congregated   in   this   most  egregious  of   congregations   of
intergalactic scum.
   An  extensor  whipped  from  the pale  shadows  of  the  alley,
wrapping  around  his ankle lightly, yet with enough  strength  to
detain  him. Automatically, Wuher reached to the back of his  belt
for  his street-club. A weapon of some kind was always a necessity
for  those  who  strode the byways of a haven  for  cutpurses  and
cutthroats like Mos Eisley. However, the pathetic voice  from  the
juncture of walls and garbage cans gave him stay.
   "Please, sir. I mean you no harm. I humbly request asylum."
   Wuher  blinked. He rubbed his grimy sleeve over his puffy eyes.
He'd  drunk  too much of his own barbrew last night and overslept.
He had a faint growl of hangover nagging him; he was in no mood to
deal with riffraff begging for shelter or alms.
   "Get  off me," he snarled. "Who the hell are you?" Wuher was  a
surly sort who preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. He  also
had  a  rather aggressive curiosity sometimes, though. This was  a
trait  that his employer, Chalmun the Wookiee, found- to be  a  re
source  in the chemical experimentation aspects of Wuher' s  work,
but claimed would ultimately cause him grief.
   "I  am  Ceetoo-Arfour," squeaked the voice,  accompanied  by  a
curious  blend  of whistles and clicks. "I have escaped  from  the
Jawas,  who intend to utilize me for spare parts, despite  extreme
functional  utility if I am left in one piece - to say nothing  of
the  value of my consciousness. Through sheer good luck, the Jawas
used  a corroded restraining bolt, which fell off, allowing me  to
escape."
   Wuher  moved  farther  into  the shadows,  his  eyes  adjusting
farther  away from the ambient, anguished brightness that was  one
of  the  planet Tatooine's charming qualities. There, amongst  the
stacked refuse and plastic and metal containers, squatted  one  of
the  oddest things that Wuher had ever laid eyes upon.  And  Wuher
had  laid eyes upon far too many of these scuttling tech-rats  for
his taste.
   "You - you're a blasted droid!" he spat.
   The metallic creature released what little tension was left  in
the  extensor  and  cringed  back with the  vehemence  of  Wuher's
accusation.
   "Why,  yes sir, I am indeed. But I assure you, I am no ordinary
droid.  My presence on Tatooine is a mistake on a veritable cosmic
level."
   The   droid's  body  was  low  and  rounded,  similar  to   the
streamlined  contours of R2 units. However,  this  was  where  the
similarity ended. Bulbs and boxy appendages hung like balconies on
the robot's sides, amidst an array of two whiplike metal extensors
and  two armatures invested with digits. In the very middle of its
sensor-node  "face"  was an opening with a grill,  set  with  what
appeared  to  be  jagged,  sharp teeth. The  whole  affair  looked
cobbled together, as though the droid had indeed begun its life as
an R2 unit, but had been sent onto other paths with the help of  a
demented  mechanical  mind  owning  a  half-baked  electronic  and
welding talent.
   "Wait  a minute. You look like a souped-up Artoo unit, but  you
sound like one of those pansy protocolers!"
   "My  components  include  aspects of both  units,  as  well  as
several  more.  However, my specialties include meal  preparation,
catalytic   fuel  conversion,  enzymatic  composition   breakdown,
chemical   diagnostic   programming,  and   bacterial   composting
acceleration.  I am also an excellent blender, toaster  oven,  and
bang-corn  air-popper, and can whip up an extraordinary meal  from
everyday garbage."
   Wuher goggled at the plasteel contraption in disbelief.
   "But you're a droid. I hate droids."
   "I would be of extraordinary use!"
   Wuher  wondered why he was even giving the droid  the  time  of
day.  Damned curiosity, that must be it. He needed a blasted brain
scrub,  that's what he needed. "Look, machine excrement. I despise
your  kind,  as does my boss, for good reason. Even  the  lowliest
Jawa  knows what tribe he's from, even if he's stabbing that tribe
in  the  back.  You droids-who knows who you are or  where  you're
from.  You look like bombs, and nine times out of ten you blow  up
in  the face of your owners, doubtless just to spite them."  Wuher
lifted  a foot, planted it squarely on the thing's head. "Now  get
out  of my way. I have work to do!" He gave the thing a shove.  It
rolled  back,  beeping, into the recesses of its corner  as  Wuher
proceeded on his way.
   "Sir! Kind sir! Forgive my offense! Reconsider! I shall be here
all  day,  recharging my batteries. I dare not emerge in sunlight,
for  the Jawas will find me. Grant me asylum, and you will not  be
sorry, I swear."
   "Pah!  The  word  of  a droid. Useless!"  the  man  snarled  in
contempt.
   With grand, elevated disgust, Wuher hurried away. Just one more
proof that he should not be so free about strolling through alleys
to  save a scant few seconds. He avoided the darker, cooler  ones,
since they tended to attract crowds. This one, though, was lighter
and Wuher had thought it would be a safe shortcut.
   The  normal  byways  of Mos Eisley were a dusty  cloud  through
which double suns beat beat beat hot radiation upon ugly buildings
and  hangars.  Occasionally a roaring beast of a  spaceship  would
propel  itself into the brightness of the sky, or descend  shakily
to  hunker down in hiding. The place smelled even more strongly of
its  usual  blend  of noxious space fuels and  heated  alien  body
effluvia,  touched with the occasional whiff of exotic  spice,  or
rather  more mundane rot or urine. Wuher noticed amidst the  urban
burblings  a larger number of speeders than usual, as  well  as  a
discomfiting percentage of stormtroopers.
   Something odd was afoot, that was certain.
   Oh,  well.  It  just meant that maybe he'd  be  busier  at  the
cantina  today.  Another  shuck,  another  buck,  as  Chalmun   so
eloquently stated.
   Still, as the human bartender bustled through the busy streets,
sun  hood  up,  squinting, he was bothered by that droid  who  had
accosted  him.  Wuher was well aware that droids were  essentially
harmless.  To hate them was like hating your latrine or  stove  or
moisture  vaporator if they'd somehow been overlaid with innocuous
consciousness.  True,  droids tended to be essentially  faithless,
with  no  ethical or racial structure. So were a lot of biological
aliens that Wuher had met. The truth, the bartender knew, was that
droids were an easy target.
   Wuher  had been abandoned on Mos Eisley in early youth, a human
amidst  peoples  who disliked humans. He'd been kicked  about  and
spat  upon  all  his  squalid, hard life. His  boss  hated  droids
essentially  because they didn't drink and thus took up  necessary
room  in  the cantina that might be occupied by paying  customers.
Wuher  hated everyone, but droids were the only creatures he could
actually kick with impunity.
   He  was a bulky, middle-aged man, Wuher, with a constant  late-
afternoon-shadow  beard, dark bags under his  eyes,  and  a  surly
attitude from the top of his greasy head to the depths of his  low
stony voice. His eyes were hard and dark, and it was impossible to
see  anything  but quotidian amoral stoicism in them.  However,  a
small fire flickered in his heart, a dream that he kept alive with
hard  work through years of drudgery. At night, shuffling back  to
his grimy hovel, often as not a little tipsy from his own spirits,
Wuher would gaze up at the night stars in the blessed cool and  it
would  seem possible to actually reach up and touch them, possible
to live out his fantasy.
   Perhaps then, when that dream was achieved, he would no  longer
have  to  kick  helpless,  imploring droids  to  bolster  his  own
pathetic  self-esteem.  Perhaps then he could  give  something  to
lesser creatures than he.
   The  lumpy  mushroom shape of the cantina billowed before  him.
Wuher  stumped  around to the rear entrance. He took  out  his  ID
card,  unlocked a door, and walked carefully down dark  steps.  He
turned  on lights. It was not dank down here in the cellar.  There
were  no dank basements on a world like Tatooine. However, a  dry,
earthy  smell  was  the foundation for all the other  scents  that
fought  for  attention here, smells that hung  upon  the  rows  of
laboratory  equipment, barrels and tanks and vats that  rose  from
tables  and  the  floor like ridges of metal, plastic,  and  glass
mold.
   Chalmun  imported  a minimum of drinking materials,  the  cheap
bastard. The rest of what the Mos Eisley Cantina served was either
made in the city, or down here.
   Wuher   had  little  time.  His  shift  topside  started  soon.
Nonetheless  an urgent sense drove him to a small  alcove  in  the
rear  section,  a  portion of the large basement where  the  other
employees  seldom  ventured. He turned on  a  small  light  there,
revealing  a  machine coi*-sisting of coils, tubings,  dials,  and
glass beakers. In the largest of these beakers, a small amount  of
dark  greeo  fluid had collected. Wuher examined the dials  detail
ing  gravity  and chemical composition. A kind of  acrid  effluvia
hung  over the enclosure, like moldy socks. Sweet music to Wuher's
nostrils!  And the dials and digital readouts-why, they  displayed
almost  exactly  the ratios of contents that Wuher had  calculated
was  necessary. A shiver of excitement passed over him. This could
be the stuff. His elixir! His perfect liqueur, suited expressly to
the  biochemical taste buds of no less a personage than Jabba  the
Hutt,  for all intents and purposes lord and slave master  of  the
criminal element of Tatooine.
   Wuher  contained his trembles, took a deep breath, and found  a
sterile  dropper  tube.  He  lifted the  stopper  of  the  beaker,
inserted the tube, and sucked up a minuscule amount. Carefully, he
withdrew the jade treasure.
   Ah!  If  this distillation was the right stuff, the drink  that
Jabba  the  Hutt deemed to be the perfect liqueur, then what  else
could Jabba do but name him his own personal bartender, distiller,
brewer,  winemaster? Thus elevated in position,  the  lowly  Wuher
might gain reputation and monies that would allow him to ship  off
this  anal juncture of a desert snotworld to some bright, pristine
bar on a paradisal planet.
   Wuher  brought  the tube toward his mouth. A  dangle  of  fluid
sparkled diamonds in the amber light. He let a touch drop  to  his
tongue.  A  flash and sizzle. A sliver of gas slithered  off.  The
pain  was  immediate, but he bore it. He allowed the  flavoids  to
creep  upon his palate like death marchers with cleated boots.  He
winced  and cringed and endured. Rotwort. Skusk. Mummergy.  Bitter
and fiercely aromatic with a kicker alcohol afterburst.
   Damn  it,  though. Not quite right. His bioalchemist instincts,
having  studied  carefully  Jabba's  other  favorite  drinks,  had
synthesized  a theoretical perfect amalgam, a liqueur  that  would
delight the huge wormthing.
   This was not quite it. A certain element was lacking. A certain
gagging whisper of illusive yet ineffably attractive decadence.
   Damn.
   The  bartender went to get his apron, and to trudge wearily  up
the stairs to where his smoky den of work awaited.
   
   "Water!"  demanded  the green alien in its  annoying  language.
"Bottled distilled water, bartender, and make no mistake! I've got
the  credits  for  the  real stuff. This nose  can  tell  if  it's
anything  more  or  less!" The alien touched its absurd  proboscis
with one of its green digital members.
   Wuher's  nose twitched. Was it him, or was the stench  in  this
pangalactic  hole worse than ever? "Well, buddy. It's  your  call,
but you look as if you could use something a little stronger."
   The  alien's  jewellike eyes glittered with fury and  its  ears
seemed^  to flap indignantly. "How dare you call me by a  familiar
name, you piece of human trash. Believe me, I am a valiant drinker
of all manner of manly, powerful drinks. However, I make it a rule
to accept such only from real bartenders."
   A  mangled face pushed itself across the underlit bar and  into
the  conversation. "Actually, this guy makes some damn fine drinks
for  a lousy dung-eating native. Take it from me-Dr. Evazan.  I've
had  many  drinks in all twelve systems in which I've  obtained  a
death sentence and these drinks here pass muster!"
   Wuher  nodded surly thanks. However, the arrogant  alien  would
have  none of it. This guy was a Rodian, Wuher knew-and  a  bounty
hunter  from the boastful affront of him. A particularly egregious
combination.
   "Nonsense,"  said the Rodian, tiny satellite addenda  atop  his
head   turning  back  and  forth  as  though  searching  for  some
television  channel. Disdain dripped from his tone. "Humans  don't
have  what  it takes to be a proper bartender. The two  terms  are
mutually exclusive!"
   This was the song that Wuher heard all too often. From the very
first  day that he'd graduated from his chemistry kit to  a  taste
for  interesting  drinks  and  had  parlayed  that  knack  into  a
successful  application  to  a  sleazy  but  effective   bartender
correspondence school, he'd been dumped upon for wanting  to  take
on  the  duties  of  serving drinks to an array  of  peoples  from
different planets, biomes, ecologies, what have you. Bartenders in
these   sorts  of  places,  frequented  by  different  and  unique
biochemistries,  were more xenoalchemists than simple  pourers  of
drinks.  You had to pay attention to what you were doing. Wouldn't
do  at  all to serve up a nice glass of the variation on  sulfuric
acid that Devaronians enjoyed to, say, a Gotal. Likewise, a simple
beer  could  make a Jawa shrivel up like a slug. It really  wasn't
that  humans couldn't handle the challenge, it was generally  that
most  of them didn't care to bother. Indeed, there were a  few  in
old  xenophobic Republic days who used the opportunities to slowly
poison enemies.
   "Hey, greenie," snarled Wuher defensively. "You go to Chalmun's
office. My certification is right on his wall."
   "I  shall! And I shall make every effort to have you fired from
this  post. Your kind doesn't belong here." The Rodian leaned over
the  bar with its wide orby eyes and stared directly into Wuher's:
his  species  very  confrontational mode  for  expressing  supreme
contempt.  Wuher's  nostrils  were  immediately  assaulted  by   a
stronger  dose  of  the  odor  he'd  noticed  before.  He  cringed
backward.
   "Pah. Coward!" The Rodian spat on him. "And be it known to you,
'bartender,' that I, Greedo, am highly valued in my employ by none
other than Jabba the Hutt. I shall also make my complaint to  him,
after  I take care of the business I have come to this lice-ridden
cantina  to  deal with. Now. My bottle of pure water, please.  And
snap to it before I have to come and get it myself."
   The odor vas so strong that Wuher was momentarily stunned. Even
as  he reached down, pulled up a bottle of water, clicked off  the
top, he was in a fog.
   That smell . . . Something about that smell ...
   Pheromones,  surely. But unique pheromones,  unlike  any  other
that  Wuher had sniffed. The bartender had a big nose, with highly
trained and sensitive olfactory capabilities. This was one of  the
reasons  he  was  such  a good bioalchemist Something  about  this
Greedo-
   The  Rodian snatched the bottle away, contemptuously  dumped  a
handful  of credit chips on the counter, and marched away  into  a
dark  corner  booth. Even though he'd had this kind  of  treatment
before,  it  still stung Wuher. He felt like a pile  of  womp  rat
guano,  and the fact that he could do absolutely nothing to avenge
his slighted feelings made it all the worse. This, mixed with that
smell. He could smell that smell to the corns on the soles of  his
feet. It touched him to the very core of his being, and he was not
entirely sure why.
   For  the  next moments, he was in a kind of reverie as he  went
about  his  work, serving. He worked up some nice drinks  for  the
band,  whose music had actually helped make working in  this  dump
bearable.  He  served  an  Aqualish and the  Tonnika  sisters.  He
whipped up a gaseous delight for the blues-loving Devaronian.  All
the while in a sensory smog of anger and confusion.
   He  barely noticed the new arrivals until his assistant  tugged
on his tunic.
   "Wuher. We've got a positive on the droid detector."
   Alarm  swept  away the mental images as Wuher turned  away  and
looked  down at the little Nartian creature, two of his four  arms
still busy washing glasses.
   "Thank you, Nackhar."
   Wuher turned his attention to the entranceway, to where an  old
man  and  a young towheaded fellow were making their way into  the
light-speckled  smoky  darkness  of  the  tavern,  followed  by  a
sparkling, mincing protocol droid and a rolling R2 model.
   "Hey!"  called Wuher in his best gruff voice. "We  don't  serve
their kind in here."
   There was some confusion.
   He  had to make his position clear. "Your droids. We don't want
them here."
   The droids left.
   He  got particular satisfaction from booting the droids out. It
was  one  of  the  only exercises of power that Wuher  truly  felt
comfortable with-it was a clear and free area in which he was sure
he  would offend no one else. Nonetheless, even as he watched  the
droids  leave,  something bothered him. The memory  of  that  lone
droid,  stranded in that alley, pleading for assistance.  Somehow,
the  pang  of that memory merged with the strong scent of Greedo's
pheromones  to  create a jarring unease and yet odd excitement  in
the bartender.
   A  young man in desert duds shook him and asked for some water.
It  took  a  couple of shakes to get a reaction out of Wuher,  but
finally  the  drink was served and Wuher went about his  business,
serving yet another squeaky ranat.
   He  was so immersed in his own particular funk that it took him
a  while to realize that an altercation was building. Wuher looked
over  to  see  that Dr. Evazan seemed to be having a confrontation
with  the young man. The older man stepped in and spoke. The  next
thing Wuher knew, there was a blinding flash.
   Alarmed, he cried out. "No blasters! No blasters!"
   A light sword swashed through the air. A chop, a flop -:and the
gun arm of Evazan's Aqualish companion separated from his body.
   The  old  man and young man stepped away and after a moment  of
silence, the band struck up again.
   "Nackhar," said Wuher to his assistant. "Please clean that  up.
I have work to do."
   Even  though  the doctor had stood up for him,  Wuher  felt  no
kinship.  The  man  was  an  ugly, bent,  and  demented  creature.
Nonetheless,  there was no reason to litter the floor  with  blood
and groans of the doctor's associate for an overlong time.
   The Nartian scurried away.
   Wuher went back to work.
   A day's shuck, a day's buck.
   Business as usual at the Mos Eisley Cantina.
   Too  bad  Chalmun  wasn't around. His imposing  figure  usually
discouraged these kinds of shenanigans. That Wookiee that had been
talking to the old man looked a bit like his employer, only taller
and  younger. He'd been hanging around before, with that larcenous
smuggler  Han  Solo.  The spacer had burbled  something  yesterday
about  the  Wookiee  being his first mate.  Dangerous  profession,
that.  Perhaps there were worse things in the universe than  being
dumped on by Rodi-ans in the Mos Eisley Spaceport Cantina.
   Still,  it  rankled, and Wuher could feel his anger and  hatred
roiling and coiling like a stepped-on sandsnake.
   The  next  thing  he  knew, a pair of  stormtroopers  had  come
through the doors and immediately stepped to the bar.
   "We  understand  there's been a ruckus here,"  said  one  in  a
muffled electronic voice through his white skull-like helmet.
   "You  bet," said Wuher. He looked around, saw the backs of  the
perpetrators  at  a  table at the far end  of  the  establishment.
Curiously  enough, sitting across from them were none  other  than
Han  Solo  and his Wookiee first mate. "The old guy and the  young
guy over there."
   He  pointed.  The sooner these troopers got out  of  here,  the
better.  They  made him nervous. The place had plenty  of  trouble
enough as it was. Besides, storm-troopers were terrible tippers.
   Wuher's  mind  dipped  back  into his  musing  as  he  went  on
automatic pilot, making up barium frizzes and frosty sulphates and
even serving the odd shot and a draft. He even poured himself some
of  his  own homebrew ale, to take some of the edge off  the  mild
headache  that  sulked at the back of his skull. .However,  during
all this he was still haunted by two things: that smell that still
clung to his nostrils, and that squeaking droid. What was going to
happen  to  it?  Why  should he care? And  what  did  it  say  its
specialty was?
   His musings were suddenly interrupted by a loud blast.
   All  heads  swung toward its origin, the table where  Han  Solo
sat. The jaunty smuggler was rising up and walking toward the bar,
sticking his gun back into its holster.
   Wuher could not believe what he was leaving behind.
   "Sorry  about the mess," Solo said, flipping a two-credit  chip
toward  Wuher.  Normally, Wuher would have immediately  slapped  a
palm down onto the coin to prevent its appropriation. However,  he
was far too stunned by what he saw to think about money.
   There,  flopped over at the table, was none other  than  Greedo
the  Rodian  bounty  hunter, a shred of smoke  rising  up  from  a
blasted abdomen.
   Greedo, dead as a starship rivet.
   A kind of chill satisfaction moved through Wuher, a transection
of  reality  and  dream  that did not occur  often  enough.  True,
creatures got killed in here all the time, and it would have given
Wuher  far  more  satisfaction to have actually  been  behind  the
trigger  of  that  blaster,  seen  its  power  rip  through   that
obnoxious, smelly-
   A  kind  of  transcendental  realization  flashed  through  the
bartender. Thought processes meshed thunderously in his head,  and
it  was  as though the heavens had opened and the light of  Cosmic
Wisdom poured down upon him.
   That droid . . . that odd, frightened droid . . .
   He had to get it out of harm's way. He had to save it!
   "Nackhar!" he called.
   The  little creature scuttled up. "Did you see that, sir? I say
that Chalmun should take all guns at the door. I say-"
   "Are you going to be the one to do the body searches, Nackhar?"
   The assistant bartender was stunned speechless at the notion.
   "Take  over for me. There's an urgent task I must attend to.  I
shall be back soon. In the meantime, do not allow the body of  the
Rodian  to be moved a centimeter. Don't let those Jawas trying  to
bag it take it out of here. Do you understand?"
   "Yes. Of course-but if the police-"
   "They  can examine it all they want to, and there's no question
about  who did it. However, claim it in the name of Chalmun.  It's
officially our property now."
   "But why can't you-where are you going?"
   "I am embarking on a mission of mercy!"
   Thus saying, Wuher left.
   
   The droid was not amongst the refuse cans.
   Alarm  filled Wuher. The thing had said that it would  be  here
until nightfall. Its absence could only spell foul play.
   Wuher  bent and examined the sandy floor. Sure enough,  tracks.
Fresh  tracks,  leading  down the alley in  the  other  direction.
Without  a further thought, either for caution or self-protection,
the bartender hurled himself after them.
   The droid must be saved.
   He  puffed  through the twisting alleys, following the  tracks.
The ground told the story clearly enough. Droid tracks. A pair  of
small  shoe tracks. A Jawa had scoped the metal being out,  as  it
had  feared.  As he moved along, Wuher removed the club  from  the
back  of  his belt. Within moments, he heard the telltale  beeping
and chitter: the sounds of the droid and its new master.
   Wuher slapped himself against a wall, peered around the corner.
Sure enough, there they were, waddling along. The Jawa had clamped
a  restraining  bolt on the odd-looking droid.  They  were  within
yards of a main thoroughfare.
   He must move quickly.
   Without  hesitation, Wuher the bartender leaped  out  from  his
concealment, ran up behind the Jawa, and fiercely and conclusively
brought  down his club upon the back of its hood. Thunk. The  Jawa
went  down  like  a  bag of smunk roots. Speedily,  the  bartender
dragged  the hooded creature back to a darker part of  the  alley,
trailing a slight seepage of blood.
   He  went  to  the  droid,  examined its  body,  and  found  the
restraining bolt. He pulled it off and tossed it after the  downed
Jawa.
   The droid came alive.
   "Sir!  You  have  saved  me.  You have  delivered  me  from  my
enemies!"
   "That's right, Ceetoo-Arfour."
   '  'You have undergone a change of heart. I knew it, I knew it,
I could tell that deep within you there beat a heart of gold. That
is  why  I  risked my encounter with you. Why, diis is  marvelous.
This  is  what they write stories about! A hard soul, changed  for
the better. Thank you, kind human. Oh, thank you!"
   "You're welcome, Ceetoo-Arfour. Yes, I realized that you were a
wronged  droid. The squalor and sadness of my life made me realize
that  I  should do something good and worthwhile for once."  Wuher
smiled.  "However, we shouldn't just stand here and banter.  There
are  doubtless more Jawas about. We should get you back  to  where
it's safe."
   "Oh,  my lucky stars shine this day. Sir, you have redeemed  my
faith  in  the true pure spirituality of the human soul.  For  you
see,  we  droids, though of metal, possess consciousness and  thus
spirituality as well."
   "Oh,  good. I'm sure we've got a lot of philosophy that we  can
discuss.   First,  though,  we  should  hurry  on,"   said   Wuher
solicitously. "Is there anything that I can do to ease your path?"
   "You already have, kind sir. And here I was thinking myself the
poorest, most bereft soul in Mos Eisley. There is indeed room  for
growth in the purity of the human soul."
   '  'Yes, I have had a complete turnabout in my attitude  toward
droids,"  said  Wuher. "I am bringing you back to the  cantina.  I
will   hide  you  in  the  basement,  where  there  are  no  droid
detectors."
   "Oh,  oh!" said the droid, clearly enraptured by this  stunning
turnabout. "Finally, I experience the milk of human kindness."
   "Oh,"  said  Wuher,  with  a  wry  grin.  "I  don't  think  I'm
particularly interested in milk today."
   
   The drop depended, a jewel of promise.
   Dropped.
   The  usual pain, of course. Too bad, but that was the price you
paid for system incompatibilities. Still, Wuher bore it stoically,
even  gladly,  awaiting  the  news his  taste  buds  would  bring.
Already,  his  quivering  nostrils were  behaving  in  a  positive
fashion as the familiar wisp of steam rose to tickle them.
   Around  Wuher,  as though hovering expectantly,  were  all  the
trappings  of  his  experimental alcove, along with  its  two  new
additions . . .
   Yes, yes, this was new!
   He detected a hint of bergamot!
   Better,  something  more. . . . and it  struck  him  with  such
tremendous power, it was as though someone had kicked him  in  the
head.
   The  taste  of two bloody aliens arut in a tangle  of  erupting
spice pods and mud mushers.
   He fell off his stool, a spasm racking him.
   "Master! Master!" cried Ceetoo-Arfour. "Are you all right?"
   Wuher shivered.
   He shuddered.
   He arose, a silly smile on his face.
   "Wow!"
   He  looked  over  at his still, at the larger  beaker,  already
almost  half  full of this deadly elixir, and with  so  much  more
still  bubblingly  in  the works in the  coils  and  guts  of  his
makeshift lab.
   "It's  even  better than I'd hoped," he said. "This is  exactly
the liqueur that will appeal to Jabba the Hutt"
   "Jabba  the  Hutt,  Master?" said the droid.  "Is  he  not  the
criminal gang lord of this territory?"
   "Nonsense," said Wuher. "He is wronged by his enemies. He  will
not only be my benefactor, but ultimately yours as well."
   "Indeed!"
   "Yes.  Of  course. We're going into business together,  Ceetoo-
Arfour.  First  we shall work for Jabba the Hutt.  Then  we  shall
shake the miserable dust of this detestable planet from our heels.
Greatness, Ceetoo. We are destined for greatness!"
   The rough bartender beamed at his new collaborator.
   Ceetoo-Arfour stood in the very center of the alcove.  Below  a
new  item that extruded from his barrel side- a spigot-was a small
bottle  full of an emerald-gray liquid. Just a few small drops  of
this stuff had been sufficient to give Jabba's liqueur its new and
wonderful   kick   into   the  territory  of   greatness.   Wuher,
bioalchemist  extraordinaire, was going to be able to  keep  Jabba
the Hutt happy a very long time.
   From  die  droid grill-jaw extruded a naked green  alien  foot,
pausing  for a moment before it too was processed to remove  every
last  bit  of precious juice in Ceetoo-Arfour's excellent chemical
extractors.
   Hanging  on  a  spike by the bubbling still was the  other  new
occupant  of Wuher's bioalchemical alcove: the head of Greedo  the
Rodian.  Nackhar had had to fight hard with those Jawas to procure
the  body. It had cost him several rounds of free drinks,  but  it
had been worth it.
   "Here's  to your pheromones, Greedo," said Wuher the bartender,
hoisting  his dropper in toast. "Han Solo did both Rodian  females
and  yours  truly a vast favor." The head glared back blankly.  "I
must  say,  the creature was a gnarly, gristly thing,"  the  droid
said.  "I'm  afraid that my grinders shall be needing a sharpening
after this arduous effort."
   Wuher  grinned and winked. "Nothing's too good for you, Ceetoo.
Believe me, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
   For,  indeed,  now  Wuher the bartender  had  an  entirely  new
attitude toward droids.
   
   
   Nightlily: The Lovers' Tale
   by Barbara Hambly
   
   "Madam,  I am most sorry." Feltipern Trevagg switched  off  the
computer screen above his desk with the air of being anything but.
"If you don't pay your water impost there isn't anything I can  do
about your water line being shut. I don't make the taxes."
   As  it  happened, he had made this one, or at  least  made  the
suggestion to the City Prefect of the Port of Mos Eisley that  the
water impost be raised twenty-five percent. But, Trevagg reasoned,
rubbing his head cones as he listened once again to the Modbrek fe
male's frantic plea for more time, she probably wouldn't have been
able  to  come  up with the original impost, so it  didn't  really
matter. What mattered was that now, through proper go-betweens  of
course,  he'd be able to offer her a few thousand credits for  her
dwelling  compound-which  she'd be glad  to  accept,  after  going
without water or food for a couple of days -and rent it out by the
room.  Provided,  of  course, he could arrange  it  with  his  go-
betweens before the Prefect heard about it and outbid him.
   The  Modbrek  female's  distress  irritated  him.  Coming  from
another  of  his own species-another Gotal- it might  have  evoked
pity,  though  Trevagg  had  been less  ready  than  many  of  his
compatriots to yield to emanations of wretchedness and  fear.  But
Modbreks were in Trevagg's opinion only semisentient, wispy  ephem
eral  beings, hairless as slugs save for the grotesque  masses  of
blue  mane  that streamed from their undeveloped heads, with  huge
eyes,  and tiny noses and mouths in pointy pale faces. This female
and  her daughters, sending forth waves of anxiety, reacted on him
as a kind of screechy music.
   "Madam,"  he  said at last, sighing, "I'm not your father.  And
I'm  not  a charity worker. And if you knew you couldn't pay  your
water  imposts-which I assume you did know, since you've  been  in
arrears  for  two months and neither you nor your  daughters  have
troubled to find decent-paying work-you should have gone  to  your
family or some charity organization before this."
   He  nudged a toggle on the control board of his desk.  A  human
deputy  in a rumpled uniform came in and showed the three  females
out.  Trevagg could sense the man's pity for them, and also,  much
to  Trevagg's disgust, the fact that the human found the insubstan
tial creatures physically attractive, even sexually interesting.
   Of  course, Trevagg had always had difficulty understanding how
humans   found  each  other  sexually  interesting.  Wan,  flabby,
squishy, they lacked both the Gotal ability to transmit a range of
emotional waves, and the contrast between strength and weakness so
necessary to pleasure. How could anyone . . . ?
   He shrugged, and turned back to his desk to tap through a call.
Behind  him he heard a step on the threshold, felt the heat  of  a
body-no  closer than the threshold, and human range-and recognized
the  electromagnetic  aura  as  that  of  Predne  Balu,  Assistant
Security Officer of Mos Eisley. Felt too like a smoky darkness the
man's weariness, the bitter tang of his disgust.
   "You  couldn't have let her have another month?"  Balu's  raspy
voice sounded tired. The heat of the Tatooine suns seemed to  have
long  ago  baked  out  of Balu the savagery,  the  enthusiasms  so
necessary to a hunter. Trevagg despised him.
   "She's had two. Water's expensive to import."
   A  message  flickered across the black screen of the  receiver:
pvlokam  1130.  Trevagg  moved  a  finger  and  the  pixels  wiped
themselves away as if they had never been. He turned in his chair,
to  face Balu: a heavy man, slope-shouldered in his wrinkled  dark
blue  uniform, hair black, eyes black, but the pitiful stubble  of
what humans called beard was thickly shot with gray. A head like a
melon. Trevagg never could look at humans without feeling contempt
and  a  little amusement. He knew they had other types of  sensory
organs  than  head cones, but even after many years on  the  space
lanes-  as bounty hunter, Imperial bodyguard, and officer of  ship
security-Trevagg had never gotten over how silly, how ineffectual,
beings  looked  who  didn't  have cones.  On  Antar  Four,  though
everyone  knew  in their heart of hearts that the  size  of  one's
cones  didn't  affect their ability to pick up sensory  vibration,
Gotals  whose  cones  were  undeveloped  frequently  resorted   to
falsies.
   He  simply,  instinctively, had no respect for a being  without
them.
   "Be  ready  with your deputy to close the water  lines  to  her
compound tomorrow."
   Balu's mouth tightened under heavy cheeks, but he nodded.
   "I'm going out. I should be back within the hour."
   
   Walking  through  the marketplace of Mos Eisley  always  filled
Trevagg with a sense close to intoxication. A hunter by upbringing
as  well as by blood, he had quickly found his current position as
a  tax official a disappointment. What had been represented to him
as  an  opportunity for acquiring vast quantities of  credits  had
turned out to be little more than a clerical stint.
   Yet  he  sensed, he knew, that there were credits  here  to  be
made.
   In  the marketplace of Mos Eisley, the hunter stirred again  in
his blood.
   Awnings  flapped overhead in the baked breeze, the solar  coats
casting  black rectangles of hard shadow, the cheaper  cotton  and
rag  staining  the faces of those beneath them with red  and  blue
light.  The  harsh sizzle of bantha burgers and much-used  fritter
grease  swirled  from  a  hundred  little  stands  wherever   some
enterprising Jawa or Whiphid could find room to set  up  a  solar-
power  stove.  Races from every corner of the galaxy wandered  the
banded shadows of this makeshift labyrinth. In one place a corpse-
faced Durosian was holding up strings of opaline "sand pearls" and
sun-stained blue glass for a couple of inquisitive human tourists;
in another, a nearly nude Gamorrean belly dancer was performing on
a  yellow-striped blanket to the appreciative whistles of a couple
of  Sullustans,  who were among the many races to find  Gamorreans
attractive.
   But  more  than  anything else, it was the air of  danger  that
filled  the  place,  the edginess, the watchfulness,  that  soaked
Trevagg's cones like drugged wine. After a walk in the marketplace
he always came away wondering if he shouldn't pack in the Imperial
service and go back on the hunt.
   But  as always, he looked around him a second time, and saw how
many  of  these  people were dressed in castoffs or shabby  desert
gear.  He  stroked  his new jacket of deep green yullrasuede,  his
close-fitting  trousers tailored for his form and  no  other,  and
thought  again. He might not have made his fortune on this blasted
piece of rock, but at least he could make a little.
   And the opportunity would come.
   Had come.
   His  pulses quickened at the implications of the vibration he'd
sensed  two  weeks ago, walking through this very market.  All  he
needed  to  do,  he told himself, was be a hunter, and  wait.  The
chance  of his lifetime had come, and if he waited, it would  come
again.
   If things went right.
   Jabba  the  Hull's  go-between, an enormously  obese  Sullustan
named  Jub  Vegnu, was waiting for him by Pylokarn's  Health  Food
booth. Pylokam, an aged and fragile human in trailing dirt-colored
rags  and  a garish orange scarf, had been oplimislically peddling
fruit  juices  and steamed balls of vegetable gratings  for  years
now, surrounded on all sides by a dripping banquet of dewback ribs
and   megasweet  fritters-no  sugars,  no  salts,  no   artificial
additives, and no customers. Even Jabba had given up trying to get
a percentage of his nonexistent takings.
   Vegnu   was   leaning  on  the  counter  eating  a  caramelized
pkneb-something Pylokam would never have stocked-the juice  of  it
running  down  what  chin  he possessed; Trevagg  bought  a  sugar
fritter  from  a  nearby stand and joined him. At  Pylokam's  they
could be assured of being completely uninterrupted.
   "I need to set up a go-between and a loan deal," grated Trevagg
in  his  harsh,  rather monotonous voice. "Immediate  takeover  in
three  days, complete secrecy from everyone. Ten percent to  Jabba
of all subsequent take."
   They haggled a little about the percentage, and about what  the
deal  was,  Trevagg  knowing full well that if  word  got  to  the
Prefect-or  indeed,  to  several other  members  of  the  Imperial
service that he knew about- he'd be very likely outbid before  the
widowed Mod-brek even decided she had to sell. In time Trevagg got
guarantees of secrecy, for what they were worth, but at  the  cost
of  another  four  percentage points. At  that  rate,  he  thought
bitterly, it would take him a year to make back his investment . .
.
   "Is  that it, then?" the Sullustan inquired, licking his stubby
fingers of the last traces of caramel and grease.
   Trevagg   hesitated,  and  the  go-between-with  almost   Gotal
sensitivity-tilted  his head, waiting for what  would  come  next.
Seeming to feel, Trevagg thought, how big the coming deal was.
   "Not . . . quite."
   There  was  no  need to scan the marketplace visually.  Trevagg
knew  the  hint  he'd  gotten, the buzzing, shivering  sense  he'd
picked  up  in passing through two weeks ago, was nowhere  around.
And  he  didn't  know  when it would return, when  the  person-the
creature-that had caused it would next pass through Mos Eisley.
   But it was as well to be ready.
   "I will need a go-between on another deal," he said slowly.
   "For what?"
   "I  can't  say." He held up his hand against Vegnu's  impatient
protest. "Not yet. But I need someone to act for me in a situation
where,  as  an  employee of the Imperial government,  I  would  be
expected to perform as a part of my duties."
   "Ah."  Vegnu leaned back against the counter. "But a  civilian,
performing the same task, would be rewarded?"
   "Well rewarded," said Trevagg, his pulses stirring again at the
thought  of just how well rewarded. "And it's a task well  within,
say, your capabilities."
   "How much?"
   "Twenty percent."
   "Gaah ..."
   "Twenty-five," said Trevagg. "And that five is for secrecy, for
absolute secrecy, at the time."
   "About you?"
   "And about the . . . nature of the task."
   The  nature  of  the task, thought Trevagg, threading  his  way
swiftly through the blazing slats of dust and shadow, heading back
toward the government offices a few minutes later. That is,  after
all,  the delicate thing about this deal. A simple task, informing
the  Imperial Moff of the Sector about someone . . .  someone  for
whom they had been looking for a long time.
   The sense that had come to him here in the market two weeks ago
had  been  like finding a jewel in the dirt; the vibration  itself
like  a sniff of perfume, scented once in other circumstances  but
never  forgotten. The trick would be, of course, to keep  his  go-
between from taking that jewel-that one piece of information, that
name-and turning it in himself.
   Trevagg  the  Gotal knew he would have to be very careful  with
this  one,  whose  reward could get him the  foundations  of  real
wealth.
   Passing through the market two weeks ago, he had picked up  the
unmistakable vibrations of ajedi Master.
   
   "Lady  to  see you," reported the operations clerk in the  next
cubicle  as Trevagg reentered the office. After the blast  furnace
of  the  noon street the prefecture seemed shadowy and cool  as  a
cave-the  solar deflectors on the roof didn't really start  having
trouble  until two or three hours past noon. Were it not  for  the
shelves  jammed  with boxes of datadisks, the  dust-yellowed  hard
copy  drooping  from overstaffed storage boxes stacked  along  one
wall-were it not for the almost palpable atmosphere of defeat,  of
grimy  hopes  and  petty spites-the offices  themselves  would  be
pleasant to enter after a time outside.
   Only  so long, thought Trevagg, as he strode toward his office.
Only  so  long will I have to put up with this place.  It  was  no
place for a hunter to be, no place for a true Gotal.
   Just  until he could accomplish his final hunt, trap his  final
quarry.  Until he could turn over to the Empire information  about
this Jedi, whoever he was . . .
   It  hadn't been a passer-through, that much Trevagg knew. After
losing  the  sense of the Jedi's vibrations in the marketplace-the
thick, strange buzzing in his cones that he had been told long ago
was the concentration of the unknown Force, the magic of the Jedi-
he  had  gone  at  once to the docking bays, ascertained  that  no
vessel  had taken off for the past several hours. As collector  of
imposts  he  had access to passenger lists, and had  made  it  his
business to personally check each traveler.
   And  in two weeks of roving every corner of Mos Eisley, he  had
never sensed that particular reaction again.
   So  it  must  be someone on die planet, but not  in  the  town.
Someone who had come to do marketing, for instance.
   Trevagg was a hunter. He would wait.
   His  mind  was  full of this, rather than whoever this  tedious
female was and what she wanted of him, when he stepped through the
office doorway-and fell in love.
   The vibration of her filled the room, before she even turned at
his  entrance.  It  was an intoxicant, a heady compound  of  milky
warmth  that  he could feel almost through his skin, of  trembling
vulnerability,  of an electrospectrum aura like a  new-blown  pink
teela  blossom, and of an innocent and unself-conscious  sexuality
that almost lifted Trevagg off his feet.
   She turned, putting back the white gauze of her veil, to reveal
an alien loveliness that stopped his breath.
   What  race,  what  species she was, he didn't know.  It  didn't
matter. Skin blue-gray as desert's final twilight molded over  the
proud  jut  of  cheekbones any woman on his home planet  of  Antar
would kill to possess, double, treble rows of them blending softly
into  the fragile ridges of the chin. More ridges led the eye into
the  graceful  curve  of proboscis, a feature Trevagg  had  always
considered   striking  in  such  races-like  the  Kubaz   or   the
Rodians-who possessed them. Eyes wide, green as grass, and fringed
with  ferny lashes peered timidly from beneath a deep splendor  of
brow  ridge, like the eyes of a rock tabbit too frightened to flee
a hunter's step.
   But above the brow was what drew Trevagg's eyes. Half-hidden by
the cloaking gauze of the veil, the skull rose into four perfectly
shaped,  exquisite  conelets,  their smallness,  their  smoothness
seeming  to  invite the touch of a male hand, the breath  of  male
lips.
   Of  course  they couldn't really be cones, thought Trevagg  the
next moment. She was no Gotal, but someone of the dull-minded  and
insentient  lesser races . . . But the imitation was perfect,  and
it was enough.
   He wanted her.
   He wanted her badly.
   "Sir..."  Her voice was halting, but of a beautiful, even  key,
modulated like a deep-toned flute through the proboscis. Her three-
fingered  hands,  skin tailored over jewellike  knobs,  seemed  to
cling to the edges of the veil she had just laid aside, as if  for
protection. "Sir, you must help me. They said I should come to you
..."
   Trevagg  found  himself  saying,  "Anything..."  Then,  quickly
correcting  himself, for he was, after all,  an  official  of  the
Empire, he added, "Anything in my power to assist you, miss.  What
seems to be the trouble?"
   "I  have been put ashore." Distress and fear blossomed from her
in  trembling waves. "They said there was something wrong, with my
papers; there was a passage tax."
   Trevagg knew all about the passage tax. That was something else
he'd come up with.
   "I ... I had to budget very closely in order to visit my sister
on  Cona, I ... my family is not wealthy. Now I've lost my seat on
the  Tellivar  Lady. But if I pay the passage  tax  I  won't  have
enough  to return to my mother on H'nemthe." The name of her  home
world came out like a dainty sneeze, unbelievably entrancing.  The
vibration of her sorrow was like the taste of blood-honey.
   "My dear . . ." He hesitated.
   "M'iiyoom  Onith,"  she supplied. "The m'iiyoom  is  the  white
flower  that blossoms in the season of trine, the season when  all
three moons give their light. The nightlily."
   "And  I  am Feltipern Trevagg, officer of the Empire.  My  dear
Nightlily, I shall go investigate this matter at once. It  grieves
me  to be unable to offer you better quarters to wait in, but this
city is not a savory one. I shall return within moments."
   Balu  was in the outer office, boots on desk, drinking a  fizzy
whose bulb sweated in the stuffy heat. He cocked a dark eye at the
Gotal as Trevagg closed his office door. "Give the child back  her
seat,  Trevagg,"  he  grunted. "You don't  need  the  seventy-five
credits. You run, you can catch the Tellie before she lifts."
   Trevagg  leaned  across the officer and tapped  a  key  on  the
board.  The  screen  manifested the schedule. Unlike  many  Gotal,
Trevagg  had  mastered  computers  quickly,  once  those  in   the
prefecture had been properly shielded. The Tellivar Lady lifted at
1400, and he knew Captain Fane was punctual.
   But an hour wouldn't be enough.
   "Trevagg ..." The officer's voice halted him as he reached  for
the  door.  Trevagg turned, mostly from a desire  to  legitimately
waste time - he'd have to walk very slowly indeed to actually miss
the  Tellivar Lady's lift. "You're a hunter. You ever hear of  the
Force?"
   Trevagg went absolutely cold inside. He only said, "No."
   "It's  supposed to be some kind of magic field ..." Balu  shook
his  head. "The old Jedi were supposed to| have it." He  lifted  a
hand to indicate the Imperial communique, tacked to the discolored
plaster  of  the wall behind him, offering fifty thousand  credits
for  "any members of the so-called Jedi Knights." Ten thousand for
information leading to the capture of.
   Unless,  of course, it was the captor's or informant's  job  to
capture or inform. Then they just got their salaries. And  a  nice
letter of commendation from the local Moff.
   "I  heard  rumors  the Jedi have been seen on  Tatooine,"  said
Balu.  "I've  had  a watch on Pylokam's stand - figuring  the  one
place a Jedi might show up. Someone's got to drink that herb  tea.
But I wondered if you'd run across anything - strange."
   "Only  what  Pylokam  serves at that stand  of  his,"  grumbled
Trevagg, and made a far more precipitate exit than he'd planned.
   It  still took him a great deal of dawdling on the way to reach
Docking Bay 9 too late to stop the liftoff of the Lady.
   
   Nightlily was dazzled to be taken to luncheon at the  Court  of
the  Fountain,  the closest thing to a high-class  restaurant  Mos
Eisley  boasted. It occupied one of the sprawling stone-and-stucco
palaces   that  dated  from  Mos  Eisley's  long-ago  boom   days;
reflective  solar  screens  had  been  stretched  over  the   many
courtyards  where  fountains trickled  and  gurgled  among  exotic
plants  and  gemlike tiling. It was small, of course, and  catered
mostly to the tourist trade, but Nightlily was a tourist, and  she
was  enchanted. Jabba the Hutt-because, of course, Jabba owned the
place-boasted  that there wasn't an appetite in  the  galaxy  that
couldn't be catered to by his personal chef, Porcellus.
   Porcellus,  who only operated the Court of the Fountain  during
those   few  hours  not  spent  in  preparing  the  Bloated  One's
gargantuan  repasts,  knew perfectly well  that  he'd  be  fed  to
Jabba's pet rancor if the Hutt ever grew bored with his menus,  so
he  was an enthusiastic chef, indeed. And, in a way, he took great
pride in his work. The filet of baby dewback with caper sauce  and
fleik-liver  pate was the best Trevagg had ever  eaten,  and  when
Nightlity hooned, with modestly downcast eyes, that virgins of her
people were only permitted fruits and vegetables, Porcellus outdid
himself  in  the production of four courses of lipana berries  and
honey, puptons of dried magicots and psibara, a baked felbar  with
savory cream, and staggeringly good bread pudding for dessert.
   And a great deal of wine, of course.
   "Nothing  is  too expensive for you, beautiful one,"  responded
Trevagg,  to her hummed protest about the expense. "Or  too  good.
Have  another glass, my darling." He would definitely, he thought,
have  to have a chef who could cook dewback like this when he  col
lected his reward. "Don't you understand that fate has brought  us
together,  fate  in  the  form  of a  stupid  ruling  by  a  venal
official?" He took her hand in his, loving the satin texture,  the
smooth  eroticism of the way the knots on its back  tightened  and
swelled  at his touch. "Don't you understand what I feel for  you?
What I felt for you the moment I entered the office, the moment  I
heard your voice?"
   The  moment  I  sensed  in  you the  ultimate  prey,  the  most
beautiful of conquests to be vanquished?
   She turned her face aside, confused. The long silver serpent of
her  knife-pointed tongue ran nervously out to pick at the remains
of  the  bread  pudding  in a gesture he found  almost  unbearably
sexual. It had to be muscled to those three sets of cheekbones  on
the  inside  -  what could he not persuade her  to  do  with  that
tongue!
   He wasn't sure exactly what inner vibrations he should transmit
to convince her of his overwhelming desire for her - she obviously
didn't  have the civilized sensitivity of a Gotal, maybe  couldn't
pick  up  anything at all and was operating entirely at  the  face
value  of  his words. Judging by her conversation, she was  either
barely sentient or truly stupid, and in any case, Trevagg had very
little interest in females' thoughts or desires.
   He  cradled the side of her face with his hand, reveling in the
daintiness  of the cheekbones under his clawed strength.  He  felt
her  timidity,  and  with  it, a dawning wonderment,  a  surge  of
glowing excitement in her heart.
   "Don't you understand that I need you?"
   "Are you proposing . . . marriage?" She stared up at him, awed,
dazzled, halfway to surrender.
   Softly  he nuzzled the side of her face. Stupid as a brick,  he
thought.  But he'd get this one into his bed before  the  day  was
through.
   
   "Trevagg, leave the girl alone." Balu spoke in a low voice,  so
that  Nightlily, in the outer office, would not hear. The security
officer  slouched  in the doorway of Trevagg's cubicle  while  the
Gotal keyed through a credit transfer and ticketing information on
the  Star-swan, leaving early tomorrow morning.-The least he could
do,  he  reflected,  was give the girl passage out  of  here-third
class, naturally-to wherever the hell she was going. Besides, once
he'd had her he certainly didn't want her hanging around under the
impression that he was actually going to go through with  marrying
a  semisentient alien bimbo, wondrous though she might be  between
the sheets.
   "Leave   her  alone?"  Trevagg  turned  around  disbelievingly,
staring  at  the  human. He kept his voice quiet, still  excluding
Nightlily,  who was just visible through the doorway  past  Balu's
shoulder,  sitting  at an empty desk with her head  bowed  in  shy
ecstasy  and  her  veils half drawn about her face.  "You  can  be
anywhere within four meters of that-that love morsel, and you  say
leave her alone?"
   Balu  turned his head to consider her. Trevagg could tell  from
the  man's  temperature and the vibration of his pulses,  even  at
this distance, that he found her no more sexually stimulating than
he'd  have found a Jawa. Disgust flooded him at the sheer, galling
insensitivity of humans.
   "Trevagg,"   said   the   officer,   "most   species-most   civ
ilizations-ostracize members who bear hybrid children. If you find
her  attractive  there's probably enough enzyme compatibility  for
you to get her with child. You'd be ruining her for life."
   Trevagg  emitted a sharp, barking laugh. "I can't believe  you.
You're  within two meters of that, and you're talking to me  about
enzyme  compatibility? Man, grow some gonads! If she  was  worried
about  that she shouldn't be traipsing around the galaxy  in  that
flimsy little head-veil in the first place."
   Balu  put  his hand on Trevagg's arm warningly, and  the  Gotal
halted  in  surprise. Balu seldom showed any disposition  to  care
about anything, but there was a definite threat in his dark eyes.
   Patiently,  Trevagg promised, "All right. I'm only  taking  her
out for a walk. She can always say no."
   But after three drinks at the Mos Eisley Cantina, he reflected,
as  he  entered the outer office again and took Nightlily's arm  -
not  to mention the prospect of marriage that seemed to push every
switch on her board - it wasn't at all likely that she would.
   "I  can't  believe  that you would . . . would  truly  love  me
enough  to  wed,"  crooned the girl, as they  crossed  the  brazen
burnish  of  dust  and sunlight in the street. "The  males  of  my
species . . . fear that commitment. That giving of all for love."
   "The  males of your species are fools," growled Trevagg, gazing
deep  into  her  eyes  and drinking in the heady  perfume  of  her
sexuality.  As far as he was concerned that went for  the  females
too, but he didn't say so. He glanced back from the shadows of the
buildings opposite, just in time to see a flicker of dusty  robes,
the trailing brightness of an orange scarf...
   Pylokam  the  health-food seller. Crossing the  street  to  the
government offices.
   The  Gotal'  s  mind seemed to click, all things  falling  into
place  with  a hunter's cutting instinct. Balu. Pylokam  had  seen
thejedi.
   His  first  reaction  was sheer annoyance.  He'd  already  told
Nightlily  he'd booked passage for her on the Starswan, and  she'd
flung  her  arms  around  him, asking if he  had  booked  his  own
passage, to come to H'nemthe to marry her with due ceremony before
her  mother and sisters. He'd gotten out of that one by  promising
to  embark within a few days-"I am an official of the Empire,  you
know.  I  can't  just leave everything all in  a  moment,  though,
believe me, I will be counting the days." But it meant that  there
was no putting her off.
   There  was no reason for Pylokam to come to the impost  offices
other than to report to Balu, and he knew Balu, for all his world-
weary   slovenliness,   was   not  one   to   waste   time.   He'd
investigate-and he'd report.
   And   that  meant  Trevagg  would  have  to  find  someone   to
assassinate Balu this afternoon.
   Ordinarily,  of  course, he'd have gotten  in  touch  with  Jub
Vegnu, set up a meeting, made an appointment with Jabba the  Hutt,
and arranged for payment ...
   But  of  course he knew-everybody knew-that freelance assassins
were  ten  for a half-credit in Mos Eisley and most of  them  were
supposed  to  hang out in the Mos Eisley Cantina. It  couldn't  be
that  difficult  to  meet one. The encounter would  presumably  be
short and sweet-that's what assassins were for, to make life  easy
for  those  who had other things to do-leaving him plenty  of  the
afternoon  and  all  of the evening to conclude  an  encounter  of
another kind with Nightlily in the Mos Eisley Inn.
   If  entering  the government offices from the noon  street  was
like  passing  into a (more or less) cool grotto, transition  from
the  late-afternoon dust and glare into the near-darkness  of  the
cantina  was  comparable  to  being swallowed  by  a  bantha  with
indigestion. Trevagg's hunter eyes switched almost instantaneously
from  day vision to night as a great drench of vibration hit  him:
overlapping   electrospectrum  fields,  personal  magnetic   auras
buzzing  like  a hive of bees, halos of irritation  and  annoyance
swollen  by  the proximity of strangers and exacerbated  by  every
sort of psycho- and neural relaxant known in the galaxy.
   It  was  like the marketplace, only more sinister, without  the
bright  spiciness  of making a living. The thoughts  and  emotions
swirling  through  the gloom were darker, more dangerous,  against
the  brassy  twirling of the little dark-clothed, insectoid  band.
"Are you sure it's safe?" hummed Nightlily, clinging once more  to
his  arm,  and  Trevagg patted her hand. Her fear reacted  on  his
hunter's  instinct  as her anxiety and distress  had  earlier-prey
signals that read as an invitation to conquest. He felt an  almost
overwhelming desire to crush her in his arms.
   Instead he cradled the back of her exquisite coned head in  one
hand,  said,  "With me, you're safe, my blossom.  With  me  you'll
always be safe."
   They  took  one of the small booths to the left of  the  raised
entry vestibule, Nightlily gazing around her, fearfully marveling.
In  addition to being a virgin, she had confessed to Trevagg  over
lunch,  she  had never been away from her home planet before,  had
never  seen  anything like this. As well she hadn't,  thought  the
Gotal, amused at the way she relaxed under the influence of  Wuher
the  barkeep's  drinks  computer. In another  booth  a  completely
illegal  card  game  was in progress between a ghoulish  Givin,  a
giant  one-eyed Abyssin, and a big fluffy white thing of a species
even  Trevagg  had  never seen; in another  a  shaggy,  ferocious-
looking  Wolfman  sipped his drink alone. While Nightlily  sighed,
and  giggled over her second drink, and asked him, "Are you  truly
sure,  beloved?  Mating  is  such a solemn  thing,  such  an  awe-
inspiring thing..." Trevagg was searching the crowd with his  eyes
and,  more importantly, with his cones, seeking out the vibrations
of  danger and blood, the vibrations of another hunter, as he  had
once been.
   "It  is  as nothing," Trevagg said. "No sacrifice is too  great
for  what I feel for you." The fact that she couldn't even  detect
him  in  a lie-that she didn't have that much sensitivity  to  the
vibrations  of his mind- only redoubled his contempt for  her.  So
desirable-so  innocent-so stupid . . . No wonder  they  don't  let
virgins  travel off her planet. She'd told him that,  too.  They'd
never make it home.
   Not as virgins, anyway.
   Meantime,  his  hunter  senses roved the  dark  forms,  seeking
another hunter.
   The  two  tall human females drinking by the bar were a  maybe:
They  sparkled  with  danger,  a flamelike  brightness  that  some
assassins had. But the color of their aura wasn't quite right. The
Rodian  at  another  card table, with his small  earlike  antennae
swiveling  nervously  in the noise of the room-yes.  Definitely  a
killer,  though  Trevagg wasn't certain he could  take  on  Predne
Balu.  The  Wolfman, yes; he looked big enough, tough  enough,  to
take  on the human and win. The brown-haired human talking quietly
with  an  enormous Wookiee at another booth-maybe.  The  edge  was
there, but not the darkness. The thin man smoking a hookah at  the
bar-absolutely.  His  aura was dark, terrible,  but  there  was  a
coldness  about  him  that made Trevagg  wonder  if  he  could  be
approached at all. That was one, he thought, who killed for a huge
sum . . . or for his own pleasure. Nothing between.
   For  the  rest, they were locals: the foul Dr. Evazan  and  his
disgusting  Aqualish friend were well known to Trevagg,  dangerous
but  not  for  hire;  the  horned and sinister-looking  Devaronian
swaying  his  fingers dreamily to the music of the band  was  much
less  dangerous  than he appeared. The old spacer  in  most  of  a
flight  suit Trevagg recognized as a smuggler who worked  for  the
monastery,  probably involved in something illegal -like  most  of
the  religious brothers of that organization-but he would stop far
short of murder.
   And  then  he  felt it. The rushing, buzzing sensation  in  his
cones, the strange humming confusion, almost like the presence  of
a high-energy machine . . .
   And the Jedi came into the cantina.
   He  was  a nondescript old human, his beard gone white  as  the
hair of humans did with age, his robes shabby with wear and desert
dust.  He  was  trailed  by a human youth-a  back-desert  moisture
farmer,  by  the look of his clothes and the way he stared  around
him,  as  Nightlily  had,  awed by what he  thought  was  the  Big
City-and  by  a couple of much-battered droids whose  power  cells
made  Trevagg's cones prickle. Wuher the barkeep swung immediately
around. "Hey, we don't serve their kind here!"
   "What?" said the boy, and the taller of the droids, a dented C-
3PO,  looked  as disconcerted as it was possible for  a  droid  to
look.
   "Your droids. They'll have to wait outside. We don't want  them
here."
   Trevagg,  sitting only a few feet away, heartily concurred.  It
was difficult enough to think in here, to determine what he should
do,  with Nightlily so soft and vulnerable and giggly on one side,
and the dark vibrations of the assassins on the other.
   "Listen,  why don't you wait out by the speeder," the boy  said
quietly-an  unnecessary courtesy, in Trevagg's  opinion.  A  C-3PO
only  looked  human, and an R2-D2 didn't even do that.  "We  don't
want any trouble."
   The  old  man, meanwhile, had gone to the bar, and was deep  in
murmured  conversation  with the elderly monastic  spacer  in  the
flight suit; Trevagg stretched his hearing to pick up their words,
but over the music of the band it was not easy.
   Even  less  easy  was it to hear something besides  Nightlily's
soft  voice,  slightly flown with unaccustomed substances,  asking
yet again, humbly, how he could truly love her so much.
   "Of  course  I do, of course," said Trevagg, watching  the  old
Jedi  move into conversation with die towering Wookiee. He  looked
safe  for a moment, and Trevagg turned back to Nightlily, grasping
the  smooth dark ivory of her hands. "Nightlily, you mean  .  .  .
Everything. Everything to me."
   She said "Oh ..." while staring up into his eyes. "Oh . . . Oh,
Trevagg.  That we should have met like this-that you  should  have
come into my life like this ..."
   He wondered if he could slip away for a moment, summon the city
police  .  .  . But he needed a go-between if he were to  get  the
money.  Slip away and contact Jub Vegnu-first speak to one of  the
assassins, in case Balu had tracked the old man here himself.
   He  felt  the flare of emotions, of irrational rage and drunken
aggression,  before the yelling started. Swinging  around  in  his
chair,  Trevagg saw, to his horror, that the sinister  Dr.  Evazan
had  decided  to  pick  a fight with the farm  boy,  throwing  him
sprawling  into a table while Wuher ducked under the  bar  yelling
desperately  "No blasters! No blasters!" and someone else  grabbed
for a sidearm . . .
   The  roar  of  the  Force in Trevagg's cones  peaked  like  the
drumming  of  a  high-desert gravel storm. The old  man,  in  what
seemed  like a single smooth gesture, somehow had a glowing  stalk
of light in his hand. A lethal slash, a severed limb leaking blood
on  the  floor, Nightlily's terrified hoot, and silence-a  silence
less shocked than cautious as everyone reevaluated the situation.
   Then  the band started up again. So did the conversations.  The
wounded  would-be combatant was taken away. So  was  the  arm,  by
Wuher's  small helper Nackhan recognized as operating a  fast-food
stand  in  the  marketplace. The old  Jedi  picked  up  his  young
companion, moved off with the Wookiee to the booth where the brown-
haired  smuggler with the scar on his chin waited. Trevagg  became
aware  that  Nightlily  was clinging to his  arm,  and  his  every
instinct told him now was the time to move in on her.
   Unfortunately, now was also the time to listen, to stretch  out
his  hearing, to key and sharpen his hunter's awareness  of  every
word  they  said.  Trevagg disengaged his arm from  the  trembling
girl,  stated  "You need something to calm you down, my  blossom,"
and moved over to the bar, listening over the jumble of the music,
the  murmur of the crowd. Lingering by the bar, he heard the words
"to  the  Alderaan  system," and felt the swift rush  of  hunter's
adrenaline in his veins. It was, indeed, now or never.
   Then,  a  moment later, he heard the old man say, "Two thousand
now, plus fifteen when we reach Alder-aan . . ."
   Trevagg  breathed a sigh of relief. That meant  a  delay  here,
while  they raised the cash. Probably they'd sell the speeder  the
boy had mentioned, or the droids, or all three. That only left the
question of Balu.
   The  brown-haired human and the Wookiee were obviously not  for
hire as assassins. Judging by such of the conversation as he could
hear, Trevagg guessed they were only smugglers anyway. The Wolfman
was engaged in a sharp altercation with a lampreylike thing beside
him,  whose  vibrations caused Trevagg to back quickly away,  and,
nearby,  the hookah smoker felt too eerily dangerous, too  deadly.
That left the Rodian . . .
   "Docking Bay Ninety-four," he heard the smuggler say,  and  the
old  man  repeated it, "Ninety-four," as Trevagg returned  to  his
booth  with  his  own  drink and Nightlily's, double-strength  and
dosed  with  a  Love-Wallop pill Trevagg had had the foresight  to
slip  into his pocket before leaving the office. He knew how  much
Wuher  charged for them. There would now, he knew,  be  plenty  of
time.
   Riches, he thought, and the beautiful creature leaning  on  his
arm,  crooning  softly, "Oh, my love, my love."  Maybe  he'd  even
spring  for a first-class ticket for her. It was, after  all,  the
least he could do.
   He   wasn't   surprised,  or  particularly  upset,   when   the
stormtroopers snowed up. He even felt a kind of scorn for them  as
they  looked  around, for of course the old man and  the  boy  had
vanished.  So, incidentally, did several other patrons,  including
the  hookah  smoker.  The  Rodian didn't,  Trevagg  observed,  and
slipped  one hand from Nightlily's soft waist to feel in his  belt
pouch  for the money he'd brought. A hundred credits, he had  been
told,  was the current going rate for the down payment on a  man's
life.
   He  would be glad, he thought, to get this annoyance out of the
way.  To  make  sure Balu was not going to cheat him  out  of  the
reward that was rightfully his.
   Unfortunately, just as Trevagg was rising to go to the Rodian's
table,  the Rodian himself got up, with a shift in aura that  told
Trevagg that this was indeed a hunter, closing in on his own prey.
That prey, it turned out, was the brown-haired smuggler, who after
a  prolonged  altercation shot the Rodian neatly  with  a  blaster
drawn under the table.
   Nightlily  shrieked again and clung to Trevagg's  arm;  Wuher's
helper  ran  to  guard the remains even as the  smuggler  and  his
Wookiee companion tossed the barkeep a couple of credits and  took
their leave: "Sorry about the mess." After a momentary pause,  the
band took up its tune without missing a bar.
   Disgusted and annoyed-because the Wolfman had also left by this
time-Trevagg  gathered the flustered and languishing Nightlily  on
his  arm.  So much, he thought, for trying to shortcut  middlemen.
When  he  contacted Jub Vegnu to arrange information to  the  City
Prefect  about intercepting the old man and the boy  at  Spaceport
Speeders,  he'd mention the need to dispose of Balu for  an  extra
hundred  creds. That should take care of any competition  for  the
reward for the old man's hide.
   And  in  the meantime, thought Trevagg, slipping his arm around
the  trembling bundle of aromatic sensuality that fate had dropped
into  his  lap, there was the matter of this girl, and  getting  a
room  at the Mos Eisley Inn, to consummate what she thought  would
be  the start of a wonderful marriage-the more fool she!- and what
was,  in  actuality, merely the more delectable of the  two  hunts
upon which he had engaged today.
   Really,  Trevagg thought, as he guided Nightlily's tipsy  steps
along  the  gold and shadow of the street outside, he  might  have
retired  from the trade, but he was still quite a passable  hunter
after all.
   
   What  with  the  commotion of Imperial troops coming  into  Mos
Eisley to search for a pair of droids, the sudden rumors of a Sand
People  massacre on an outlying farm, and the firefight at Docking
Bay  94  ending  with a smuggling craft's illegal liftoff,  nobody
found Feltipern Trevagg's body until the following afternoon.
   "Didn't  anybody  tell  him?"  demanded  Wuher  the  bartender,
brought  over to the Mos Eisley Inn by Balu's deputy to  view  the
body and give the security officer his deposition.
   "Tell  him  what?" Balu looked up from jotting on  his  logpad.
He'd   never   much   liked   the  Gotal,   but   that   kind   of
death-evisceration  with what looked to have  been  a  long,  thin
knife, skillfully wielded-was something he wouldn't have wished on
anyone.
   "About  H'nemthe."  When  Balu continued  to  look  blank,  the
bartender added, "The girl he was with. The H'nemthe female."
   "Nightlily?"  Balu  was  starded.  The  girl  had  looked   too
frightened  by  her  surroundings-and  too  dazzled  by  Trevagg's
charms-to have harmed a hair of the Gotal's head.
   "Was that her name?" Wuher rolled his eyes. "It figures."
   A  small  crowd had gathered. Of course, none of  the  Imperial
stormtroopers  and none of the Prefect's guard, either.  A  murder
this  small wasn't worth their time. Balu couldn't help  observing
Nackhar in the background slipping the coroner's deputy a few cred
its. For what, he decided not to ask.
   "The  m'iiyoom-the nightlily-is a carnivorous flower that feeds
on  small rodents and insects that try to drink its nectar,"  said
the  barkeep,  hands on hips and looking down at the  dark-stained
sheet  the coroner had laid over what was left of Trevagg.  "After
mating,  H'nemthe  females gut the males  with  those  tongues  of
theirs-they're as sharp as sword blades, and a lot  stronger  than
they  look. Some kind of biological reaction to there being twenty
H'nemthe  males  for every female. The males seem  to  think  it's
wortih it, to achieve the act of love. I saw them together in  the
can-Una, but I didn't think Trevagg was crazy enough to try to bed
the girl."
   "He  was always bragging about being such a great hunter," said
Balu  wonderingly,  stepping aside for the coroner's  deputies  to
carry die body out of the dingy and bloodstained room. "You'd have
thought he'd sense it coming."
   "How  could  he?" The barkeep tucked big hands into  his  belt,
followed the officer back out to the street. "For her it  was  the
act of love, too."
   He shrugged, and quoted an old Ithorian proverb current in some
sections  of the spaceways: "N'ygyng mth'une vned 'isobec'  k'chuv
'ysobek.' "
   Which,  loosely translated, means: "The word for 'love' in  one
language is the word for 'dinner' in others."
   

   Empire Blues: The Devaronian's Tale
   by Daniel Keys Moran
   
   I  don't  suppose  it took us five minutes  that  afternoon  to
execute the Rebels, start to finish.
   
   The  Rebellion  on Devaron stood no chance. My  home  world  is
sparsely   settled  even  by  Devaronians,  and   is   politically
unimportant;  but it is near the Core. Near the  Emperor,  may  he
freeze. I was Kardue'sai'Malloc, third of the Kardue line to  bear
that name; a Devish and a captain in the Devaronian Army.
   Kardue   had   served  in  the  Devaronian  Army  for   sixteen
generations:  through the Clone Wars, back into the days  when  no
one  dreamed the old Republic would ever fall. The army  lifestyle
suited  me, and I the army; aside from the stress of dealing  with
the  Imperium,  and  the detested necessity of placing  Devaronian
troops  under  Imperial command during the  Rebellion,  it  was  a
tolerable life.
   Sixteen  generations  of military service ended  the  afternoon
after we overran the Rebel positions in Montellian Serat. It  took
me half a year to hang up the armor; but that was the moment.
   Montellian  Serat is an old city. Well, was; it dated  back  to
the  days before my people had star travel. That the Rebels  chose
to  make a stand there was tactically foolish, but not surprising.
I  spent  the  night overseeing the shelling of the  ancient  city
walls,  and  in  the first light of morning stopped shelling  long
enough  to  offer the Rebels a chance to surrender. They  accepted
the  offer,  laid down their arms by the shattered  walls  at  the
city's edge, and came out in single file: man and woman they  were
seven hundred strong.
   I  herded  them  into a hastily constructed  holding  pen,  and
mounted  guards. I had concern for a rescue attempt; half a  day's
march south, another group of Rebels were still fighting.
   After  they  surrendered, we shelled the city into rubble.  The
Empire  wanted to make sure no one made the mistake of  sheltering
Rebels again.
   Our orders came just after noon. The Rebels were believed to be
moving  north; I was to take my forces and intercept them.  I  was
not  to  leave any of my forces behind as guards for the  captured
Rebels.
   The orders were no more specific than that . . . but they could
not be misunderstood.
   I  had them executed in mid-afternoon. I pulled the guards back
into  a  half circle, and had them open fire on the Rebels  inside
the holding pen. It took most of five minutes before the screaming
stopped and I could be certain all seven hundred were dead.
   There was no time to bury them.
   We marched south to the next battle.
   
   With  one thing and another it took almost half a year for  the
Rebellion  on  Devaron  to be put down. Rebellions  are  drawn-out
affairs,  even  the  failures. When it was over,  I  submitted  my
resignation. At first my superiors, humans all, could  not  decide
whether to accept it and let my fellow "natives" kill me once I no
longer  had the protection of the Imperial Army, or to  refuse  it
and  execute  me  for treason for having made the request  in  the
first place.
   I recall I did not much care.
   They let me go.
   I  vanished. Neither my Imperial superiors, nor the  family  or
friends left behind, who lusted for my horns, ever saw me,  or  my
music collection, again.
   
   Time passed.
   
   Halfway  across  the galaxy from Devaron, on the  small  desert
planet  of Tatooine, in the port city of Mos Eisley, in a  cantina
tucked  away near the center of the hot, dusty city, I  looked  up
from my empty drink and smiled at my old friend Wuher.
   I   gave   him   the  polite  one.  Devish  are  more   sharply
differentiated  by sex than most species. Men have  sharper  teeth
than  women,  designed  for  hunting;  Devish  evolved  from  pack
hunters. Women have canines as well, but also have molars and  can
survive  on food that men would starve on. In rare cases,  though,
about one birth in fifty, a Devish man will be born with both sets
of  teeth.  I'm  one of them. In the old days it  was  a  survival
trait;  Devish men with both sets of teeth were used  as  solitary
scouts  by  the  pack.  They could range farther  and  survive  in
terrain where most males would starve. It may be cultural  and  it
may  be genetic, but there is no question that Devish with doubled
teeth are less creatures of the pack than most Devish men.
   I doubt most Devish could do what I've done, at that.
   My  outer  row  of  teeth  are female,  flat  and  not  at  all
threatening.  The  inner  row, composed of  sharp,  needle-pointed
teeth,  is  for shredding flesh. When I feel threatened or  angry,
the  outer  row  of teeth retract. In those circumstances  it's  a
reflex; but I can do it on purpose.
   Sometimes I do it on purpose. It startles humans . . . well, it
startles  most  noncarnivores, but humans are a  special  case,  a
whole  species  of  omnivores.  There  are  not  many  intelligent
omnivorous species out there. I have a theory about them:  They're
food  that  decided  to fight back. In the case  of  humans,  tree
munchies. They never quite get over their own audacity, I suspect,
and they're a nervous lot because of it.
   (A  human once tried to tell me that humans were carnivores.  I
did  not laugh at him, despite his molars and his pitiful two pair
of  blunted incisors, and a digestive tract so long that the flesh
he  ate  rotted  before it came out the other  end.  With  a  body
designed like that, I'd take up leaf eating.)
   Wuher  gave me the usual scowl in response to my polite,  flat-
toothed smile. "Let me guess, Labria. The glass is defective."
   Wuher  is my best friend on Tatooine. He's a squat, ugly  human
with a bad attitude and none of the human virtues. He hates droids
and  doesn't care much for anything else. I like him a great deal.
There  is a purity to his loathing for the universe that is  quite
spiritually advanced. If I could free him from his love of  money,
he  might  well  attain  Grace. "Yes, my  friend.  It  has  ceased
functioning. If you would fix it . . ."
   "With?"
   "Oh, the amber liquid, I suppose."
   "The Merenzane Gold?"
   "The bottle bears that label," I conceded.
   "One Merenzane Gold, point five credits."
   I  dropped the half-credit coin on the bartop, and waited while
he   refilled  my  drink,  Merenzane  Gold  is  a  sweet,   subtle
concoction,  with  many thousands of years  of  brewing  tradition
behind  it.  A  single bottle goes for well upward  of  a  hundred
credits, depending on vintage.
   I  took  a sip of my drink and smiled again. Proper. You  could
use  it  to  clean  thruster  tubes,  except  it  might  melt  the
shielding. I wandered over to my favorite booth, as far away  from
the bandstand as I could get, and settled in with my ear plugs for
the day.
   I  was  the  first customer in the door that morning.  I  could
barely remember a time when I had not been.
   
   Tatooine is a nasty, useless little planet. The only noteworthy
things  about it are Jabba, and the pilots it produces year  after
year.  I don't have any idea why Jabba picked Tatooine as a  base;
maybe  because it's so far from the Core that the Empire  is  less
likely to bother him here. Doesn't matter, really.
   As  for  the  pilots,  well, Tatooine's a desert,  filled  with
moisture  farmers north to south. A single farm takes up  so  much
space  that  to  visit  with one another  they  must  travel  long
distance  by  speedster; their children learn to fly at  an  early
age.  On most Tatooine farms it would take you a day to walk  from
one end to the other, and you'd likely die of thirst first.
   I hate Tatooine. I'm still not sure why I stayed here. It was a
temporary thing, I recall that. I was following Maxa Jandovar, the
great-well,  for a human, great- vandfillist. I kept missing  her.
She was one of the half-dozen surviving artists I hadn't seen live
who  was worth seeing. I spent half a decade following her  around
through the outback, hitting planet after planet weeks or days or,
in  one  instance  that gave me ample opportunity  to  demonstrate
Grace,  a  mere  half day after she'd left. She  didn't  leave  an
agenda;  she couldn't, very well. The Empire wouldn't  go  to  the
trouble of hunting her, but if she'd announced where she was going
next,  she'd certainly have found a squad of stormtroopers waiting
for her at the spaceport when she arrived.
   The  Empire doesn't trust artists. Particularly the great ones.
Politics does not interest them, and they persist in speaking  the
truth when it is inconvenient.
   They  arrested  Maxa  Jandovar  on  Morvogodine.  She  died  in
custody.  I was on Tatooine when I got the news, getting ready  to
head to Morvogodine.
   Somehow I ended up staying.
   
   Nightlily,  the H'nemthe sitting down at the end  of  the  bar,
looked bored and horny. I felt sorry for someone.
   "Hey, Wuher!"
   Wuher looked at me from down the length of the bar. "Yeah?"
   "Universal  Truth Number One: You should never say  'Well,  why
don't  you  bite my head off?' to a female H'nemthe who is  bigger
than you are."
   He didn't smile. Jerk.
   In  the  booth next to mine, two humans were trying to  talk  a
Moorin merc into helping them rob a bar over on the other side  of
Mos  Eisley; I made a note to myself to call the bar's  owner  and
sell  him  a warning about the men. Not that it looked as  if  the
Moorin  were going to help them; only one of the humans spoke  the
mere's  language,  his accent was horrific,  and  his  syntax  was
occasionally hysterical. I could see the merc struggling  to  take
them  seriously. At one point the mere, Obron Mettlo,  growled  at
them  that he was a soldier, a fighter; he mentioned some  of  the
battles  he'd fought in. I'd actually heard of most of them-if  he
wasn't lying, he was a serious professional.
   "Hey, Wuher!"
   Wuher looked at me from down the length of the bar. "Yeah?"
   "What do you call someone who speaks three languages?"
   "Trilingual."
   "Someone who speaks two languages?"
   "Bilingual."
   "Someone who speaks one language?"
   He puzzled at it a second. "Monolingual?"
   "Human."
   He almost smiled before he caught himself.
   
   The day passed slowly. They tend to. I drank enough to keep the
world  slightly out of focus, and waited for the suns  to  set.  I
moved  around  a  bit,  sat at the bar a few  times,  looking  for
conversation;   I   even  bought  two  drinks  for   an   off-duty
stormtrooper,  slumming. Wasted; he was more interested  in  women
than  in conversation, and I doubted he knew anything anyway. That
is  the  nature  of  investments, though; someday  he  might  know
something,  if such a thing were possible for a stormtrooper.  And
then he might think of his old friend and drinking buddy, Labria.
   Brokering information is a chancy occupation, at best.
   Can't say I'm any good at it.
   
   Long  Snoot showed up toward late afternoon. It had been a good
day until then; Wuher didn't have musicians that day, and I hadn't
had to wear my ear plugs even once.
   Long Snoot wanted to sell me information.
   I  smiled at him, in my corner booth as far away from the stage
as I could get The sharp smile. "That's a new one. Pass."
   Long  Snoot's "name" is Garindan. I had a protocol droid  do  a
search  on  the  word once. In five different languages  it  meant
"Blessed One," "burnt wood," "dust from a windstorm," "ugly,"  and
"toast." None of the five languages were spoken by a species  that
looked anything like Long Snoot's.
   Long  Snoot's the most successful spy in Mos Eisley. In a  town
with  as many spies as this city has, that says something. He pays
adequately  for  information; sometimes I give him information  of
value.  Sometimes  I  even  do it on  purpose.  "But  Labria,"  he
wheedled, voice low, "this is a subject of particular interest  to
you."
   "Give me a hint."
   He  shook his head, trunk waving gently in front of my face.  I
suppressed  an uncivilized urge to swat it with a sharpened  nail.
(I  often  have the opportunity to exhibit Grace in  dealing  with
Long Snoot.) "Fifty credits, Labria. You won't regret it."
   I  thought about it. I took a sip of the acid gold and  swished
it  around  my back teeth for a bit. I could feel it helping  keep
them sharp. "Fifty credits is a lot. Resell-able?"
   He  scratched  under his snout, thinking.  "I  can't  think  to
whom."
   Something of interest to me, but not resellable . . .
   I could feel my ears straighten. "Who is it?"
   "Fift-"
   "I'll pay. Who's onplanet?"
   "Figri-"
   I came up out of my seat. "Fiery Figrin Da'n is on Tatooine?"
   He made an urk noise. "People . . . are . . . looking."
   I  looked  around. Some of them were, in fact. Odd, having  all
those  eyes  on me. I let go of Long Snoot, and they turned  away.
"Sorry. Bit excitable."
   He rubbed his throat. "Your nails need trimming."
   "I  expect  they do." He sat back down again,  but  I  was  too
excited. "The band is with him?"
   "Fifty credits."
   A  snarl  rose in the back of my throat. I pulled out a  fifty-
credit  note and dropped it into his outstretched hand, and  tried
to keep the growl out of my voice when I spoke. "Who?"
   "They're playing for Jabba."
   "All of them?"
   "The Modal Nodes."
   "That's them," I said, unable to keep the excitement out of  my
voice.  "Doikk Na'ts on the Fizzz, Tedn Dahai and Ikabel G'ont  on
the Fanfar, Nalan Cheel on Bandfill, Tech Mo'r on the Ommni - "
   "Yeah. Those are the names."
   Oh, my.
   The greatest jizz band in the galaxy was in town.
   I  left  earlier  than usual, as soon as it was  dark  outside.
Wuher nodded at me on my way out. "Tomorrow, Labria."
   I nodded at him and went outside into the hot night.
   
   "Labria"  is  an extremely dirty word in my native  tongue.  It
translates, roughly, as "cold food," though the basic phrase loses
the flavor of it.
   By  my horns, I don't understand humans. I've lived around them
close  to  two  decades  now.  The  things  they  swear  by!  Sex,
excrement, and religion.
   I'll never understand them.
   
   There  are  four hundred billion stars in the galaxy.  Most  of
them  have  planets; about half have planets capable of supporting
life.  About  a tenth of those worlds have evolved life  of  their
own,  and  about  one in a thousand of those worlds  have  evolved
intelligent life forms.
   These  are  rough numbers. There are well over  twenty  million
intelligent races in the galaxy, though. No one can keep track  of
them all, not even the Empire.
   I have no idea how many bounty hunters there are in Mos Eisley.
Hundreds  of professionals, I'm sure. Tens of thousands who  would
turn  bounty  hunter without a moment's pause if the  bounty  were
high enough, and if anyone knew of it.
   The Butcher of Montellian Serat has five million credits on his
horns.  But  Devaron is halfway across the galaxy, and  there  may
only  be  a dozen sentients on all of Tatooine who even  know  for
sure  what  species I belong to. (There are two other  Devaronians
onplanet, Oxbel and Jubal. I rather like Oxbel; we pretended to be
brothers once, during a rather involved scam that didn't work  out
the  way  we'd  hoped. We don't look anything alike-his  ancestors
evolved at the equator, mine toward the north pole-but the  humans
we  were  trying to cheat couldn't tell the difference.  I  rather
like Oxbel, but I don't come close to trusting him. He's been away
from  Devaron even longer than I have, and it's entirely  possible
that  even  he hasn't heard of the Butcher of Montellian Serat-but
it's best to be safe.
   (There  are downsides to being safe, though. The closest Devish
woman is on the other side of the Core. Just the thought makes  my
horns ache.)
   Most  bounty  hunters are lazy. If they weren't, they'd  be  in
another line of work.
   And research is not their strong point.
   I took the short way home.
   
   A Reason for Living:
   I  keep  a  small  underground apartment about twelve  minutes'
brisk  walk  from the cantina. It's been broken into  twice  since
I've  lived there. The first time I came back and found  the  deed
done;  the second time I surprised the burglar in the act. A young
human. Turns out humans don't taste very good.
   The lights come on automatically as I unlock and let myself in.
The  door leads down a flight of stairs to a cold, sweaty basement
that  costs  an  indecent amount to cool. The heat-exchange  coils
turn on automatically when I enter; I know from long experience  I
won't  be able to sleep until they have been on for quite a  while
-and  at  that  it  will  not be properly cold  until  I  am  done
sleeping, and it's time to turn them off.
   There's only one thing of value in the apartment; neither of my
two thieves found it, fortunately. From the outer room you go into
the  sleeping  cubicle,  and from there  into  the  bathroom.  The
sanitary  facilities are human designed, but  they  suit  me  well
enough.  In  the shower, you push back on the tiled wall,  and  it
slides back enough to step through, sideways.
   I step through and into a small eight-sided room. The walls are
not  perfect;  they  tend  to reflect the higher  frequencies  and
absorb  the  lower ones, so virtually everything ends up  sounding
brighter than it should. Some of that can be adjusted for; some of
it I simply have to live with.
   The  wall behind me sighs shut. The room is already cool;  it's
the first part of the apartment to be cooled.
   Along the walls are the chips.
   Some  of  them  are  unique,  I'm sure.  Priceless.  Copies  of
recordings  that are preserved by no one else in the galaxy.  Some
of them are merely rare and very expensive.
   I  have  everyone.  Or,  to be precise,  I  have  something  by
everyone. I have music the Imperium banned a generation ago...  by
musicians executed for singing the wrong lyric, in the wrong  way,
to  the  wrong  person,  by  musicians  who  simply  vanished,  by
musicians  who had the good fortune to die before the Empire  came
to power.
   Maxa  Jandovar  is  here, and Orin Mersai,  and  Te-lindel  and
Saerlock,    Lord    Kavad    and    the    Skaalite    Orchestra,
M'lar'Nkai'kambric, Janet Lalasha, and Miracle Meriko, who died in
Imperial custody four days after I saw him play Stardance for  the
last  time. The ancient masters, Kang and Lubrichs, Ovido Aishara,
and the amazing Brullian Dyll.
   I have two recordings by Fiery Figrin Da'n and the Modal Nodes.
Da'n may be the greatest Klooist the galaxy has ever seen. As  for
Doikk  Na'ts  .  .  . there's something about his  playing  that's
always  struck  me  as  cautious, careful .  .  .  but  sometimes,
sometimes the fire comes, and. he plays the Fizzz as well as Janet
Lalasha ever did.
   Most of their backup players could play lead, in a lesser band.
   I  settle  down in the seat, set just off center for the  room,
where  the  sound comes together most cleanly, open  a  bottle  of
twelve-year-old Dorian Quill, and wait for the music to start.
   My  people believe that to kill something, you must cherish  it
and  love it as it dies. There is no barrier between you  and  the
thing you are killing, and you die as you kill.
   Music is the only thing I know that feels the same way.
   The music surrounds me until I cease to exist.
   I die as I kill.
   It's what I live for.
   
   I'm glad my fathers are dead.
   
   In the morning I went to see Jabba.
   He  had me stand on the trapdoor, and his tail twitched  as  we
spoke.  That always bothers me. Part of me was frightened  by  it;
even carnivores get eaten by bigger carnivores. Another part of me
wanted to pounce on it.
   He  regarded  me with those slitted ugly eyes,  and  laughed  a
rumbling,  unpleasant laugh. "So . . . what  information  does  my
least favorite spy have to sell me?"
   I made it good. I spoke to him in Hutt, which I normally try to
avoid; it hurts my throat, and I have to use both sets of teeth to
make some of the sounds. After a long conversation, the front  row
aches  from  being pulled up and then dropped down again  quickly.
"There's a mercenary in town." I'd learned what I could about  him
before  heading over. It hadn't been much, but I'd been rushed.  I
wanted  to move on this quickly-if Jabba didn't like Da'n and  the
Nodes, I might never get to see them play. Nor would anyone  else.
"Obron  Mettlo. A real professional, fought in dozens of  battles,
often on the winning side, looking for employment. Moorin, has  an
attitude-"
   He made a low, grumbling sound that might have been interpreted
as  interest.  Jabba had plenty of muscle, but  not  always  smart
muscle; and Moorin tend to be bright as well as vicious.
   I  forged  ahead. "If you like, I could get in touch with  him.
Bring him by to meet you . . . for dinner, perhaps. Possibly  some
entertainment,  some music-music is good with  Moorin.  Keeps  'em
peaceable."
   His  eyelids drooped slightly; either he was bored  or  he  was
thinking. Finally he gave me a slight chuckle, and said, "Send him
over."
   I  bowed and backed away as quickly as was polite, getting  off
that trapdoor. "As you wish, sir. We'll be by -would first dark be
appropriate?"
   He  smiled  at me and it made the fur on the small of  my  back
stand  straight  up.  "Send him by," he clarified.  "You  are  not
invited."
   I  stood  frozen at the edge of the trapdoor, mind refusing  to
function. Surely there had to be some way to wangle-
   Jabba  made  a sound. A familiar sound; I've heard Devish  make
it, too-except that it takes a pack of Devish. It straightened  my
ears  and made my front teeth jump out of the way. "You can  leave
now."
   I bowed and got out.
   
   I  spent  the  evening at the cantina, drinking myself  into  a
stupor.
   I  just  knew  Jabba would feed the Modal Nodes to the  rancor.
He'd  never had a decent band before, never, not once. The closest
he'd  ever come was Max Rebo's bunch, who could carry a melody  if
you gave them a basket to keep it in.
   But  the next morning, I learned that Rebo was out looking  for
work.
   Jabba had a new favorite. It came this close to killing me.
   For  four  days I couldn't sleep for thinking about  it.  There
they  were,  not  a  half part's speedster trip from  Mos  Eisley.
Playing for him. It ate me alive thinking about it. I lost so much
Grace  in those days that if I had any shame left to me, I'd  have
to use some of it on that period.
   Sometime  on  the  fifth day I drank too much.  I  awoke  lying
facedown  in  the  alleyway upstairs and behind  the  cantina,  in
darkness, with someone nudging my shoulder with his toe. I decided
to take a chunk out of his calf-
   Wuher knelt next to me. "Can you stand up?"
   The  cold  gravel  pressed against my  cheek.  I  had  bruises,
cuts-the  memories came back slowly. Several someones  had  beaten
me-heavy  wood or metal staffs, I vaguely recalled. Just a  random
robbery. My right arm wouldn't move at all. "I don't think so."
   "Come  on."  My  body  is  denser than humans';  he  staggered,
helping  me to my feet The strain sent a jolt of astonishing  pain
through my shoulder. ' 'Where do you live?"
   He  half  carried me to my apartment, and stood at the  opening
while I fumbled with the interlock. "Do you need medical help?"
   I  don't  remember if I answered him or not. It  was  a  stupid
question.  No  doctor  on  Tatooine  knew  anything  about  Devish
physiology-or if they did, I didn't want to know them.
   I  made  it  to the shower before I collapsed. I got  the  cold
water turned on and sat in it until morning, trying to decide  how
badly I wanted to live.
   
   By  morning (he apartment half reminded me of home. I stayed in
it  and  did not go out, kept the heat-exchange coils running  all
day. Around midday I found the strength to pull a slab of womp rat
the  length  of  my  arm  from  the  freezer,  heat  it  to  blood
temperature, and drag it into the shower with me. I sat under  the
water,  nude, eating until my stomach bulged, and when  there  was
nothing left but bones on the floor of the stall, turned the water
off and staggered to my bedpit.
   
   It  took  me some time before I felt safe going out  in  public
again.  Several times someone came to my door; I didn't  open  it.
Some  information travels Mos Eisley faster than light. Mos Eisley
is like a living creature: It eats the sick and weak. I'd survived
all  these  years without having to kill more than  a  few  of  my
fellow  residents. They'd have heard by now of the attack  on  me-
the humans who'd robbed me might have boasted of it, in which case
I'd  have them in my freezer, whoever they were, before the  month
was out.
   But  in  any event I dared not go back to the cantina until  my
strength was returned.
   The arm took longest to heal; weeks laterJt was still stiff and
it hurt when I moved it wrong. But I was almost out of food, so  I
had  no  choice. Early one morning I dressed, set my  alarms,  and
headed for the cantina.
   Wuher  looked up and nodded at me when I entered. First one  in
the  door.  He  put a glass on the counter and poured  a  shot  of
golden  liquid. "On the house. Drink it before someone else  comes
in."
   I  looked at the drink, and then at Wuher, almost as much at  a
loss  for  words as I'd been when Jabba told me to send  the  mere
over by himself. "Many thanks," I finally got out. He nodded and I
lifted the glass-
   And  stopped.  Predators have better noses  than  leaf  eaters.
There was something wrong with the alcohol. It was-
   He  poured  himself  a shot while I was staring  at  my  glass,
raised it to me, and knocked it back.
   Merenzane  Gold. The real stuff. Precious, pure, real Merenzane
Gold.
   Wuher corked the unlabeled bottle while I was still staring  at
him,  put  it  away under the bar, and wandered away  from  me  to
finish opening up.
   I  took the glass to my booth, sat and drank it very slowly.  I
hadn't  known there was a bottle of real Gold on all of  Tatooine.
I'd almost forgotten what it tasted like.
   I  wondered  how  many years he'd had that  bottle  down  there
without saying anything about it.
   By the Cold, I'm a lousy spy.
   That's something to be proud of.
   
   I  spent the morning listening to the talk throughout the  bar.
I'd  been  out of touch . . . and interesting things had  happened
while  I'd been hidden away from the world. Last night an Imperial
battle  cruiser  had fought in orbit with a Rebel  spaceship,  and
today stormtroopers were looking all over Tatooine for someone, or
something, that had escaped them.
   And  a  piece of horrifically bad news: The damn mercenary  I'd
recommended  to  Jabba had picked a fight with a pair  of  Jabba's
bodyguards and shot them both up before getting himself fed to the
rancor.  There was some rumor that perhaps the mere  had  been  an
assassin  paid  by the Lady Valarian, whose real target  had  been
Jabba himself-
   Maybe Jabba had forgotten who had recommended him.
   And maybe Long Snoot would give me my fifty credits back.
   
   It came to me in a vision.
   Okay,  that's not true, but it's close. Long Snoot  stopped  by
and mentioned something interesting: The Lady Valarian was getting
married. Max Rebo and band were going to play at the wedding.
   I barely noticed when Long Snoot left. I stared straight ahead,
through  the  noonday crowd come to escape the  heat,  not  seeing
them, not seeing the cantina. Just thinking.
   "Wuher."
   He turned away from a conversation with a pair of human females
who  looked  like  clones; the Tonnika sisters, they'd  introduced
themselves  as.  He  did it grudgingly; they were  attractive,  by
human standards. "Yeah?"
   "How's business?"
   He stared at me suspiciously. "It stinks. It always stinks."
   "How would you like entertainment by real musicians?"
   "Rebo?  Can't  afford him, and his bunch don't draw  what  they
cost anyway."
   I  gave him the polite smile. "Figrin Da'n and the Modal Nodes.
They're Bith. They're good, Wuher. I mean really, really good."
   "What would they cost me?"
   "Five hundred a week."
   He  gave me the suspicious stare again. If something sounds too
good  to be true, someone's being screwed. "Really. A band  better
than Rebo's will work here for less than his."
   "I think I can arrange it."
   "How?"
   I told him. When I was done he said in a somber voice, "You are
one twisted puppy, Lab."
   "Is it a deal?"
   He  shook  his head no, said "It?s a deal," and wandered  away,
shaking his head and muttering to himself.
   
   The  Lady  Valarian  is the closest thing to  competition  that
Jabba  the  Hutt  has on Tatooine. That's not saying  much;  Jabba
tolerates  her because it keeps all the discontents in one  place.
She's  a  Whiphid, which means she's stupid, huge, ugly, has  more
muscle  on her than I do, and smells worse than Jabba. I  wouldn't
eat her even after a long hunt.
   I  went  to  see her at her hotel, the Lucky Despot. The  Lucky
Despot  isn't  much of a hotel, truth told; just a spaceship  that
won't ever lift again.
   "That's  right," I said. "Modal Nodes. Lead is Figrin  Da'n.  I
know you want the best for your wedding, Lady Valarian. This group
makes  music  so glorious, your wedding will be the talk  of  this
corner of the galaxy. People for dozens of light-years will  speak
with envy and longing of the entertainment provided at the wedding
of  the  great Lady Valarian and her handsome consort, the  daring
D'Wopp, of the romantic mood set by the finest musicians this poor
galaxy has ever seen."
   She glared at me-well, I think she glared at me; with those mad
little eyes Whiphids have, it's hard to tell-and said skeptically,
"Better than Max Rebo? I love Max Rebo."
   She  would. And she deserved to have the ugly little runt  play
her  wedding, for all of me. "Fair mistress, your taste is as that
of your tongue, and none would dare say otherwise." I gave her the
polite  smile.  "But  Modal Nodes is currently  Jabba  the  Hutt's
favored  entertainment. Would you have it said that the  entertain
ment  at  your wedding was provided by the musicians Jabba  deemed
too poor to play for him?"
   It  took  her  a  bit to work through it. I'd gotten  a  little
carried away with my syntax; Whiphids have a working vocabulary of
only  about eight thousand words. "No! No, I won't have it! I want
the  Nodal  Notes!" She looked briefly uncertain.  "Do  you  think
they'll come?"
   "They'll  be  expensive,  madam.  They'll  be  braving  Jabba's
displeasure  to play for you. It might cost . . .  two,  or  three
thousand  credits, perhaps. If I can have the loan of a  messenger
droid, I would be most happy to begin making the arrangements .  .
."
   
   The morning of the wedding I called Jabba.
   He  laughed  with, I think, real amusement on  seeing  me.  "My
least favorite spy!" he boomed. "Perhaps you should come visit me.
We  can  have  dinner together, and talk about the  mercenary  you
introduced to me."
   "I have information, Jabba."
   "Hmmm."
   "Do  you  know your musicians are missing? Figrin Da'n and  the
Modal Nodes?"
   "Hmmmph!"  He  made  a bellowing noise and rocked  himself  off
camera.  I  heard shrieks, steel clanging, things breaking  ...  I
stood patiently in front of my comlink's pickup and waited for him
to  come back, if he was going to. After a bit he did. "Hoooo," he
muttered, shaking his head. "Where are they, least favorite spy?"
   "The  Lady Valarian is getting married today. She's hired  them
to play at her wedding, at the Lucky Despot Hotel."
   The  eyes  narrowed to slits. "And what does my least  favorite
spy want for this information?"
   I  spread  my  hands.  "Let  us forget  a  certain  unfortunate
introduction . . ."
   He looked at me through the slitted eyes for a second, and then
gave  the  booming  laugh.  "Least favorite  spy,  call  me  again
sometime."
   He broke the connection.
   Cold sweat trickled through the fur on the small of my back.
   
   Wuher had dressed for the wedding. He'd changed his shirt.
   The  cantina was dark and silent; I'd never seen it  like  this
before, except the first few minutes in the morning. I gave  Wuher
my  invitation; the Lady Valarian had given it to me in  gratitude
for  acquiring  the "Nodal Notes" for her wedding,  while  hinting
that,  in  the  future, I might find it better business  to  share
information with her rather than with Jabba.
   Someone'll  kill  Jabba, someday, but  it's  not  going  to  be
Valarian.
   "You're sure the wedding's going to be broken up," he repeated.
   "I'm  sure the Modal Nodes aren't going to want to go  back  to
Jabba after this. All you have to do is offer them a place to  lie
low  for  a while, play a few gigs, pick up a few credits. They're
going  to  be broke; Valarian won't pay them after her wedding  is
broken up."
   He  shook  his  head, tucking his shirt in  again.  "You  think
they'll go for it?"
   "I think they'll jump at it."
   Wuher stood there, studying me in the gloom. "Lab . . . if  you
put this kind of effort into anything else, you could be a wealthy
being."
   I  shook my head, and said gently, "My friend, this is all that
I want."
   
   It's hard to outthink Jabba. Also dangerous.
   I  sat in the shadows of a building down the way from the Lucky
Despot,  watching the crowd arrive for the wedding. A scummy  lot,
all  around.  I  recognized several of  the  "guests"  as  Jabba's
people. I hoped there wasn't any shooting. I didn't see enough  of
Jabba's  troops to make that likely; if he'd decided to  wipe  out
Lady  Valarian for her theft of his musicians, he'd have sent more
soldiers. That was a good sign.
   I  could  hear, so faintly that my ears twitched, a  song  that
might  have been "Tears of Aquanna." It was followed by what  was,
quite  definitely, "Worm Case." Odd choices for a  wedding.  Maybe
they were playing requests.
   And then the bad news arrived.
   Stormtroopers.
   Two  squads. They set down out of the night, quietly  and  with
running lights doused, in full combat armor. One squad covered the
entrance  to  the hotel, and the second squad went  in.  From  the
moment they set down I doubt it took them twenty seconds.
   Oh,  the  noise was awful. From where I sat, I could  hear  it.
Screams, blaster bolts, yelling, another round of blaster fire-one
of  the  stormtroopers near the entrance went down.  I  lifted  my
macrobinoculars  and  watched the building through  them.  Windows
opened and the scum of a dozen different races came squirming  out
through them, I moved the macrobinoculars up, scanning across  the
structure  of  the half-buried ship . . . Toward the  top  of  the
ship,  three  stories above the dirty sand, an  emergency  airlock
clanged  open.  The first head through it was a Bith.  I  couldn't
guess  who:  All  Bith look alike, even when  you're  not  looking
through   macrobinoculars.  More  Bith  followed,  and  then   the
unmistakable squat form of my friend Wuher. They took  off  across
the  sand together, Wuher and the Bith, and ran straight by me  in
the darkness without pausing.
   I'd  never have guessed that Wuher could move that fast .  .  .
and  a  moment  later  I saw why he was managing  it.  A  pair  of
stormtroopers came charging after them, weapons at  the  ready.  I
shed  a  little Grace by tripping the one in the lead. The  second
stormtrooper  tripped over him. I bent over  them  and  picked  up
their rifles. I hadn't handled an assault rifle in-well, in a very
long time, but they hadn't changed. I pulled the charge cages from
them  and  handed  them  back  to the two  stormtroopers  as  they
recovered their feet.
   "You appear to have dropped these, gendes."
   One  of them immediately jumped backward, rifle pointing at me,
and shouted, "Don't move!"
   The other one looked at me, and then at his rifle, and then  at
me again.
   "Come  now,"  I  said  gently. "We're  reasonable  beings.  You
tripped  and  I  helped you up again. No need for  anyone  to  get
upset.  If you got injured in the fall, perhaps, I'd be more  than
happy to compensate you for it . . ."
   I let my voice trail off and the three of us watched each other
for a beat.
   The  one  pointing the useless rifle at me said in  a  strained
voice, "Are you trying to bribe us?"
   I drew myself up to my full height and stared down at them, and
gave  them the sharp smile. "Not," I said, "if you're going to  be
snotty about it."
   
   In  the morning, when I reached the cantina, I found the  Modal
Nodes already there, setting up.
   Wuher scowled at me. "I got shot at. By a stinking droid."
   "I'm sorry." He didn't seem that angry, though . . . "You heard
them play."
   He nodded grudgingly. "Yeah. They're pretty good."
   "They're the best," I said softly. "And I think you know it"
   He just snorted.
   "About my fee."
   "Yeah?"
   "Free drinks for a year."
   He  snorted again. "Not bloody likely. We won't get a year  out
of  this  lot; they'll jump planet as soon as they can  find  some
idiot to run the lines for them."
   He had a point. Still-
   "Their  stay might be longer than that," I pointed out.  "Jabba
will want to keep them from leaving the planet. He might even want
diem back someday."
   He  actually  smiled at me; I like him better scowling.  "Seven
free  drinks a day as long as they keep playing. As soon  as  they
sneak  out  of here, you pay again. You pay for every  drink  over
seven anyway."
   I  grinned  at him before I remembered myself, with  the  sharp
teeth.  "Deal."  I  got up and walked over  to  where  Figrin  was
setting up with the band, and introduced myself.
   I  swear, Biths look contemptuous even when they're not  trying
to.  The  fellow had obviously heard of my reputation: Labria  the
drunk. The half bright, half sly, half sober. He barely glanced at
me. "Oh, yes. Jabba's least favorite spy."
   The  fellow was a notorious gambler. "Interested in a few hands
of  sabacc?  The crowd doesn't start showing up here  until  later
afternoon anyhow."
   "I don't think so."
   "Twenty-credit minimum bid."
   His  head  swiveled as though it belonged to a droid. "Oh?  Can
you back that up?"
   I gave him the sharp smile, on purpose. Bith know they're food.
"Are you trying to insult me, Figrin Da'n?"
   
   There  may have been a deck somewhere, somewhen in the  history
of  time  colder than the one we used, but I wouldn't bet  on  it.
Bith come from a warm, bright world. Devaronians, by the way,  see
farther into the infrared than practically anyone. It's useful  to
be able to see heat, when you evolve in the cold.
   Buried  in  the black border along the edges of the cards  were
markers  sensitive to low-spectrum infrared light.  I  knew  every
card he held, all that morning.
   They were already broke: By the time we were done I owned their
instruments, except for Doikk Na'ts's Fizzz.
   
   And what a day that turned out to be.
   For the life of me it seemed the universe had conspired to keep
me  from  enjoying the music. First the band squabbled  with  each
other,  and then when they, finally got going, with a nice  upbeat
rendition  of  "Mad  About Me," some old fool chopped  up  another
fool- with a lightsaber, of all frozen things-and interrupted  it.
That  psychotic Solo actually showed his face in the cantina  just
after that, and then of course had to kill a miserable excuse  for
a  bounty hunter named Greedo. If I'd had a blaster on me I  might
have  shot  Solo  in the back as he left, but well,  opportunities
slip by.
   Besides, it's best not to draw attention.
   
   Afternoon slid into evening, and I nursed my drinks and watched
them  play.  It took them a while to get into it; at first  Figrin
couldn't  stand looking at me, and every time he saw  me  watching
them  it  threw  him  out  of his game.  But  it's  hard  to  stay
infuriated  with someone who is knowledgeable about what  you  do,
and appreciates it as I appreciated them. The music got darker  as
the  day  wore  on,  smokier and more intimate,  and  Figrin  Da'n
performed  with his eyes closed, moving through the numbers,  with
Doikk Na'ts at his side; and they played with each other, building
through  the numbers together, playing off each other, feeding  im
provisations back upon improvisations, playing, for the first time
in  who  knows  how  long, for an audience that  could,  and  did,
appreciate what they did. An audience of one.
   They closed up with "Solitary World," an appropriate choice,  I
suppose,  with the long intertwined sequences of Fizzz  and  Kloo,
ending with one of the most difficult of the Kloo solos, and Doikk
finished his piece, bowing out in recognition of genius:  And  the
Bith stood there and played, Fiery Figrin Da'n in the midst of the
music and I watched him wail away, safe, secure, surrounded by the
sound, in that place that I would never know.
   
   
   Swap Meet: The Jawa's Tale
   by Kevin J. Anderson
   
   The  sandcrawler labored up the long slope of golden sand  that
rippled  with  heat under the twin suns of Tatooine.  The  immense
vehicle  moved  ahead  at  a  moderate but  inexorable  rate.  Its
clanking  tractor  treads  left parallel  furrows  on  the  virgin
surface of the dune. Within a few hours, gusting sandwhirls  would
erase  the  tracks and return the Dune Sea to its pristine  state.
The desert resisted all permanent change. Deep in the murky bowels
of  the sandcrawler, in the cluttered engine rooms where throbbing
power reactors pounded and echoed, Het Nkik labored with his  Jawa
clan  members. From the depths of his hood, he sniffed the air,  a
veritable sauce of mingled odors. The engines smelled as  if  they
were getting old again, lubricant spoiling, durasteel cogs wearing
away.
   Humans and many other sentient creatures loathed the way  Jawas
smelled,  detecting  only a stink that made  them  turn  up  their
noses. But Jawas derived an incredible amount of information  from
such  smells: the health of their companions, when and  what  they
had  last  eaten, their identity, maturity, status of arousal,  ex
citement, or boredom.
   Het  Nkik  cluttered his concern. At any other time  the  Jawas
would  have rushed to avert any potential breakdown-at least until
they had unloaded their wares on a hapless customer. But today the
Jawas  paid  him little heed, too preoccupied with  the  impending
swap  meet,  the  annual gathering of all clans. They  pushed  the
engine  to  its maximum capacity as the sandcrawler toiled  across
the Dune Sea to the traditional meeting place of the Jawa people.
   Het  Nkik shook his head, his bright yellow eyes glowing in the
dim shadows of his hood. The other Jawas would know he was annoyed
and impatient from his scent.
   Het  Nkik had odd ideas for a Jawa, and he told them to any who
would listen. He enjoyed watching his clan brothers scurry around,
confused  at  the thoughts he placed in their heads-thoughts  that
perhaps the Jawas could do more than run and hide from persecution
by the Sand People, by the human moisture farmers, or worst of all
by  the Imperial stormtroopers who had decided that helpless  Jawa
forts  made good practice targets for desert assaults. He wondered
if  someone else among all the Jawas had realized that Jawas  were
only weak because they chose to be weak. None of his people wanted
to listen.
   Het  Nkik  turned back to the engines, tearing open  an  access
panel  and adjusting the delicate electronics. He found it amazing
that  the  Jawas  could use all their skill and imagination  in  a
desperate  fight  to keep this ancient machine running,  yet  they
would  do nothing to protect themselves or their property if  some
antagonist tried to take it.
   With  the  sound of a grating alarm signal, the  Jawas  in  the
engine  room  squealed with delight. Cinching  tight  his  pungent
brown robe, Het Nkik scurried after the odiers as they rushed  for
the  lift  platforms  to  the  bridge observation  deck.  The  old
elevators groaned, overloaded with jabbering creatures.
   At  the  pinnacle of the great trapezoidal sandcrawler, fifteen
Jawa  crew  members clustered around die long, high transparisteel
window, standing on inverted spare-parts boxes to see. All  during
Tatooine's  long  double-day, Jawa lookouts stood  atop  makeshift
stools, gazing out upon the baked sands, looking for any scrap  of
metal  or  signs  of  Sand  People or Imperial  storm-troopers  or
hostile smugglers. Upon glimpsing any potential threat, the  pilot
would  swerve in a different direction and increase speed, locking
down  blast  doors  and  shuddering with  fear,  hoping  that  the
adversary would not pursue them. Het Nkik had never heard of  even
a  krayt  dragon striking something as big as a Jawa  sandcrawler,
but that did not stop the Jawas from living in terror.
   Now  the  other small hooded forms looked down upon  the  broad
bowl-shaped valley among the dunes. Het Nkik elbowed  his  way  to
one of the overturned metal boxes so he could step up and look out
across the gathering place. Though this was his third season as an
adult  on  the scavenger hunts, Het Nkik still found the swap-meet
site breathtaking.
   He  stared across the dazzling sand as the twin suns shone down
on a swarm of sandcrawlers like a herd of metallic beasts gathered
in  a circle. The vehicles looked similar, though over the decades
Jawa  mechanics  had attached modifications, subde differences  in
armor and patchwork.
   Originally  the sandcrawlers had been huge ore haulers  brought
to  Tatooine by hopeful human miners who had expected  to  make  a
fortune  exploiting the baked wastelands; but the mineral  content
of Tatooine's desert was as bleak and unappealing as the landscape
itself.  The  miners  had abandoned their  ore  haulers,  and  the
rodentlike  Jawa scavengers had seized them and put them  to  use,
wandering  the  Dune  Sea and the Jundland  Wastes  in  search  of
salvageable  debris.  After more than a century,  the  sandcrawler
hulls had been oxidized to a dull brown and pitted by the abrasive
desert winds.
   Their sandcrawler had arrived late, as Het Nkik had feared. Two
days  ago  the pilot had taken them deep into a box-ended offshoot
of  Beggar's Canyon where the metal detectors had found  a  slight
trace of something that might have been the framework of a crashed
fighter's  hull.  But instead they had found only  a  few  girders
rusted  away  to  flakes  of  powder.  The  oxidized  debris   was
worthless, but before the Jawas could leave the narrow canyon,  an
early-season sandwhirl had whipped up, trapping them in a blinding
cyclone  of  sand and wind. Strapped to the walls of their  living
cubicles,  the  Jawas had waited for the storm to blow  over,  and
then used the powerful engines to plow through the drifted sand.
   Though  they  had  arrived at the swap meet late,  there  still
seemed  to be a bustling business. Far below, other Jawas scurried
about  like insects setting up the bazaar. Het Nkik hoped he could
still find something worthwhile to trade.
   Standing on their metal stools, the pilot and the chief lookout
called  across  to  each other, discussing the  final  sandcrawler
count.  Het  Nkik calculated quickly with his darting yellow  eyes
and  saw  that they were not the last to arrive. One of the  other
vehicles  was missing. Some of the Jawas around him speculated  on
what  misfortune might have overtaken their brethren, while others
consoled  themselves by pointing out that even if  the  goods  had
already  been picked over, they would have a new batch to  inspect
when the final vehicle arrived.
   As  the pilot guided the sandcrawler over the lip of the  dunes
in  a  switchback path down into the flat meeting area, the  Jawas
scurried  back to their living cubicles to prep their  own  wares.
His  body wiry beneath the heavy robes, Het Nkik had no difficulty
scrambling down fifteen decks to reach the stuffy cubicles.
   Het  Nkik  slept in an empty upright shipping pod,  rectangular
and scarred with corrosion, barely large enough to step inside and
turn around. During sleeping cycles he buckled himself to the wall
and  relaxed against the belt restraints where he could  stare  at
his  prized possessions stashed in pockets, magnetic drawers,  and
field jars. Now he grabbed the accumulated credit chips and barter
notes  he had earned during their great scavenger hunt and  darted
toward the main egress doors.
   Faced  with the magnitude of the great bazaar, the Jawas worked
together  as  an efficient team. They had set up their merchandise
dozens  of  times during their half-year trek, stopping  at  every
moisture former's residence, every smuggler's den, even Jabba  the
Hutt's palace. Jawas didn't care where they sold their wares.
   Down  in the bowels of the sandcrawler, Het Nkik scurried among
the  merchandise, tweaking the barely functional droids and  servo
apparatus.  Jawas  had  an  instinctive  feel  for  machinery  and
electronics,  knowing how to get a piece of equipment  functioning
just well enough to sell it. Let the buyer beware.
   The deserts of Tatooine were a veritable graveyard of junk. The
harsh  planet had been the site of many galactic battles over  the
centuries, and the dry climate preserved all manner of debris from
crashed ships and lost expeditions.
   Het  Nkik  loved to fix and recondition broken things energized
by  his  ability  to  bring  wrecked machines  back  to  life.  He
remembered when he and his clan mate and best friend Jek Nkik  had
stumbled  upon a crashed fighter. The small fighter had blown  up,
leaving  only  fragments-nothing even a Jawa  could  salvage.  But
digging  deeper, they had found the burned and tangled  components
of a droid-an E522-model assassin droid that had seemed hopelessly
damaged,  but he and Jek Nkik vowed to fix it, secretly scrounging
spare parts from the storehouse in the Jawa fortress.
   Their  clan  leader Wimateeka had suspected the two young  boys
were  up to something and watched them closely, but that only made
them more determined to succeed. Het Nkik and his friend had spent
months in a secret hideaway deep in the badlands, piecing together
tiny  components  and  servomotors, adding new  instruction  sets.
Finally   the  assassin  droid  stood  emasculated  of   murderous
programming,   purged  of  all  hunter-seeker  weapons   and   all
initiative  to cause violence. The E522 functioned perfectly,  but
as little more than an extremely powerful messenger droid.
   Het  and  Jek  Nkik  had  proudly displayed  their  triumph  to
Wimateeka, who scolded the boys for such folly; no one would  want
to  buy a reprogrammed assassin droid, he said. But Het Nkik could
tell  from  the not-quite-controlled rush of scent that  Wimateeka
also  admired the young Jawas' brashness. Never again had Het Nkik
believed common wisdom about what Jawas could not do.
   He  and  Jek  Nkik  had  surprised themselves  by  selling  the
repaired assassin droid to the tusk-faced Lady Valarian, Jabba the
Hutt's  chief  rival on Tatooine-a very risky trade  that  brought
them  even more scolding from Wimateeka. Lady Valarian was a tough
customer; and the one time she had felt cheated, the only  remains
of the hapless Jawa traders were a few tattered brown cloaks found
in  the Great Pit of Carkoon where the voracious Sarlacc waited to
devour anything that came within reach. Het Nkik had no idea  what
had  happened to their reprogrammed assassin droid, but since Lady
Valarian  had  not come after them, he presumed the  huge  Whiphid
smuggler queen must have been satisfied.
   Two  years  ago,  Het  and  Jek Nkik had  been  separated  upon
reaching  their  age of adulthood, sent out to do  scavenger  duty
away  from  the  Jawa fortress. In a few years, sandcrawler  crews
would swap clan groupings and arrange marriages; but for the  time
being  Het Nkik saw his friend only during the annual swap  meets.
Now he had credit chips in his barter pouch, he had merchandise to
trade-and he looked forward to seeing Jek Nkik.
   
   The  sandcrawler  ground to a halt in the demarcated  area  set
aside  for  their clan subunit. When the cargo doors opened,  Jawa
teams scurried to haul out the repaired droids, scraps of polished
hull-metal  plates,  appliances, and primitive  weapons  they  had
found  among the sands. The Jawas' motto was not to look for  uses
in a salvaged piece of garbage, but rather to imagine someone else
who might find a use for it.
   Jawas  bustled about setting up tables, awnings, credit display
readers.  Others  gave  a  last burnish  to  the  exoskeletons  of
clanking  mechanical  servants. A few tried to  look  nondescript,
hiding emergency repair kits inside their cloaks in the event that
their  wares unexpectedly stopped functioning before a sale  could
be confirmed.
   Power  droids  lumbered down a ramp, little more  than  boxlike
batteries  walking on two accordioned legs. Harvester  droids  and
vaporator components were set up and displayed; Jawa salesmen took
their  positions  proclaiming the quality of their  wares.  A  few
lucky ones rushed off to be the first to snoop among the items for
sale or trade by other clans.
   Around  the  perimeter of the rendezvous  flat,  Jawa  sentries
stood with image enhancers and macrobinoculars, searching for  any
sign of approaching threat. At the slightest suspicious sign,  the
Jawa clans would pack up their wares in a flash to vanish into the
endless dune wilderness.
   Het Nkik looked around but could not locate Jek's sandcrawler.
   After  finishing setup procedures, he took his turn to look  at
the  other  wares. In the bustling melee, he smelled the  stinging
sweet  scents  of hundreds of Jawas keyed up with  excitement.  He
felt  the  baking  suns' heat on his brown  cloak,  he  heard  the
cacophony of squeaking voices, the rumble of sandcrawler  engines.
Electronic  motors ratcheted and choked, missing beats until  Jawa
mechanics effected quick fixes in hopes that none of the potential
customers would notice. He wandered among the huckster tables, his
excitement  soured  by  the fact that Jek's  sandcrawler  was  not
there.
   Het  Nkik  saw  his  clan  leader,  old  Wimateeka,  discussing
something  in hushed tones with the clan leader from  an  outlying
Jawa fortress near the human settlement of Bestine. Het Nkik could
smell  the  concern, the fear, the indecision.  Wimateeka  was  so
alarmed he didn't even try to mask his odors.
   Het Nkik sensed bad news. Wimateeka was whispering, for fear of
sending the rest of the Jawas in a panicked flight. With a feeling
of  dread,  Het  Nkik drove back his impulse to run  back  to  the
security  of  the sandcrawler and pushed forward to  interrupt  Wi
mateeka. "What is it, clan leader?" he asked. "Do you have news of
the last sandcrawler?"
   Wimateeka looked at him in surprise, and the other clan  leader
chittered  in  annoyance. Normal protocol among  Jawas  held  that
younger members did not approach their clan leaders directly,  but
went  through a labyrinth of family connections, passing a message
up  through  higher and higher relations until finally it  reached
its  target; answers came back down through a similarly circuitous
route. But Het Nkik had a reputation for sidestepping the rules.
   "Clan leader Eet Ptaa was telling me of a Tusken attack on  his
clan's  fortress," Wimateeka said. "The Sand People broke  in  and
attacked before the Jawas managed to flee. Our brethren will never
return  to their ancestral home. They lost all possessions  except
what they could throw into the sandcrawler."
   Het  Nkik  was  appalled.  "If  the  Jawas  were  inside  their
fortress, did they not fight? Why did they just flee?"
   "Jawas do not fight," Wimateeka said. "We are too weak."
   "Because  they  don't try," Het Nkik said, feeling  his  temper
rise. His body scent carried his anger to both clan leaders.
   "We would have been slaughtered!" Eet Ptaa insisted.
   "Jawas  are  too small," Wimateeka said. "Sand People  are  too
warlike." The old clan leader turned to the other, dismissing  Het
Nkik.  "This  young  one  has a reputation  for  speaking  without
thinking. We can only hope his wisdom will grow with age."
   Het  Nkik swallowed his outrage and pushed for an answer to the
question that concerned him most. "What about my clan brother  Jek
Nkik? Where is the last sandcrawler?"
   Wimateeka shook his head so that his hood jerked from  side  to
side.  "We  have  lost  all  contact  with  them.  They  sent   no
explanation  of  their delay. We are concerned. Perhaps  the  Sand
People attacked them, too." Het Nkik scowled. "We can't simply run
and  hide  all  the  time, especially now that the  Imperials  are
growing  more aggressive. We could all work together.  Many  small
ones  can  make one large force. Now that the Jawas have  gathered
for  the  swap meet, clan leader, will you discuss my  ideas  with
them?"
   Wimateeka   and  Eet  Ptaa  tittered  with  nervous   laughter.
Wimateeka  said,  "Now you're sounding like one  particular  human
moisture farmer I know! He wants Jawas and humans and Sand  People
to  work  together and draw maps separating our territories."  "Is
that such a bad idea?" Het Nkik asked. Wimateeka shrugged. "It  is
not  the Jawa way." Het Nkik felt as if he were talking to a droid
with  its power pack removed. Nothing would ever change until  the
Jawas  saw  how  things might be different-until  someone  set  an
example. He walked along between the tables, kicking up occasional
billows  of dust. The smell of roasted hubba gourd made his  mouth
water.  Looking up, he searched the rim of the dunes for any  sign
of  Jek  Nkik's sand-crawler. As he passed a table from  the  Kkak
clan, he heard a conspiratorial whisper, unlike the entreaties  by
other merchants.
   "Het  Nkik!"  the  Kkak  clan member said,  clicking  the  hard
consonants and sharpening his name.
   He  turned and saw the other Jawa reach beneath his table to  a
private  stash  of  wares. "Are you Het Nkik?"  he  repeated.  "Of
Wimateeka's  clan, the one who is always talking about  empowering
the Jawas, about making us fight? Hrar Kkak salutes you and offers
an exchange of wares."
   Het Nkik felt a ribbon of cold inside him like a long drink  of
rare  water.  "I  am  Het Nkik," he said, letting  suspicion  curl
through  his body odor. It was good to let a salesman see  healthy
skepticism.  "The opportunity for exchange is always welcome,  and
the time for opportunity is always now."
   "I have something for you," the tradesman said. "Come closer."
   Het  Nkik took a step to the table, and now he was honor  bound
to  listen  to  the sales pitch. The Kkak clansman  looked  around
furtively  and  then  hauled  out a  blaster  rifle,  scarred  but
magnificent. A Blastech DL-44 model, more power than Het Nkik  had
ever held in his own hands.
   He   took  a  step  backward  in  alarm  and  then  forward  in
fascination. "Jawas are forbidden such weapons," he said.
   "I  have  heard  rumors  of such an Imperial  decree  from  Mos
Eisley,  but I have received no confirmation of it," the  salesman
said. "We of the Kkak clan have been wandering the far fringes  of
the  Dune Sea, and sometimes communication of such things takes  a
long time."
   Het  Nkik  nodded in admiration of the smooth excuse. "Does  it
function? Where did you get it?"
   "Never mind where I got it."
   Het  Nkik felt ashamed for his breach of Jawa protocol. "If I'm
going  to  purchase  this . . ." He removed his  pouch  of  barter
credits, knowing instinctively that he had to have the weapon.  He
wanted it no matter what the consequences - and the salesman  knew
it, too. "I need to know if it works."
   "Of  course  it functions." The salesman popped out  the  power
pack. "You'll see that the charge is on three-quarters."
   Het Nkik saw that it was a standard power pack of the type that
could  be used in many sorts of equipment. "Let me try it in  that
portable illuminator," he said, "just to make sure."
   Both of them knew Het Nkik could not fire the blaster with  all
the  other Jawas present. The Kkak salesman slipped the power pack
into  the  portable illuminator and switched it on. A bright  beam
stabbed skyward toward the two suns. "Satisfied?"
   Het Nkik nodded. "My resources are meager, though my admiration
of your wares is great."
   The  two  haggled over price for an acceptable amount of  time,
though  the price didn't change much. Het Nkik hurried  away  with
only  a few barter credits left to his name - but the proud  owner
of  a highly illegal blaster hidden under his brown robes. For the
first time in his life, he felt tall. Very tall.
   He  spent the rest of the swap meet looking for his comrade Jek
Nkik, but the last sandcrawler never arrived.
   
   After  the swap meet disbanded, the sandcrawlers toiled  across
the  Dune  Sea  in different directions, laden with new  treasures
each clan had obtained through hard bargaining.
   After  an hour of relentless jabbering, Het Nkik convinced  the
pilot  to  detour  along the path Jek Nkik's  vehicle  might  have
taken, to see if they could discover what had befallen the missing
Jawas.  They headed toward the oudying moisture farms among  which
his clan mate's group often traded.
   Het  Nkik  worked  in  the engine room, coaxing  the  faltering
reactors  to function for just a few more months until  the  storm
season  when  the  sandcrawlers  would  be  parked  next  to  Jawa
fortresses  in the badlands. Wimateeka's old mechanics would  have
to give the ion pumps and the reactors a full overhaul. Het Nkik's
companions were much more focused on their tasks now that the swap
meet was over.
   At  about  midday, the lookout sounded an alarm.  He  had  seen
smoke.  Normally the sight of burning wreckage made Jawas ecstatic
at  the  possibility of a salvage claim, but Het Nkik felt a  deep
foreboding; none of the others noticed the change in his scent.
   He  left his post and took the lift platform to the bridge.  In
front  of the wide viewport, he climbed on an overturned equipment
box and stared. The smoke grew thick. His heart sank inside him as
if he had just lost all his possessions in a bad trade.
   He  recognized the oxidized brown metal of an old ore  hauler's
hull,  the  trapezoidal shape. The sandcrawler had been assaulted,
blasted with heavy-weapons fire, and destroyed.
   Het Nkik knew his friend and clan brother was dead.
   The  lookout  chittered  in terror, expressing  his  fear  that
whatever  had  struck the sandcrawler might  still  be  around  to
attack  them.  But  the  pilot,  seeing  the  enormous  wealth  of
unclaimed salvage, overcame his uneasiness. He used the comm  unit
to  transmit  a message to Wimateeka's fortress, establishing  his
salvage rights.
   Greasy tatters of smoke curled up in the air as the sandcrawler
descended toward the destroyed vehicle. Het Nkik felt a resurgence
of  anger  bubble  within him. He recalled how  stormtroopers  had
assaulted  Jawa fortresses for practice. He thought of Eet  Ptaa's
settlement  raided by the Sand People. Yet again,  someone  bigger
had  attacked helpless Jawas, perhaps out of spite, or for  sport,
or for no reason at all.
   The  only  thing Jawas ever did was take their beatings,  flee,
and  accept  their helplessness. Nothing would ever  change  until
somebody showed them another way.
   He thought of the blaster he had purchased at the swap meet.
   The  pilot  brought the sandcrawler to a halt facing  the  best
escape route if attackers reappeared. The hull doors clanked open,
and  the  Jawas scrambled out, ducking low for cover but eager  to
dash  toward  the  treasure trove of scrap.  The  pilot  scrambled
forward to apply a claim beacon to the ruined sandcrawler, warning
away  other scavengers. Jawas swarmed into the half-open  door  of
the   wreck,  scurrying  to  see  what  treasures  had  been  left
undamaged.
   Several Jawas squealed as they realized they were not alone  by
the  damaged sandcrawler. A bearded old human in worn but  flowing
robes  stood off in the shade beside two droids that he seemed  to
have  claimed  for himself. He had built a small, crackling  pyre.
Het  Nkik sniffed, smelled burning flesh; the old man had  already
begun the ritual disposal of Jawa carcasses in the purging flames.
   The  human raised his hands in a placating gesture. Some of Het
Nkik's cousins speculated that the old human had killed the  other
Jawas, but Het Nkik saw this was obviously absurd.
   A  protocol droid walked stiffly beside the old man.  Its  gold
plating was a bit scratched, and it had a dent in the top  of  its
head;  but  all in all the droid seemed to be. in good functioning
order.  The  other  droid, a barrel-shaped model,  hung  back  and
bleeped in alarm at seeing the Jawas. Het Nkik automatically began
to assess how much he could get in trade for the droids.
   The   protocol  droid  said,  "I  offer  my  services   as   an
interpreter,  sir.  I  am  fluent in over  six  million  forms  of
communication."
   The  old  man looked calmly at the droid and made a  dismissive
gesture.  "Your  services won't be needed.  I've  lived  in  these
deserts  far  too long not to understand a little  of  the  Jawas'
speech. Greetings!" the old man said in clear Jawa words. "May you
trade well, though I sorrow for your tragedy here today."
   Three  Jawas  bent close to the rock-strewn ground and  spotted
bantha  tracks.  They set up a wail of panic,  suddenly  convinced
that the Sand People had declared an all-out war.
   But  something did not seem right to Het Nkik. He looked at the
tracks, at the crude weapons fire that had struck the most crucial
spots  on  the  enormous ore hauler. He sniffed the  air,  sorting
through  layers  of scent from molten and hardened  metal  to  the
burning  stench  of  bodies, to the heated sand.  He  detected  an
undertone  of  plasteel  armor,  fresh  lubricants,  a  mechanized
attack,  but he could find none of the musty smells of the  Tusken
Raiders or the dusty, peppery scent of their banthas.
   Het  Nkik pointed this out, and the other Jawas snapped at him,
impatient, as usual, with his contradictory views. But the old man
spoke  up  for  him. "Your little brother is right.  This  was  an
Imperial attack, not a strike by the Sand People."
   The  others  chittered in disbelief, but the old man continued.
"The  Imperial occupying forces would like nothing better than  to
see  a war among Sand People and Jawas and human moisture farmers.
You must not allow yourselves to believe their deceptions."
   "Who are you?" Het Nkik asked him. "How do you know our funeral
customs, and why have you claimed no salvage for yourself?"
   The  old  man said, "I know of your customs because  I  try  to
understand the other people who share my desert home. I  know  the
Jawas  believe that all their possessions are forfeit to the  clan
at death, but your bodies are borrowed from the womb of the sands,
and  their elements must return to pay the debt you owe  for  your
temporary life."
   Some  of the Jawas gasped at his eloquent recital of their  own
intensely private beliefs.
   "If  you  understand us so well," Het Nkik said brashly,  "then
you  know that no Jawa would ever strike back at a Tusken  Raider,
even  for  such  a  blatant assault as this.  The  Jawas  are  all
cowards. Nothing will make them fight."
   The  old man smiled indulgently, and his pale blue eyes  seemed
to  bore  through  Het Nkik's robe, seeing deep  into  the  hooded
shadow  of his face. "Perhaps a coward is only a fighter  who  has
not yet been pushed far enough - or one who has not been shown the
way."
   "General  Kenobi," the golden droid interrupted,  "Master  Luke
has  been gone far too long. He should have had ample time" to get
to his home and back by now."
   The  old  man turned to the Jawas. "Your salvage claim is  safe
here, but you must warn the others of the tricks the Imperials are
playing. The garrison in Mos Eisley has just been reinforced  with
many  more  storm-troopers. They are searching . . . for something
they will not find."
   The two droids stood huddled together.
   "But  the  Prefect and the Imperial Governor will  continue  to
foster turmoil between the Jawas and the Tusken Raiders." Then the
human  turned and looked directly at Het Nkik. "The Jawas are  not
powerless - if they do not wish to be."
   Het  Nkik  felt a lance of fear and realization strike  through
him.  A memory returned to him like a stun bolt. He recalled  with
the  vividness of a double desert sunset a time - less than a year
before  his  coming of age - when he had scanned  a  crashed  T-16
speeder  out in the rocky twists of an unnamed canyon. Wanting  to
claim  the  salvage for himself, Het Nkik had not asked  for  Jawa
assistance, not even from Jek Nkik.
   When he found the ruined vehicle, he spotted a young human male
sprawled dead on the rocks, thrown there by the crash. Apparently,
the  T-16's repulsorlifts had been unable to counteract  a  sudden
thermal  updraft; the landspeeder had crashed and skidded, leaving
a knotted tongue of smoke in the otherwise empty air.
   Het Nkik had pawed at the mangled controls, ignoring the broken
body  that  had already begun to attract moisture-seeking  insects
from  crevices in the rocks. He had suddenly looked up to discover
six  young  and vicious Tusken Raiders, their faces swaddled  with
rags, hissing through breath filters. They were angry, ready for a
heroic  adventure  they could tell about around  the  story  fires
throughout their adulthood. The Sand People raised their sharpened
gaffi sticks and uttered their ululating cries.
   Het  Nkik knew he was about to die. He could not possibly fight
even one of the Sand People. He was unarmed. He was alone. He  was
small and defenseless -a weak, cowardly Jawa.
   But  as the Sand People attacked, Het Nkik had found the T-16's
still-functioning  security system, and triggered  it.  The  sonic
alarm  sent out a pulsating screech loud enough to curdle  dewback
blood. Startled by the noise, the Raiders had fled.
   Het Nkik had stood trembling in his brown robes, paralyzed with
fear and astonishment. It took him many moments to realize that he
alone  had  scared off the Tusken Raiders. A weak Jawa had  driven
back an attack by bloodthirsty Sand People!
   It  had  been  a  warming revelation to him:  Given  the  right
equipment and the right attitude, Jawas could be different.
   And now he had a blaster rifle.
   "I know we are not powerless," Het Nkik said to the old man who
continued to watch him, "but my clan members do not realize it."
   "Perhaps they will," the old man said.
   As the other Jawas scrambled over the wrecked sand-crawler, Het
Nkik  knew  what he had to do. He went to the pilot and  forfeited
his  entire  share of salvage in exchange for a single  functional
vehicle  that would take him alone across the desert to the  human
spaceport . . . where the Imperials were headquartered.
   Het  Nkik's  sand vehicle broke down twice on his trek  to  the
sprawling, squalid city of Mos Eisley. Standing under the pounding
heat  of  the suns as the burning wind licked under his  hood,  he
managed  to use his skill and meager resources to get the  vehicle
limping along again over the rocky ground.
   Inside  his cloak the DL44 blaster felt incredibly heavy,  cold
and  hot at the same time. The weight inside his chest seemed even
heavier, but burning anger drove him on.
   On  the  dust-whipped streets of Mos Eisley, Het Nkik kept  the
sand vehicle functioning until he spotted another Jawa-a member of
a  distant clan who had been in town for some time-and offered the
used-up vehicle for sale. Though he drove a poor bargain, Het Nkik
did  not expect to live long enough to spend the credits; but  his
nature forbade him giving anything away.
   On  foot,  Het  Nkik trudged through the rippling midday  heat,
clutching  the  blaster  close to his chest,  looking  at  languid
creatures  dozing in adobe doorways waiting for the day  to  cool.
The  streets  were nearly deserted. He walked and walked,  feeling
his feet burn; the pale dust caked his garment.
   He knew what he intended to do, but he didn't quite know how to
go about it. He had a blaster. He had an obsession. But he had yet
to find a target-the right target.
   He  noted  an  increased Imperial presence in the city,  guards
stationed by docking bays and the customs center; but no more than
two  at  a time. Het Nkik knew that life was cheap in Mos  Eisley,
and  killing  a  single Imperial trooper would  not  cause  enough
uproar. He had to go out in such a blaze of glory and heroism that
the Jawas would sing of him for years to come.
   In  the  town  center he found the large wreck of  the  Dowager
Queen  spacecraft,  a mess of tangled girders, falling-apart  hull
plates,  and  all  manner  of  strange  creatures,  vagrants,  and
scavengers lurking inside the hull.
   To Het Nkik it looked like the perfect place for an ambush.
   His instincts told him to feel helpless, but he firmly squashed
those  thoughts. He had the strength, if only he  could  find  the
will  to make an example of himself. It could change the lives  of
Jawas forever ... or he could just get himself foolishly killed.
   Panic  welled up within him as he considered the  folly  of  an
insignificant Jawa planning something so preposterous.  He  wanted
to hide in a shadowy alley. He could wait for darkness, scurry out
of  the  city and find someplace where he could be safe and  cower
with the other Jawas, afraid of every threatening noise. Afraid to
fight ...
   Bracing  himself, Het Nkik slipped inside the bustling  cantina
right  across the dirt thoroughfare from the wreck of the  Dowager
Queen.  Conflicting scents overwhelmed him: strange  smells  of  a
thousand  different  patron  species,  chemicals  that  served  as
stimulants  for an untold number of biochemistries, the  smell  of
amorous intentions, of restrained violence, of anger and laughter,
food  and sweat. Strains of music drifted out, a mixture of noises
chained to a melody.
   He  had  credit chips. He could get a stimulant,  something  to
help him focus his thoughts, brace up his courage.
   Het  Nkik  moved with quick steps down the stairs, hugging  the
shadows,  trying not to be noticed. Deep inside the folds  of  his
garment  he gripped the precious blaster. He placed a credit  chit
on the bar counter, straining to reach the high surface. He had to
repeat  his  order three times before the harried human  bartender
understood  what  he wanted. Nursing his drink, Het  Nkik  hunched
over  a  tiny  private  table, smelling  rich  volatile  chemicals
wafting  from  the surface of the liquid. The scent  was  just  as
intoxicating as the drink itself.
   He tried to plan, but no thoughts came to him. Should he resort
to  a  spontaneous  action,  an  angry  gesture,  rather  than   a
methodically orchestrated scenario? His plan required no  finesse,
merely  a large number of targets and the element of surprise.  He
thought of the burning Jawa corpses at the wrecked sandcrawler and
the old human hermit who had given him the courage.
   He  felt a warm rush of surprise as the old hermit entered  the
cantina  with  a  young moisture farmer. The bartender  made  them
leave  their droids outside; at another time Het Nkik  might  have
plotted a raid to steal the two unguarded droids, but not now.  He
had more important things on his mind.
   The  old  hermit  didn't  notice him, but  Het  Nkik  took  his
appearance as a sign, an omen of strength. He gulped his drink and
sat up watching the old man talk to a spacer at the bar then to  a
Wookiee,  and  when the moisture farmer boy got into trouble  with
one  of the other patrons, the old man came to the rescue with the
most spectacular weapon Het Nkik had ever seen, a glowing shaft of
light that cut through flesh as if it were smoke.
   Seeing the lightsaber made him suddenly doubt his mere blaster.
He  pulled out the weapon and held it on his lap under the  table,
touching  the smooth metal curves, the deadly buttons,  the  power
pack  snapped  into the end. He was startled by  another  creature
joining  him at his table: a furry, long-snouted Ranat who smelled
of dust and eagerness to make a trade.
   Jawas  and  Ranats  often competed with each  other  in  ,  the
streets of Mos Eisley. The Jawas tended to roam the empty areas of
sand,  while Ranats stayed within populated areas. They traded  at
times, but generally viewed each other with suspicion.
   "Reegesk  salutes Het Nkik and offers an exchange of  tales  or
wares," the Ranat said in the formalized greeting.
   Het  Nkik  was in no mood to talk, but he made the  appropriate
response. Sipping his drink, listening to the Ranat chatter  about
his  wares, he tried to find a way to gather his own courage.  But
when  the  Ranat offered him a Tusken battle talisman, he suddenly
sat up and listened.
   The Sand People were great warriors; they fought creatures many
times  their  size,  slaughtered entire  settlements,  tamed  wild
banthas.  Perhaps a Tusken charm could give him the  advantage  he
needed after all. And what did he have to lose?
   The Ranat seemed to realize how much he wanted the talisman, so
Het  Nkik offered a high price-provided he could pay a few credits
now  and the rest later -knowing full well that he would never  be
around for the second installment.
   Against  his  better  judgment, Het  Nkik  passed  his  blaster
surreptitiously  under the table so the Ranat could  look  at  it.
With  the  talisman in his hand and the blaster  rifle  under  his
fingertips, facing the burning intensity in the Ranat's eyes,  Het
Nkik  felt  inspiration  return, felt his  need  for  revenge.  He
thought  again of his clan brother Jek Nkik, how the two  of  them
had  done  the almost impossible, repairing the assassin droid-and
then he remembered the smoking wreckage of the sandcrawler.
   Imperials  had  done  that. Imperials had attacked  other  Jawa
fortresses. Imperials continued to tighten their grip on Tatooine.
Perhaps  his gesture would stir up not only the Jawas,  but  bring
about  a general revolution. Then the planet could be free  again.
That would be worth any sacrifice, would it not?
   A  loud  explosion  and a sudden commotion across  the  cantina
startled him. He wanted to duck under the table, but he whirled to
see a human sitting at a booth. Smoke curled up from a hole in the
table in front of him and a strong-smelling Rodian lay slumped  on
the  table. Het Nkik was paralyzed for a moment in terror,  though
the Ranat seemed amused at the Rodian's death. Het Nkik stared  as
the  human  slowly  got up, avoiding the dead  bounty  hunter  and
tossing a coin at the bar.
   Life was indeed cheap in Mos Eisley, but he wanted to sell  his
own  for  a  high price. Other Jawas in the cantina  scrambled  to
claim the corpse; at another time he too might have fought for his
share  of  the  remains, but he let his brothers  take  what  they
needed.
   He looked down to see the Ranat fondling his DL-44 blaster, and
Het  Nkik snatched it away. He sensed determination and enthusiasm
pouring  through  his muscles. The intoxicant buzzed  through  his
brain. The weapon felt light and powerful in his hands.
   He would never be more prepared.
   Without  saying  good-bye to the Ranat, he  took  the  blaster,
squeezed  the  Tusken  battle talisman, and scuttled  out  of  the
cantina, across the bright streets to the wreckage of the  Dowager
Queen.
   As  soon as he was there, Het Nkik knew he had been meant to do
this.  Pressing the blaster against his side, he scrambled up  the
hot  metal  hull  plates  of  the  wreck,  finding  handholds  and
footholds  to  get himself to a higher position, a good  place  to
fire from.
   His  pulse  pounded. His head sang. He knew this was his  time.
His  entire life had been focused toward this moment. He  found  a
shaded place. A good spot for his ambush.
   A  line of stormtroopers on patrol rounded the corner, marching
toward the cantina as if searching for something. They marched  in
lockstep, crushing dust under their white heels, intent  on  their
goal.  Sunlight gleamed from their polished armor.  Their  weapons
clicked  and rattled as they walked, their helmets stared straight
ahead. They walked quickly, coming closer and closer.
   He  counted eight in a row. Yes, eight of them. If he, a single
weak Jawa, could mow down eight Imperial stormtroopers, that would
be  the stuff of legends. No Jawa could forget that their brother,
Het  Nkik, had struck such a blow against the Empire. If all Jawas
Could do the same thing, the Empire would flee from Tatooine.
   He   clutched  the  blaster.  He  bent  down.  He  watched  the
stormtroopers approach. His glowing yellow eyes focused  on  them,
and he tried to determine the best plan of attack. He would strike
the  leader first, then the ones in the middle, then behind,  then
back to the front in a sweeping motion. There would be a shower of
blaster  bolts.  It  would  take them a  moment  to  discover  his
location. For some of them, that would be a moment too long.
   There was even the ridiculously small chance that he could kill
them  all  before  they managed a shot in his  direction.  In  the
ruined ship he had a bit of cover. Maybe he could survive this. He
could live to strike again and again. Perhaps he could even become
a Jawa leader, a warlord. Het Nkik, the great general!
   Stormtroopers stepped in front of the ship, looking toward  the
cantina, not even seeing him. Arrogant and confident, they ignored
the Dowager Queen.
   Het  Nkik gripped the blaster. His knees were ready to explode,
springloaded,  waiting,  waiting until  he  couldn't  stand  it  a
moment,  an  instant longer-and uttered a chittering ululation  of
rage and revenge in a conscious imitation of a Tusken cry. In  his
life's  single  moment of glory, so close to  the  end,  Het  Nkik
leaped up and swung the blaster rifle at his targets.
   Before  they could even turn in his direction, he squeezed  the
firing button-again, and again, and again.
   
   
   Trade Wins: The Ranat's Tale
   by Rebecca Moesta
   
   Dodging   a  pair  of  potentially  meddlesome  storm-troopers,
Reegesk  clutched  his  treasures  and  scurried  with  rodentlike
efficiency  into  the  narrow alley beside his  favorite  drinking
establishment  in Mos Eisley. Ah, yes, his favorite.  Not  because
their  drinks or performers were of superior quality, but  because
he could always find someone there who wanted-or needed-to make  a
trade.  And in the small Ranat tribe that scratched out  a  larger
place  for  itself each day on this arid outpost world, that  was,
after  all,  his  job: Reegesk the Trader, Reegesk  the  Barterer,
Reegesk the Procurement Specialist Par Excellence.
   Whiskers  twitching with satisfaction, he sat  against  a  sun-
washed  wall,  curled his whip-hard tail loosely around  him,  and
opened  his bundle to examine the day's prizes. An oven-hot breeze
carried  the not unpleasant scents of decaying garbage and  animal
droppings  to Reegesk from farther down the alley. He had  started
the  morning with little more than a handful of polished rocks and
a  few  tidbits of information and had made a series of successful
trades  to collect the much more valuable items that he now spread
out  in the dust beside him. A small antenna, some fine cloth with
very  few  holes in it, a bundle of wires for the tiny  'vaporator
his tribe was secretly building. These he would keep.
   But  he  had  more bargaining to do yet. He still  needed  many
things:  a  power  source to complete the bootleg 'vaporator  unit
that  could  make  his  tribe  less dependent  on  local  moisture
farmers, a length or two of rope, scraps of metal for making tools
or weapons.
   From   his   perspective,  he  always  managed  to  trade   up.
Fortunately, he still had a few items left to trade from his  most
recent  bargain: a cracked stormtrooper helmet, a packet of  field
rations, and a Tusken battle talisman carved from bantha horn. All
this for only some day-old information and a discarded restraining
bolt.  He supposed the heat and dust could dull anyone's judgment.
Perhaps   the  Imperial  officer-a  Lieutenant  Alima,   who   was
definitely  not  a  local-should have paid more attention  to  the
deal.  Well,  the  officer  had gotten  what  he  wanted.  Reegesk
shrugged.
   Of  course,  the  old warning to buyers was valid:  Always  pay
close  attention  during a trade. Less scrupulous traders  tricked
customers or tried to convince them to make useless purchases, but
not  Reegesk. This, despite the "semisentient" status  the  Empire
had  conferred  on the Ranat race, had gained him a reputation  on
the streets of Mos Eisley for being shrewd but fair.
   In  fact, aside from the bothersome local storm-troopers, there
were  few potential customers in the port who would refuse a trade
with Reegesk if he had just what they "needed."
   Reegesk's furry snout quirked into a dry, incisor-baring smile.
Well,  he  knew what he needed, and he knew where to  conduct  his
next trade.
   
   The  interior  of  the  cantina was relatively  cool,  and  the
dimness  was  a  relief  from the moisture-stealing  intensity  of
Tatooine's twin suns. The air smelled of musky damp fur and  baked
scales,  of  nic-i-tain smoke, of space suits that  had  not  been
decontaminated  in  months,  and of  intoxicants  from  dozens  of
different worlds,
   Reegesk  stepped to the bar, ordered a cup of Rydan  brew  from
Wuher the bartender, and scanned the room for a likely customer. A
Devaronian? No, Reegesk had nothing to interest him.  One  of  the
Bith musicians who was just taking a break? Perhaps. Ah. Reegesk's
glance fell on the familiar figure of a Jawa.
   Perfect.
   Reegesk  pulled the hood of his cloak loosely over his head  as
he  started toward the Jawa's small table. Jawas were private folk
who  believed  in  being  fully  covered,  even  indoors,  and  in
Reegesk's  experience,  finding common ground  with  the  customer
always helped a trade. He was relieved to note by the scent as  he
approached  the  table that he knew the Jawa, Het  Nkik,  and  had
traded with him before.
   When Reegesk saw the bandleader Figrin Da'n signaling an end to
the  musicians'  break,  he hurried to get  Het  Nkik's  attention
before  the next song could begin. "Reegesk salutes Het  Nkik  and
offers  an exchange of tales or wares," he said, giving  his  most
formal trader greeting to the Jawa, who seemed preoccupied and had
not yet noticed Reegesk's presence.
   Het  Nkik  did not react immediately, but when he did look  up,
Reegesk thought he saw a look of relief, as if the Jaw were  happy
to  be distracted from his thoughts. 'The opportunity for exchange
is  always  welcome, and the time for opportunity is always  now,"
Het  Nkik replied with equal formality, but the pitch of his voice
was  higher  than  usual and his eyes darted furtively  about  the
room.
   "May both traders receive the better bargain." Reegesk finished
the  ritual greeting with irony, knowing full w"ll that Jawas were
seldom  concerned  with  whether their customers  were  satisfied.
Well, that was not his way. Cunning as he was, Reegesk traded only
with  customers who needed (or believed they needed) what he  had,
and he bartered away only items the tribe did not need.
   Reegesk's  nose  wrinkled briefly as he tried to  identify  the
scent  that  hung  about  Het Nkik. Sensing  what  he  could  only
interpret  as impatience or anticipation, Reegesk decided  against
any further delay and swung smoothly into the trading process.  He
began  with glowing descriptions of the bargains he had made  that
morning. Strangely, Het Nkik was not very enthusiastic as he spoke
of  his  own  trading and showed Reegesk a charged Blastech  DL-44
blaster  in  excellent condition. Reegesk did not  need  to  feign
either  admiration or jealousy over the trade; since it was  still
illegal  to  arm  a  Ranat in tie Outer Rim  Territories,  it  was
difficult for Reegesk to bargain for anything that might  be  used
as a weapon, And the DL-44 was a particularly fine weapon.
   Seeming  to  take  little notice of Reegesk's approval  of  his
bartering,  Het Nkik allowed the trading to move to an alternating
exchange  of  increasingly valuable information. The  two  traders
were so engrossed in their interchange that Reegesk did not notice
the  Rodian bounty hunter until he had bumped backward into  their
table. An obnoxious new arrival named Greedo. Reegesk made a  grab
for his brew and caught it as it teetered precariously at the edge
of  the table. He felt his nostrils contract in annoyance, as they
would at an unpleasant odor.
   Greedo  turned,  apparently ready to  excuse  himself  for  his
mistake, but he stopped when he noticed the table's occupants. The
greenish  tinge  of his skin deepened and the lips  on  his  snout
formed  a  sneer  as he looked at Reegesk. "Womp!"  he  spat  out,
giving  the table another sharp shove as he delivered the epithet,
and  then  moved off in the general direction of the bar.  Reegesk
bristled, hurling venomous thoughts after the sour-smelling green-
skinned  bounty hunter. The outrage of it! The insult. After  all,
Ranats  were  no  relation whatsoever to the nonsentient  Tatooine
womp  rats! Greedo was one person he would not mind seeing cheated
in a trade.
   When he was calm again, the trading moved to the next stage and
Reegesk  began discreetly displaying the items he was  willing  to
trade. Het Nkik showed a mild interest in the stormtrooper helmet,
but  when Reegesk brought out the bantha horn carved in the  shape
of  a  Tusken  battle  talisman,  Het  Nkik's  excitement  was  un
mistakable. Reegesk, quickly searching his memory for anything  he
knew  about  such  objects,  managed  to  remember  something   of
interest.  The  Sand  People,  he  explained,  believed  a  battle
talisman brought them the physical strength of a bantha in  battle
and  gave  them the courage to face death, if need  be.  Het  Nkik
asked to hold the talisman, turning it over and over in his hands,
uttering exclamations in a dialect Reegesk did not recognize.
   Reegesk hid. a triumphant smile. This would be almost too easy.
It  was unusual for a Jawa to show so much enthusiasm for an  item
being  traded, since it might skew the bartering to indicate  that
the  item had value to him. Reegesk closed in to begin the negotia
tion.  "The  talisman is indeed of great value. The exchange  must
measure up to its worth."
   Het  Nkik's  reverent expression turned to one of  chagrin.  "I
have little with me today that is suitable for this exchange."
   Reegesk's heart began to beat rapidly as he smelled his chances
improving.  The  Jawa definitely wanted to make a  trade.  Reegesk
slyly lowered his eyes to indicate the blaster that Het Nkik  held
in  his  lap,  hidden by the table. "The rime for  opportunity  is
always now."
   The Jawa's hands clutched convulsively at the weapon, and for a
moment he seemed at a loss. "I cannot meet such a high price,"  he
answered  carefully,  ".  .  .  today."  His  eyes  did  not  meet
Reegesk's. He negotiated for awhile longer before finally agreeing
to an amount far higher than Reegesk had expected to get.
   "You know that I am a skilled trader," Het Nkik said. "Here are
a  few  credits to show my good faith. If you will give  me  until
morning, I will meet your price."
   Success! But could the Jawa be trusted? Reegesk ordered himself
to  use  caution.  "Then  I will bring you the  talisman  tomorrow
morning,"  he said in a calm voice. He did not want to  give  away
his own impatience, and he hoped the Jawa could not smell it.
   But  the  Jawa  was firm. "No. I must have the battle  talisman
today."  Het Nkik's voice grew agitated as he spoke. "I  will  pay
the  rest  in  the morning, but I cannot wait until tomorrow."  He
stopped,  as  if  searching for a way to convince Reegesk  of  his
serious intentions. At last he said, "If you wait until morning, I
will let you have the use of this blaster."
   Reegesk  could feel his eyes light with intensity at  the  very
thought of having such a fine weapon.
   Het  Nkik's  eyes  burned into Reegesk's as he  nodded  to  the
weapon he held beneath the table. "Yes, I will let you hold it and
use  it.  I  am not afraid to arm a Ranat. Let me leave  with  the
talisman today, and you will have what you need by morning."
   Unable to pull away from the fervor of the Jawa's glowing gaze,
Reegesk reached out one paw to touch the weapon. Did he dare  take
a  risk  on  the  honor of this Jawa? Always pay  close  attention
during  a  trade,  he  reminded himself. Finally,  he  came  to  a
decision.
   At  that moment, a commotion broke out across the cantina  from
them.  Light and sparks filled the air, along with the sharp smell
of singed flesh. When the air finally cleared, Reegesk was able to
make  out  the  form of Greedo the bounty hunter slumped  over  an
otherwise deserted, table.
   Dead?  Yes,  definitely dead. This was indeed a lucky  day  for
Reegesk.  He felt a surge of excitement and his whiskers  quivered
with glee. "Yes. I accept the trade," he said to the Jawa, who was
still staring at the scene across the room. "Keep the talisman for
now. Bring me the price we agreed on by morning."
   Het Nkik suddenly turned his attention back to Reegesk. Without
a  word, he pulled the blaster away from Reegesk's paw and stalked
away.
   "Both  traders  received the better bargain this day,"  Reegesk
called after Het Nkik, but the Jawa did not seem to hear him.
   Reegesk smiled as he watched Het Nkik walk with such confidence
toward  the entrance of the cantina. He was pleased to  have  made
such  a  fair deal. The Jawa threw challenging glances around  the
room  as  he left with the DL-44 concealed beneath his cloak,  one
hand fingering the precious battle talisman.
   Reegesk  emptied the remaining brew from his cup and  stood  to
leave,  inhaling deeply. The smell of the scorched  Rodian  bounty
hunter still hung in the air. Very satisfactory, he thought with a
contented sigh.
   Moments  later,  he stepped back out of the  cantina  into  the
parched  streets of Mos Eisley. Reegesk patted the  pocket  inside
his  cloak that held the power pack.he had slipped from Het Nkik's
blaster. They had both gotten the trade they wanted today. He  had
paid very close attention.
   And  now  Reegesk had the perfect power supply  for  the  Ranat
tribe's new 'vaporator.
   
   
   When the Desert Wind Turns: The Stormtrooper's Tale
   by Doug Season
   
   It  took  Davin  Felth all of thirty seconds  on  the  military
training  planet  Carida to decide that serving in  the  Emperor's
armed forces was not as romantic as he had thought.
   Davin  hoisted his deep blue duffel bag containing his  worldly
possessions  onto  his back and queued up with  the  rest  of  the
hundred  and  twenty other recruits. They filled  the  Gamma-class
shuttle's  narrow steel corridor. Davin was nearly overwhelmed  by
the diverse cut of clothes, colors, and unusual smells that wafted
from  the  youths.  Nervous chatter ran up and down  the  line  of
eighteen-year-olds, most of whom were away from home for the  very
first time. A blast of noise reverberated through the shuttle  and
the door to the outside sighed open.
   Fresh  air  tumbled  in,  untouched  by  atmospheric  scrubbers
present  on  the  ship;  unfiltered  light  splashed  against  the
gleaming  deck,  reflecting down the hallway, and for  a  glorious
thirty  seconds  it  seemed that all the  hype  and  rumors  about
Carida,  the planet used by the Emperor's own guard as a  training
base  for his military, were suddenly magnified. This must be  the
most  exciting  place  for a ship of eager  eighteen-year-olds  to
begin their new lives.
   And then the shouting started.
   It  was  as if a bomb had exploded amidst the nervous group  of
draftees.  Chaos,  yelling,  confusion,  and  a  hundred  thousand
demands  were  suddenly  thrust upon Davin  from  all  directions.
Officers  in  olive-gray  uniforms  or  white  stormtrooper  armor
swarmed  all  over them; the recruits stood at attention,  rigidly
trying  to  emulate statues as the officers moved to within  milli
meters of their faces, screaming demands.
   Bavin's only thought was to try and survive, to get out of this
mess  alive - he couldn't think, and every time he tried to answer
a  question  that was screamed at him, someone else  would  thrust
their face next to his and demand something else.
   Davin started yelling, not caring what he said, or whom he  was
speaking  to, but only reacting, attempting to look as  though  he
were  busy answering someone else's question. He raised his  voice
and shouted at the top of his lungs - and the ploy seemed to work.
With  all  the confusion that surrounded him, with a storm-trooper
major screaming in his face to try and disorient him, he succeeded
in  diverting  attention  from himself.  But  this  was  only  the
beginning of six months of hellish training that would mold  Davin
into one of the Emperor's own elite troops.
   After  what  seemed hours, Davin and the rest of  the  recruits
were   led  running  down  a  pathway  to  the  barracks.  A  huge
prehistoric-looking man waved them to stand at  one  side  of  the
passageway. The recruits scampered in fear. They lined up  against
the  wall  and snapped to attention. The burly man threw them  sup
plies:   generic   dark  uniforms,  helmets,   socks,   underwear,
handkerchiefs, emergency equipment, medpac kit, survival gear, and
personal-cleansing equipment.
   Davin accepted the supplies, but was too afraid to ask what  he
should  do  with  them. One small voice, attached  to  a  man  who
towered over the rest of the recruits like a solarflower grown  in
rich  Gamorrean  dirt,  said meekly, "I  ...  I  can't  take  this
anymore!"
   Instantly,  Imperial uniformed bodies swarmed over the  man.  A
voice shouted, "You people-over here! Move it!"
   Bending backward under his load of supplies, Davin staggered to
join a line of recruits who looked like piles of crawling military
storehouses.  The group was led away, shown to their bunks.  Davin
deposited  his blue duffel bag and armload of material on  a  cot.
Two other recruits shared the room with him. Davin grinned tiredly
and introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Davin Felth."
   The  first man shook his hand firmly. "Geoff f Tuhns.'' He took
a  quick  look  around the corner and held out a  bag  of  greasy-
looking food. "Want a bite?"
   Davin  glanced  in  the  bag and felt his  stomach  flip.  "No,
thanks."
   Tall, big-boned, and sporting a head of flaming red hair, Geoff
did  not  look as if he could ever fit inside stormtrooper  armor.
Looking  once  more  around the corner, he sighed  and  stuffed  a
handful  of  food  in his mouth. "If you brought any  food,  you'd
better  eat  it now. I managed to hide this from them,"  he  said,
"but  they threatened punishment if they caught me with  any  more
food."
   "Mychael  Ologat," said the second man. "What do you  think  of
all this?" As small as Geoff was tall, Mychael looked as though he
could   fit  in  Davin's  duffel  bag;  but  his  muscles  rippled
underneath his taut skin.
   Davin  was  still shell-shocked from the reception getting  off
the Gamma-class shuttle. They hadn't been on the military training
planet  for  more than an hour, but with all the supplies  he  had
been  issued and the amount of ground they had covered, at Davin's
normal  pace  it  would have taken over a week to get  these  same
things  done. He shook his head. "They told me the military  would
change my life, but this is- crazy. I expected to get some time to
look around."
   "Don't count on it," said Geoff, speaking around a mouthful  of
food.  "We've been here since yesterday, and from what I've heard,
this is only the welcoming committee. The really tough stuff comes
later."
   Mychael's  eyes  grew wide. He stood facing the  door,  and  he
managed to blurt out, "Uh-oh - here comes trouble."
   Geoff  dropped  the  bag  of munchies  and  tried  to  kick  it
underneath his bed, but he slipped and the bag slid to the  center
of the room.
   Davin turned to see one of the largest men he had ever seen  in
his  life  standing  just outside the door.  Dressed  in  antigrav
shoes,  black shorts, a white skin-shirt, and wearing the  ominous
white  helmet of an Imperial stormtrooper, the man looked  like  a
massive  pillar. He pointed at the bag of food. His  voice  had  a
tinny sound as it came over the speakers implanted in the side  of
the battle helmet.
   "Your  caloric intake is strictly regulated - whose  contraband
food is that?"
   Davin heard Geoff gulp; from what he'd said, he couldn't afford
to get caught. But no one had told him it was contraband! He spoke
up. "It's mine."
   The stormtrooper turned to face Davin. "You are new here."
   "That's right."
   "The  correct response is 'yes, sir.' You will learn -  or  you
will  fail. Consider that your only warning." He smashed  the  bag
with  his  foot, then turned to include the other two.  "You  sand
slime have two minutes to change into your physical training  gear
and get out here with the rest of your squad-or your butt is mine.
Now move!"
   The  three  Imperial  recruits scrambled  over  each  other  as
clothing flew across the room.
   "Thanks,  Davin,"  Geoff  gasped out as  he  struggled  into  a
coverall.
   Davin  could only grunt as he hopped on one foot; he  attempted
to  pull on thigh-high running boots. Despite the hectic pace, the
next two minutes were Davin's last chance to relax during the  six
months of training.
   
   Fifteen   pounds  lighter  but  immeasurably  stronger,   Davin
adjusted  to  the breakneck training routine. The  recruits  spent
less  than five hours a night in their room, falling exhausted  to
sleep  after day upon day of relentless training: physical fitness
runs,  daily expeditions via suborbital transport to the  southern
ice  fields for winter training, a week-long expedition to the bar
ren  Forgofshar  Desert for survival training, a three-day  battle
against nature in the equatorial rain forest . . . Davin soon lost
track of the days.
   He and his roommates soon learned to get up before their "wake-
up  call"  came  in the morning, when their Imperial  stormtrooper
sergeant  would kick open their door and blast his sonic  whistle.
Davin  would wake up a good half hour before reveille. He and  the
others  would  scurry  about the small  dorm  room,  cleaning  and
dressing,  only to hop beneath their sheets for the  early-morning
wake-up  ritual-they had seen what happened to the other  recruits
when they were caught out of their bunks before reveille.
   Running  out  into the hallway, Davin would snap to  attention,
waiting  to  hear what the expedition of the day would entail.  He
never knew where he might be sent.
   It  was  the  morning Davin was in place in the hallway  nearly
thirty  seconds before the others that changed his life. It didn't
start out with a fanfare, simply: "Davin, drive your butt over  to
the  AT-AT  detachment at the end of the hall.  The  rest  of  you
sandworms fall in for inspection!"
   As  the rest of his squad stood at attention, Geoff punched him
in  the  side and whispered, "Good luck, hotshot - we're going  to
miss you!"
   Davin  didn't have time to answer, as the Imperial  trooper  in
charge  of the AT-AT detachment was already yelling for  Davin  to
hurry up. "Twenty more seconds and we'll drop you off in a reactor
core!"
   Davin  joined the group of recruits at the end of the hall;  he
recognized several of his classmates as those who had consistently
finished  near  the  top  of the class with  him.  They  exchanged
glances  with one another, but they were much too sharp  to  speak
and bring down the wrath of their drill instructor.
   Lining up, they were marched out of the dorm area to the parade
field.  Glass  and syngranite buildings soared above their  heads;
the  parade field was surrounded by ultramodern buildings.  Dozens
of  robot  observer eyes hovered overhead, keeping watch over  the
military  base. Situated in the middle of the circle of  classroom
buildings, a sleek executive transport ship squatted on the grass,
its  door open for boarding. The recruits were hurried in  as  the
all-clear signal alerted the pilot for takeoff.
   As  Davin settled into his seat, a holo appeared in the  middle
of  the  aisle.  Tall and gaunt with sunken eyes, the  holographic
image  of  the  man was dressed in the tight black  uniform  of  a
ground commander. The image spoke with forcefulness.
   "I  am  Colonel Veers, commander of the Emperor's AT-AT forces.
You  trooper  candidates have been selected for  your  ability  to
learn  quickly and put the requirements of the mission  over  your
personal needs. No matter how superior our space forces may be, it
is  the  brilliance of the ground troops, ferreting out the  enemy
from  their  dug-in encampments, that will win this conflict.  The
ground forces are the true backbone needed for a total victory-and
you  have been selected to man the flagship of the ground  troops:
the All Terrain Armored Transport, the AT-AT!"
   Colonel  Veers's  image  was replaced by  a  four-legged  metal
behemoth,  lumbering  across rugged  terrain.  It  moved  in  mere
seconds  distances that would have taken men on foot  an  hour  to
traverse.  Twin  blaster  cannons  fired  laser  pulses  from  the
vehicle's  metallic head; two uniformed crewmen could be  seen  in
the  command  module  in the AT-AT's head.  The  recruits  in  the
executive transport drew in their breath in a collective  gasp  at
the sight.
   Colonel Veers's voice continued. "You will undergo six weeks of
intensive training in the virtual reality simulators before  being
allowed  in  the  AT-AT  even  as an observer.  If  you  pass  the
qualifying phase of the test, you will be allowed to accompany the
AT-AT  in  one of my'combat battalions. Good luck to you all,  but
take  a  good  look around you-fewer than one person in  ten  will
successfully complete this arduous training." He scanned the  room
as  though he could look into each recruit's face. Davin sat rigid
in  his  seat  and  tried to meet the holo's eye,  but  the  image
dissolved from view.
   A  murmur ran through the ship. The recruits leaned over  their
seats  and  whispered excitedly to one another. The  man  next  to
Davin  turned, his face flushed. "An AT-AT! Can you believe  we've
been picked for the chance to command one of them?"
   The  image  of the monstrous vehicle stepping across the  rocky
terrain  still burned in Davin's mind. Through all of his training
experiences, nothing had sparked the fire in him as had the  sight
of  the  AT-AT. It was almost as if his destiny had been  unfolded
right inside the sleek executive transport.
   "Yeah,"  whispered Davin, "and I'm going to make sure  I'm  not
one of those nine recruits who washes out."
   
   The   AT-AT   control  room  seemed  large  to   Davin   Felth.
Multicolored  touch-sensitive  controls  covered  the  walls   and
ceiling; the rectangular viewport at the front of the control room
was  as  tall as Davin. Two swivel chairs sat at the front of  the
viewport,  allowing  the  pilot and  copilot  access  to  all  the
controls, yet giving them a spectacular view of below. They were a
good  five  hundred meters above the ground in the  AT-AT  control
"head," docked at the training base.
   Davin felt a shortness of breath, as if he had walked into some
sacrosanct  place;  but it was more than that. He  slowly  stepped
forward  and  ran a hand over the right-hand seat.  He  felt  rich
dewback leather - only the best for Colonel Veers's recruits!
   "Do you like it?"
   The  voice startled Davin, and the past months of training made
him cringe at the blast he knew was to come. "Yes, sir."
   The  instructor joined Davin and spoke quietly, as  if  not  to
disturb Davin's sense of awe. "I don't think I'll ever get used to
the  feeling I get when I climb aboard." He glanced at Davin. "And
that's  one  of the attributes we look for in our recruits,  Davin
Felth. If they do not respect the AT-AT, then they approach  their
assignment as just another duty. They might as well stay in  their
virtual  reality chamber, playing like children. We only want  the
best  to  pilot the AT-AT, because when something goes wrong  that
you can't fix by VR, then it's the best who survive."
   He  reached up and ran his fingers over an array of  lights.  A
low  sound  thrummed through the floor as the instruments  powered
up.  The  instructor  swung the chair around and  flicked  at  the
lights in front of him. "Do you want to take her out?"
   "Yes,  sir!" said Davin. He eagerly climbed into the  copilot's
seat  and  waited for instructions. When none came, he  remembered
the  lessons  he had been taught in the VR simulator, and  quickly
helped the instructor with the checklist. Within minutes they were
ready to ease the AT-AT out of the docking bay.
   Davin  watched  the screens inlaid above the viewport;  he  saw
images  broadcast  from the docking area.of  the  AT-AT  from  all
different  angles.  In  the  seat next to  Davin,  the  instructor
effortlessly ran through the sequence to back the AT-AT away  from
its  berth.  Although  the  AT-AT  was  completely  controlled  by
artificial intelligence, Davin appreciated for the first time  the
enormity of the task of running a machine that held nearly as many
moving parts as the human body. The human presence on board served
as a foolproof backup.
   "Let's  take  her up into the hills," said the  instructor.  "I
want  to run through some target practice. I'll let Base know  our
call sign is Landkiller One."
   The  view  outside of the viewport raced across the  molecular-
thick  window  as  the  AT-AT lumbered away from  the  base.  They
quickly left behind the syngranite buildings and roads and  turned
into the rugged hillside.
   The  ride was smooth. The AT-AT stepped across chasms  so  deep
Davin  couldn't see the bottom. They climbed the ridge and dropped
down  to  the  valley  on  the other side; boulders  littered  the
hillside.  They  were in the middle of a barren  wasteland.  Sheer
rock  rose up on one side of them, and in the distance, Davin  saw
red  and silver rock formations jutting into the air, looking like
a  forest of multicolored needles. Davin glanced at the clock-they
had  only left the base ten minutes before, but already they  were
out in the wilderness.
   Little by little the instructor allowed Davin to take over  the
AT-AT controls. Piloting the AT-AT was just like using the virtual
reality  simulator, but Davin knew that any misjudgment  would  be
disastrous.  Davin devoted his entire attention to monitoring  the
myriad instruments.
   "You're  pretty  good  at this," said the  instructor  after  a
while. "Not many recruits are as comfortable as you."
   "Thanks," said Davin, not breaking his concentration.
   "Keep  at this heading," said the instructor, pushing  up  from
his  seat.  "I want to check the weapons cache. We're coming  upon
the target range and the terrain doesn't change any from here."
   "Yes, sir."
   "Just call out if anything goes wrong; I'll be right back.  But
don't leave the controls-no matter what happens."
   "Yes, sir." Davin tried to keep his excitement in check. The AT-
AT  almost functioned on its own, but Davin still felt heady being
in  command, alone in the command center. Step by monstrous  step,
the AT-AT lumbered across the barren terrain. Looking out over the
rugged land, Davin could imagine himself commanding a fleet of AT-
AT's, massing against the Rebels-
   Davin caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. A
dark speck, then suddenly three more, swooped down out of the sky.
They headed straight for the AT-AT.
   Davin glanced at his radar screen-nothing showed up. He punched
up  his scanning instruments and got the same response: nothing at
all in the EM, gravitational, and neutrino spectrums.
   Davin  frowned and called out to his instructor,  "I've  got  a
visual on some fighter craft heading this way, but they don't show
up on scanners. They're closing fast."
   Davin  didn't get an answer from his instructor, still back  in
the  weapons  cache.  The only sound Davin  heard  was  the  muted
rumbling of the AT-AT's power system, and die slight jarring  that
came over the electronically cushioned ride.
   Davin turned in his seat. "Sir? Are you there?" The door to the
weapons cache was sealed; Davin turned back to the front. The four
fighter  craft  grew  closer.  He  slapped  at  the  intercom  and
broadcasted throughout the AT-AT. "Sergeant!" Still no answer.
   The  four  ships  split off in two pairs, each  vessel  turning
sideways  as  they  came directly for the AT-AT  control  chamber.
Bright  pops of blaster cannon erupted from the fighters  as  they
fired upon Davin's AT-AT.
   "Hey!"  Davin felt anger and fear surge through him. "Sergeant,
we're  being  attacked!"  The vessels thundered  past  the  AT-AT,
causing  the  giant war machine to sway slightly in the  fighter's
turbulence.  "What's going on? Are we in the target area  or  some
thing?"
   Still  not getting a reply, Davin nearly unbuckled to  go  look
for  the AT-AT instructor. What if something had happened  to  the
man? The instructor would know what to do. This was crazy!
   But when Davin saw the fighter craft swoop up again in front of
him,  he sat frozen in his seat. The four fighters were coming  in
for  another  strafing run. Davin forced himself to  grab  at  the
communicator.  He flicked to the AT-AT Base frequency.  "Distress,
Distress  -this  is Landkiller One! Attention, Base,  we're  under
attack.  There  must  be  some  kind  of  mistake.  I  say  again,
Distress!"
   Only  the sound of white noise came over the speaker; even  the
emergency holo did not function.
   Bright  pinpoints of light once again erupted from the head  of
the attacking fighter craft. Davin tensed himself as the AT-AT was
rocked with the impact of a blaster cannon. A shrill alarm blasted
above  his head as the acrid smell of oily smoke rolled throughout
the  control  room.  "Sergeant-help me!"  The  warbling  sound  of
another alarm pierced the air; synthetic voices announcing damage-
control procedures came from the rear of the control room.  Twenty
diings seemed to happen at once.
   Throughout  all the confusion, Davin spotted the  four  fighter
craft rolling up from upon high and diving down to make another  .
. . and perhaps their last . . . strafing run.
   Davin   grew  suddenly  angry  at  all  that  had  gone  wrong.
Throughout  his short career as an Imperial military man,  he  had
been   drilled  that  the  only  way  to  survive  was  to  follow
procedures. But here was a situation that had not been covered  in
any  textbook or testing sequence! He was out on his own,  and  as
crazy  as it seemed, somehow the Rebels must have found their  way
to  the  Imperial  military training planet.  How  else  could  he
explain the fighter vessels not showing up on radar?
   Davin  pushed  all  concern  aside and  armed  the  AT-AT  fire
controls.  If he was going to be shot at, he wasn't  going  to  go
down without a fight. The automated fire-control system was of  no
use  since the enemy craft did not show up on any of his  scanning
instruments.
   Slaving  the  blaster cannon controls to  follow  his  line  of
sight,  he  let  loose a salvo of high-energy  laser  blasts.  The
bundles  of  energy  shot past the attacking ships.  Although  his
shots missed the fighter craft, the attacking ships split up.  Had
they not expected him to fight back?
   The  fighters flew past him, again coming so close that the AT-
AT  shuddered  because of the passing crafts'  shock  Wave.  Davin
slapped  at the emergency beacon, sending out a continuous  squawk
over the airwaves. At the same time, he halted the AT-AT's forward
motion, slaving the AT-AT's entire computer resources to fight the
incoming attackers.
   Since  he  had  to  rely  on  his  eyesight  and  none  of  the
instruments during die battle, Davin decided to put himself at the
greatest advantage. He ordered the AT-AT to kneel, dropping as low
to  the  ground as possible. Slowly, with jerky motions, the  huge
behemoth staggered to the ground.
   Davin  brought the war machine's head down flat with  the  body
until  there remained no part of the AT-AT that the fighters could
fly under. By the time the four fighter craft came back around for
another attack, Davin's AT-AT lay hunkered on the ground.
   The  fighters  grouped  together for a high-angle  dive-bombing
run.  As they approached, Davin knew they could not fly under  the
AT-AT.
   Davin  forced  them to make a suicide attempt  on  the  control
chamber.
   Davin  jammed his finger down on the firing control. The  AT-AT
rocked  with the recoil from the laser cannon. An explosion  burst
across  the screen as he hit two of the fighters; a third  fighter
tried  to steer away from the flying debris, but his wing  clipped
the ground and cartwheeled into a rocky cliff.
   The  remaining  fighter  bore down on  him.  He  flew  in  low,
wobbling  in  the hot layer of turbulent desert air. Davin  waited
until  the  fighter was nearly upon him before firing.  The  craft
kept  close to the ground, as if expecting Davin's AT-AT  to  rise
and start shooting.
   Seconds  later, the last fighter plowed into a rock  formation,
erupting  with a violent burst. Red-orange flames shot  out,  then
quickly disappeared from view.
   Davin sat in the sudden quiet. Moments ago the control room had
been  filled  with  a cacophony of alarms and the  sight  of  four
fighter  craft attacking the AT-AT. But now, there  was  only  the
distant throb of the onboard power plant.
   Davin felt drained, too tired even to call Base and report what
had  happened. But he knew that he must, for if these  four  Rebel
craft had somehow managed to evade the Imperial defenses, then  no
telling  how  many of the dangerous vessels would  be  lurking  in
orbit.
   He picked up the communicator when he heard a sound behind him.
Davin  turned.  "Sergeant?"  In  the  shock  of  battle,  he   had
completely forgotten about his instructor being lost in the sealed
weapons cache.
   His  instructor  stood  with his hands on  his  hips,  grinning
wolfishly.  "Good job, Recruit Felth. You've got a  command  party
landing on the AT-AT command module, so open up the top hatch."
   "Yes,  sir." Dazed and confused, Davin did as instructed.  Once
outside, he searched for the wreckage of the fighters that  should
have  covered  the  landscape . . . but  he  was  stunned  to  see
nothing.
   "You're  the  first  recruit to bring down all  four  fighters,
Davin  Felth.  This AT-AT was specially designed to simulate  that
battle-it  was all projected via virtual reality into the  control
head." It was almost too much for Davin to comprehend.
   Recovering  from  the fact that he had not been  in  an  actual
battle,  Davin  stood with his instructor on top  of  the  AT-AT's
sprawling metallic head. Davin squinted in the sunlight;  the  dry
desert air smelled enthralling to him after the stuffiness of  the
damaged control room. A dot appeared above them, dilating in  size
until  Davin  could  make out the bottom of  an  Imperial  command
scout.  Davin and his instructor stepped back. After  the  command
scout  landed,  a  door  hissed open and a ramp  extended  to  the
surface.
   Two  white-armored Imperial stormtroopers marched out and stood
at  rigid attention on either side of the opening. Davin gasped as
he  recognized  the man emerging from the ship.  "Colonel  Veers!"
Davin snapped to attention and saluted.
   Veers strode up and returned the salute. He looked Davin up and
down. "Recruit Felth, is it?" "Yes, sir," stammered Davin.
   "This  kneeling maneuver with the AT-AT - how did you  come  up
with that idea, recruit?"
   Davin opened his mouth but he was at a loss for words.
   "Well," growled Veers. "Out with it, recruit!"
   "I - I don't know, sir. It just seemed the logical thing to do.
It was the only way to keep the fighters from finishing us off, by
not allowing them underneath the AT-AT."
   Veers  sounded  strangely  cold.  "And  what  would  that   do,
recruit?"
   Davin shrugged, thrown by Veers's line of questioning. Why,  he
had fought off the fighters, hadn't he? And won! "Well-"
   "Address   the  colonel  as  sir!"  corrected  his  instructor,
embarrassed to be speaking in front of Veers.
   "Thank  you, Sergeant," said Veers. The colonel drew  close  to
Davin  and  steered him away from the others. When they were  some
distance  from  the  instructor and  Imperial  stormtroopers,  the
colonel  spoke softly. "Now continue, recruit. What is so  special
about not allowing the fighters access to the AT-AT underbelly?"
   Davin  stiffened.  "I  lost  track  of  them  when  they   flew
underneath.  Once  the fighters were under the AT-AT,  they  could
have done just about anything they wanted."
   Veers seemed about to lose his patience. "Such as-?"
   Davin  felt  his  face grow warm as he scrambled  to  think  of
something, anything to appease the colonel. "Such as ... tying  up
the  AT-AT  legs,  sir," Davin blurted out. "All they  needed  was
some cable and they could have easily tripped the AT-AT."
   A  strange  look came over Colonel Veers. The thin  man  smiled
tightly  and  looked Davin over. "Very well. Thank  you,  recruit.
That's  very enlightening." He raised a finger to his lips.  "Keep
this   classified   until  my  battle  staff   can   analyze   the
implications, understand?"
   "Yes, sir!"
   Veers  turned  to go. Raising his voice, he nodded  at  Davin's
instructor  as he spoke. "Have Recruit Felth report to Assignments
when   he  returns.  A  man  of  his  caliber  deserves  immediate
recognition.  My  staff  will have an  assignment  worthy  of  his
talents ready when he returns."
   "Yes, sir," said the instructor.
   As an afterthought, Veers raised a finger. "And impound all the
datacubes  on  this  simulation. Have  them  sent  to  my  command
headquarters. Understood?"
   "Yes, Colonel."
   "And  quickly. I have been dispatched for temporary duty as  an
advisor  to the Emperor's new Death Star. I want this accomplished
before I leave."
   When  the  scout ship disappeared from view, Davin's instructor
clapped  him  on  the  shoulder. "I don't know  how  you  did  it,
recruit,  but I have a feeling you've been marked for a  one-in-a-
million career!"
   
   The  familiar  background  hum of the starship  didn't  comfort
Davin  Felth.  The sharp oil-on-metal smell, harsh  lighting,  and
polished decks of the huge troop transport should have made  Davin
feel  right at home- but ever since receiving the hush-hush orders
from   Colonel  Veers's  command  section,  he  had  been  totally
confused.
   No  one  questioned the sealed orders when he reported  to  the
Imperial troop transport, and no one explained exactly what he was
supposed  to do. All he knew was that now, two hundred light-years
from  Carida,  he  was assigned to a detachment of storm-troopers,
setting off for some forsaken planet.
   Stormtroopers!
   He  drew in a breath and tried to explain for the third time to
the  man  staring  at papers on the desk, ignoring  him.  "Captain
Terrik, you just don't understand. I've spent the last day  trying
to find out what is going on, but no one has the authority to help
me. I was told personally by Colonel Veers that I would receive an
assignment worthy of my talents. I'm an AT-AT operator, not a  ...
a foot soldier!"
   The  officer's  smoothly shaven head snapped up so  that  Davin
could  see the man's eyes. Deep, penetrating, and utterly  without
fear,  Captain Terrik bored his gaze into Davin like a lightsaber.
"Stormtroopers are not foot soldiers!" He placed his hands on  his
desk  and stood, barely holding back his trembling. "If it was  up
to  me,  you  Jawa slime, I'd have spaced you when  we  first  hit
vacuum. I'm well aware of Colonel Veers's orders, and we're  going
to follow his directions to the micron!"
   "Very well," said Davin, somewhat relieved. He straightened and
looked  smartly  around  the  cabin. Headquarters  for  the  small
detachment  of  twenty Stormtroopers on board  the  ship,  Captain
Terrik's  cabin  was  decorated with  battle  streamers,  plaques,
paintings of battles against the Rebels, and a holo of Lord Vader.
"You  will  show me to my correct assignment, then." He smiled  at
the captain. Terrik trembled more visibly and turned redder by the
second.
   "Stand  at attention!" growled Captain Terrik. "Listen up,  you
mynock  bait!  It  took me all day to confirm  those  orders,  and
Emperor only knows why Colonel Veers wants this. But you belong to
me  now, Felth! We've got another month of maneuvers before we get
to  Tatooine,  and  I intend to use that time  whipping  you  into
shape."
   "Tatooine?"  said Davin, his face growing white. "What's  that?
There must be some kind of mistake."
   "Oh,  no."  Captain  Terrik grinned  wolfishly.  He  picked  up
Davin's  orders  lying on his desk and shook  them  under  Davin's
nose.  "My  detachment of storm-troopers is relieving the  Thirty-
seventh  Detachment  that  has been stationed  at  Mos  Eisley  on
Tatooine. We'll be assigned to the governor, but we're not in  his
chain  of command-my superior is in the next sector, half a light-
year  away. In case you haven't noticed, we're not going  directly
to  Tatooine, so I'll have a month to break in a young Jawa  slime
like  you, turn you into a real stormtrooper. You'll learn  pretty
quick  what  it's like to be a foot soldier." Captain Terrik  spat
the  words  out  of  his mouth and grinned  at  Davin.  "Any  more
questions, golden boy?"
   Davin  felt what hope he had left seep out of him. Standing  at
rigid  attention just microns in front of Captain  Terrik's  face,
Davin  knew what it was like to jump from a crashing ship  into  a
pit of burning fuel.
   
   Davin  Felth was in the best shape of his life when he prepared
to  land  on  Tatooine.  But  getting there  on  board  the  troop
transport the past month had been pure hell.
   The  twenty Stormtroopers in the detachment had all pitched  in
in  some  way or another, "helping" Davin get up to speed  in  the
rigorous   training.   Their   normal   three-month   period    of
disciplining, schooling, and physical fitness was compressed  into
a  never-ending  nightmare for Davin. The stormtroopers  were  not
about  to  allow  a mere AT-AT operator, although  a  graduate  of
Carida  Basic Military Training, into their esteemed ranks without
passing through a minimum of ritual.
   Davin  did not have the time to be homesick or lonely, although
his  thoughts  sometimes  drifted to his  two  roommates  back  at
Carida. He wondered where they had been assigned.
   Ten   hours   before  landfall,  Davin  marched   up   to   the
quartermaster  and  collected  his  desert  gear:  heat-reflective
armor,   comlink,  filtermask,  blaster  rifle,  blaster   pistol,
temperature-control body glove, utility belt, energy  source,  and
concussion grenade launcher. He staggered to his cabin  under  the
load of equipment
   Davin  donned his helmet with automatic polarized lenses. Fully
outfitted in the desert-terrain gear, he clunked to the mirror  in
his  small cabin and looked himself over. Like it or not,  he  was
finally a storm-trooper.
   He  used  his  chin  to click on his chinmike,  activating  the
comlink. He tapped into stormtrooper radio traffic for the  entire
troop  ship:  "Access to AT-AT bay now open."  "Cold  assault  and
aquatic  assault detachments reporting still in stasis." "Tatooine
landing for refurbishment ready when ready."
   A series of voices checked in. Davin thought he recognized some
of the stormtroopers' voices.
   There  was a long pause of silence. Sounding irritated, Captain
Terrik's voice came over the comlink. "Ten twenty-three?  Are  you
up and ready?"
   It  took  Davin a full two heartbeats to realize  that  Captain
Terrik was speaking to him.
   "Ten twenty-three ready, sir."
   "Report  to  the  landing craft, ten twenty-three.  Prepare  to
disembark. Move it!"
   "Yes, sir." His name stripped away, Davin had been assigned the
emotionless    number   1023   as   part   of   his   stormtrooper
indoctrination. Their zealous devotion to duty demanded denial  of
the  individual,  pledging their allegiance only to  the  Emperor.
Unwilling  to make that commitment, Davin turned his  thoughts  to
his family, his friends, as the training attempted to squeeze away
his memories. His fellow stormtroopers reveled in the mystery that
surrounded their existence, their lack of identity. With no one to
turn to or confide in, Davin felt miserable.
   It  only took a moment to gather up his meager belongings.  The
clothes he had taken with him from home seemed useless now, but he
kept  them  as a reminder of the life he used to have. He  stuffed
them  in  a  sand-colored duffel bag and  carried  them  with  his
weapons  down  to the landing craft. He kept to the  side  of  the
corridor as he walked, trying to keep out of people's way. A group
of naval troopers double-timed around the corner.
   The  corridor  widened  to the immense  landing  bay.  Stepping
inside,  he felt as if he were outdoors. Worker droids  ran  along
scaffolding that reached higher than an AT-AT; the bay was so wide
that  he  had trouble seeing to the opposite side. He set off  for
the landing craft, halfway across the immense bay, to join the con
tingent of stormtroopers.
   "Ten twenty-three?"
   Davin  swung his gear down and faced Captain Terrik.  "Present,
sir."
   "You're  assigned to scout unit Zeta. Something came up.  We're
delaying  reporting  to the garrison, so pile  your  gear  in  the
storage compartment with the rest of the detachment."
   "Yes, sir."
   Davin  lined  up and waited for Captain Terrik  to  finish  his
paperwork.  Accepting a salute from the officer on  deck,  Captain
Terrik  faced  the waiting storm-troopers. A warbling  sound  came
over  Davin's comlink, informing him that Captain Terrik was going
to   a   secure   communications  mode,  using   frequency-jumping
techniques  known  only  to the stormtroopers'  sensors.  "Quickly
now-change  of  orders. We're deploying to the surface,  bypassing
Mos Eisley to participate in a search-and-destroy mission."
   Someone asked, "What are we searching for, sir?"
   "An escape pod. It jettisoned from a Corellian Corvette evading
Lord Vader's Star Destroyer and landed somewhere on Tatooine."
   Breaking military silence, a gasp went up over the secure link.
"Lord Vader - here?"
   "That's right," said Captain Terrik grimly. "Now double-time on
board the landing craft!"
   Although Davin was the last to board the spacecraft, he was set
into  his  station  before  all the other  storm-troopers  in  his
detachment. Lord Vader! The very thought of the Dark Lord being so
close  to  the  backwater planet sent a chill  through  Davin.  He
hadn't  felt this strange since he had learned through  the  grape
vine   that  Colonel  Veers  had  never  even  mentioned   Davin's
"kneeling"  defense for the AT-AT to his superiors. It was  almost
as  if Colonel Veers didn't want anyone to know of the fatal  flaw
in the giant walker's design.
   The  stormtroopers sat mute as they left the  troop  transport,
their  home for the past month. Visual images of Tatooine  flashed
inside  their  helmets, transmitted from the intelligence  network
orbiting Tatooine. Computer-generated graphics pinpointed the most
likely landing place of the small escape pod.
   As   part   of   scout  unit  Zeta,  Davin  was   tasked   with
reconnoitering the rocky highlands. He gripped his  blaster  rifle
and  stole  a  glance  at  the rest of the storm-troopers  waiting
patiently  in two rows beside him. Everyone studied the data  dump
from  the mother ship. He wondered how the others could remain  so
calm  when  they were about to embark on a mission. And  for  Lord
Vader at that! He just wondered why the pod was so important.
   The  scouting  craft landed with a bump. The side yawned  open,
spilling in hot air and brilliant sunshine. Davin pushed  out  and
joined  the other stormtroopers, who quickly lined up in front  of
Captain  Terrik  No one spoke over the comlink until  Davin  heard
Captain Terrik's voice.
   "Lord  Vader's  Star Destroyer is mapping  the  planet  with  a
sensor  scan, trying to locate the escape pod. It must have buried
itself  on  landing, or was hidden by some Rebel sympathizers.  We
have  a  preliminary  position on the  pod  from  just  before  it
impacted,  so we'll spread out and sift through all  the  sand  on
this planet if necessary to find it."
   "Why is the pod so important, sir?" Davin surprised himself  by
blurting out the question; he only hoped that Captain Terrik would
be so busy that he wouldn't yell at him.
   "It's carrying classified material, and that's all you need  to
know.  The point is that we need to find it ... or we'll  have  to
explain to Lord Vader why a detachment of the Emperor's Own failed
in their duty. Got it?"
   "Yes, sir!"
   "Then  listen  up.  Alvien  and Drax  squads,  cover  the  next
quadrant. Zeta squad, come with me. Headquarters at Mos Eisley has
grav-lifted in three dewbacks to aid in the search-they can  cover
more territory than we can and will lead us to the pod if they get
a scent. Start a circular search pattern, move."
   The   desert  terrain  was  featureless,  ever-shifting.  Davin
crunched  his way through the sand, not sure what he  was  looking
for,  but knowing that some kind of evidence from the escape pod's
landing  had  to be present. He climbed a small hill.  The  desert
spread  out in every direction. They might as well have  been  the
only ones on the planet.
   Seeing a rise in the sand below him, he scooted down the  ridge
and  poked his blaster into the ground. He struck something  hard!
He  clicked  on  the  comlink. "Captain Terrik,  ten  twenty-three
reporting. I think I found the pod."
   "Are you sure?"
   "Yes,  sir."  Davin  excitedly dug into  the  ground  with  his
blaster butt . . . only to unearth a large rock.
   Captain  Terrik appeared over the ridge just as Davin made  his
discovery. "Ten twenty-three, what are you doing!"
   "Sorry,  sir." Discouraged, he trudged back up the  small  hill
and joined the rest of his squad continuing the search.
   After arriving from Mos Eisley, a giant lizardlike dewback  was
assigned  to  each squad. Davin was not given the  opportunity  to
ride  the  monstrous reptilian beast, but that  suited  him  fine.
Every step the scaly animal took reverberated in the sand.
   The  search  seemed to last forever. Davin lost  count  of  the
breaks he took, and per Imperial orders, they were forced to  stay
in  their  suits and drink the distilled water flown in  from  Mos
Eisley with the dewback.
   Setting  out  to  cover  another part of  the  quadrant,  Davin
spotted a glint out of the corner of his eye. There . . . whatever
it was just caught the light from Tatooine's second sun.
   He  almost cried out, but clamped his mouth shut. Clutching his
blaster,  he  bounded for the glint of light. Slowly,  the  object
took  shape. Half-buried in the sand, the object looked  scorched.
As he drew near, he made out the faint red and blue markings of an
escape pod.
   There was no doubt in his mind now. "Captain Terrik, ten twenty-
three reporting. I've found the escape pod!"
   "If this is another one of your daydreams, ten twenty-three-!''
   "I'm  positive, sir. It may not be what we're looking for,  but
it has Imperial markings."
   Minutes  later  Captain Terrik joined Davin by  the  object.  A
stormtrooper riding a dewback appeared over the crest of  a  rise,
waiting for a signal that it was the right pod.
   Captain Terrik surveyed the site. "Someone was in the pod.  The
tracks go off in this direction."
   Davin fished a mechanism from inside the escape pod. There  was
only  one thing that used such a device-an R2 unit. He held it  up
so all could see. "Look, sir, droids!"
   "All  right.  Form up. I'll inform Lord Vader  the  pod  wasn't
destroyed. Now we've really got to move."
   
   "Ten  twenty-three reporting. They're not in  the  repair  bay,
sir,"  said Davin Felth. He stood in the middle of a bay  full  of
droids,  deep in the bowels of a Jawa sand-crawler. Cables drooped
across the ceiling; tables with disassembled equipment were strewn
across the floor.
   "You've all searched the entire sandcrawler?"
   "Affirmative,"  answered each stormtrooper, calling  off  their
trooper numbers one by one.
   "Form up outside."
   Davin stepped across a Roche J9 worker droid lying on the metal
floor. Two Jawas stood just outside of the repair bay and muttered
between  themselves, obviously displeased that  the  stormtroopers
would  search  their ship. Davin scanned the room  one  last  time
before he left and counted off an Arakyd BT-16 perimeter droid,  a
demolition droid, an R4 agromech droid, a WED 15 treadwell  droid,
and  an  EG-6 power droid-but there was no R2, or even a  protocol
unit that was often paired with an R2 droid.
   A  gaggle of Jawas followed him outside the cruiser. All  Davin
could see of the little aliens were their bright eyes, looking out
of  their flowing hooded brown robes. The rest of Zeta squad stood
waiting for him, their blaster rifles held loosely by their sides.
The  storm-troopers kept their backs to one another, watching  all
sides for any possible attack.
   As   he  joined  the  squad,  Davin  overheard  Captain  Terrik
conversing with the head Jawa on the officer's suit speaker.  "You
are certain that the droids were sold to a moisture farmer at your
last stop?" After a series of high-pitched chatters came from  the
Jawa,  Captain Terrik turned and waved his arm back to Zeta squad;
he  switched to the secure stormtrooper frequency. "Form  up  with
the rest of the detachment."
   Zeta  squad  double-timed  in  the  sand  away  from  the  Jawa
sandcrawler to join the remainder of the storm-troopers. They kept
guard  over  the  sandcrawler on a rise just to the  south.  Three
enormous  hairy banthas airlifted in from somewhere, two converted
GoCorp  Arunskin 32 cargo skiffs, and a Ubrikkian HAVr A9 floating
fortress  with two heavy blaster cannons waited on the other  side
of the rise.
   The Jawas yelled and shook their fists at the storm-troopers as
they left. The little brown-robed aliens then scurried around  the
sandcrawler, preparing to continue their journey.
   Captain  Terrik's  voice  came over Davin's  helmet.  "Floating
fortress - fire when Teady upon the Jawa sandcrawler. When  it  is
destroyed,  ride those banthas up to the wreckage and  leave  that
material  we confiscated from the Sand People. We want  people  to
think  the Sand People attacked the sandcrawler. The rest of  you,
load  up  the  cargo skiffs - we will find those  droids  at  that
moisture farmer's."
   The  floating  fortress  immediately wheeled  off  the  ground,
rising  above the ridge in a banking turn. Climbing on  board  the
bulky cargo skiff, Davin saw two bolts of blaster energy burst out
of the floating fortress.
   Over  the  whoops  of joy from the other storm-troopers,  Davin
remained  quiet. His thoughts were on the little  Jawas,  and  how
they were no more.
   
   Davin  lingered behind the rest, staying just far enough behind
the  other  stormtroopers  so that he  didn't  draw  attention  to
himself. Zeta squad raced through the lower levels of the moisture
farmer's  house, overturning tables, ripping doors  off  cabinets,
smashing  metal  lockers  with  their  blaster  rifles  until  the
containers  popped open. One by one the stormtroopers  checked  in
with Captain Terrik: "No sign of the droids, "k;**
   Davin  watched the storm trooper in front, of him kick  over  a
vat  of  oil  before  heading  to the upper  level.  The  moisture
farmer's house was a shambles.
   "Zeta  squad  check in and form up," said Captain  Terrik,  his
words clipped and precise in Davin's helmet.
   "Ten  twenty-three,"  said  Davin.  He  tried  to  control  his
breathing, but the thought of what was going to happen next nearly
overwhelmed his senses. He trotted into the bright Tatooine double-
sunshine  and  stood  at attention with the  rest  of  his  squad.
Captain Terrik stood in front of the moisture farmer and his wife,
just  outside of the house. The moisture farmer's face was  bright
red  with anger; the woman cried, her head down. Davin flicked his
outside  audio  sensor  on  with his  chin  and  listened  to  the
exchange.
   "...  you  men are nothing but criminals! I told you I  haven't
seen  those droids since last night. And look what you've done  to
my house! The governor will pay for this."
   "This   nephew  of  yours,"  said  Captain  Terrik,  his  voice
modulated by the speaker in his battlesuit, "one more time:  Where
did he take the Artoo unit?"
   "Haven't you been listening?" The moisture farmer shook a  fist
in the air. "I don't know - and now I would not tell you even if I
did  know!  You  Imperial thugs are worse  than  I  imagined."  He
stepped up to Captain Terrik's helmeted face and spat; spittle ran
down the officer's helmet.
   Captain Terrik made no attempt to remove the spittle. "Where is
the boy?"
   "I  never did care much for the Rebel movement; but now I  hope
they find every one of you bantha slime and grill your carcasses!"
   The  moisture  farmer turned and put an arm  around  his  wife,
drawing her near. The two turned away, back toward their home.
   Without    emotion,   Captain   Terrik   nodded   toward    the
stormtroopers. His voice came over the secure link. "There's  only
one  place the boy could have taken the droids - into Mos  Eisley,
to  escape offplanet. Zeta squad, load up. Floating fortress, this
house  needs to be left as a reminder of what happens when quarter
is given to Rebels. Fire when ready."
   Turning quickly for the cargo skiff, Davin Felth pushed  aboard
and  kept  his  eyes averted from the blast on the house.  A  sour
taste clawed up his throat. First they executed the Jawas, and now
these  humans. And over what-a couple of lousy droids? What  could
be so important that it deserved executing these people?
   On his home planet, joining the military had seemed all fun and
games, his chest swelling with pride as he had boarded the ship to
transport  him to Carida. But now, this was reality.  People  were
dying, being indiscriminately killed.
   The  cargo skiff lifted off the ground, giving Davin a view  of
the  carnage below. Smoke drifted up from the house. He could  see
the  charred remains of two bodies lying in the scorched sand.  As
the  skiff  wheeled  toward the desert city of Mos  Eisley,  Davin
didn't know what he would do if he was ordered to kill.
   
   Landing  on  the  outskirts of Mos Eisley,  the  storm-troopers
marched off the cargo skiff. They spe'nt hours digging through the
databases   at  the  port  authority,  interrogating  charter-ship
owners,  and searching repair shops before Captain Terrik gave  up
in disgust and ordered a methodical search of the streets.
   The  smells of the rich food, dirty bodies, and fuel  permeated
even  their  battle suits as they gathered around Captain  Terrik.
"All right, listen up," he said. "Alvien squad, set up checkpoints
on  every  road  coming  into  the  city.  You'll  supplement  the
detachment  already  there. Drax and Zeta  squads,  run  a  patrol
through  the  city, check door-to-door for those  droids.  There's
only  one way for those droids and that kid to get offplanet,  and
it's got to be through this hellhole of a city. Move out."
   Davin  joined  the rest of the squad as they double-timed  away
from  the detachment. Mos Eisley yawned open in front of  them,  a
collection of dusty, low-slung brown buildings that looked  as  if
they  had been scattered by a juri-juice addict. Creatures in long
flowing robes moved quietly through the dirt streets; Davin hadn't
seen this many aliens in one place since the galactic Olympics  on
the holovid.
   Every  door  was  sealed tight, supposedly closed  against  the
sand,  but  Davin suspected it was to ensure the  privacy  of  the
unsavory characters he saw stepping back into the shadows.
   They  marched into the heart of the city, passing Lup's general
store, the marketplace, Gap's grill, and the spaceport express.  A
potpourri  of  jabbering sounds and sharp smells  invaded  Davin's
senses,  mixed  together  with the ever-present  sand.  After  his
initial exposure to Tatooine by being dumped in the middle of  the
desert  with his detachment, Davin realized that he really  hadn't
had a chance to sit back and savor this strange new world to which
he  had  been  assigned. But then again, he bitterly  realized  it
might be a long time before he ever got offplanet.
   His  thoughts  were shattered by a scream, then several  shouts
coming  from an old blockhouse. Davin remembered the briefings  on
the  landing craft-several buildings had been originally  designed
as  a  shelter against Tusken Raiders. This certainly looked  like
one of them.
   No one else in Zeta squad seemed to hear the commotion.
   Looking  for  a  chance to get away from the  craziness  for  a
while,  Davin clicked on his comlink. "Ten twenty-three,  checking
out a disturbance at a blockhouse."
   "Permission  granted," said Captain Terrik.  "Ten  forty-seven,
back him up."
   Davin  gripped  his  rifle  and  peeled  off  from  the  squad.
Creatures  in  every form of dress moved aside for Davin  and  his
backup.  A nondescript sign with faint lettering read: Mos  Eisley
Cantina.
   A  2.8-meter-high green insectoid crawled from the  cantina  as
they  arrived. It sported bulbous eyes atop a slender stalk,  with
four legs supporting a slender thorax and abdomen. It chattered at
Davin.
   "I am taking my spice trade elsewhere if I cannot be assured of
my own safety!"
   Davin turned to his backup, 1047. "Sounds like trouble."
   "These  places  don't serve droids," said 1047.  "We're  needed
elsewhere."
   Wanting to keep away from the droid hunt, Davin ignored him and
pushed  on  inside  the  dark cantina. Davin's  solid-state  visor
immediately  compensated for the low light level. He stood  on  an
elevated  entrance-way, just inside the door.  It  looked  like  a
place  where smugglers, bounty hunters, and other low-class  types
would hang out.
   Davin spotted two people in the back, a boy and an old man, get
up from a booth and walk quickly toward a back hallway. He ignored
them and stepped up to the bartender.
   Davin  clicked  on  his outside speaker. "I understand  there's
been some trouble here."
   "Nothing  out of the ordinary," said the bartender, nodding  to
the  rear of his establishment. "Just having a little fun. You can
look around if you like."
   "All right-we'll check it out."
   Davin  kept  a grip on his rifle and walked slowly through  the
cantina.  He  passed two slender human women and a  sharp-smelling
Rodian  standing by the bar; a horned Devaronian nodded curdy  and
stepped, back, out of the way. Reaching the booth where Davin  had
spotted the boy and old man heading for the back hallway, he found
an  athletic-looking  human  who stared  sullenly  at  the  table,
ignoring him.
   Davin  turned  to  1047,  his backup.  "You're  right-  there's
nothing here."
   "Let's join the others."
   Davin  merely  grunted. He was in no hurry to  witness  another
senseless killing. But what else could he do?
   They stepped into the brilliant Tatooine sunlight, leaving  the
shady  cantina behind. Davin started to suggest they continue  the
search for the missing droids on their own instead of joining  the
rest of the detachment, when the rest of Zeta squad marched around
the corner in lockstep, completing their circuit of the perimeter.
   Before Davin could say anything into his helmet microphone,  he
heard  a shrill yell. It sounded like an outraged Jawa! How  could
he  forget the high-pitched chatter from the little creatures that
they had brutally executed?
   Davin instantly crouched into a combat position, pulling up his
rifle.  A long-robed Jawa leaped from a hiding place in the middle
of  some  space wreckage crashed in the middle of the square.  The
Jawa struggled with an oversized blaster, the weapon dwarfing  the
ridiculous-looking creature.
   Finally  aiming the blaster rifle at Zeta squad, the  Jawa  cut
loose with one last shrill yell and squeezed the firing button-
   Nothing  happened. The Jawa howled with anger and surprise.  He
kept  pushing the button. Everything happened so fast  that  Davin
didn't react.
   Or  maybe his instincts kept him from reacting, with all of the
senseless killings he had witnessed . . .
   "Crazy  Jawa," muttered 1047. The stormtrooper pulled  out  his
blaster and flipped off a shot at the Jawa, still struggling  with
the  weapon. The shot's momentum sent the Jawa flying back against
the  wreckage. It slid to the dirt. "One less Jawa slime to bother
us," said 1047 as he holstered his blaster.
   Davin stepped back in shock. What have we become? He had almost
excused   the   Imperial   stormtroopers   for   the   way    they
indiscriminately killed the Jawas in their sandcrawler because  of
this so-called threat to the Emperor. But the moisture farmer, and
now this latest act of violence . . . Davin couldn't reconcile it.
The  only  answer to these actions kept coming up the  same,  time
after time: The Empire was basically evil. And he didn't fit in.
   But I can't resign, he thought. So what can I do?
   
   He  seemed to walk forever in a daze with Zeta squad,  when  he
heard  a  voice  in his helmet speaker. "Trouble  at  Docking  Bay
Ninety-four-we've located the droids! All personnel, converge  and
assist!"
   "Come on, Ten twenty-three!" said 1047. "Follow me!"
   Davin  clutched his blaster rifle and trotted after the  white-
armored  man.  His  time on Tatooine had seemed  like  a  dream-he
didn't  know  how  long  he had been onplanet,  but  he  had  been
surviving off his suit rations and supplements for longer than  he
imagined it would be possible.
   Captain  Terrik's  voice came inside his helmet.  "Capture  the
droids! The Rebels have them-don't let them get away!"
   Sounds  of  laser blasts ricocheted down the narrow streets.  A
crowd  had  gathered outside the docking bay; several peered  over
the crowd and tried to get a glimpse of what was going on.
   1047 switched to his outside speaker: "Move aside- now!"
   Davin  blindly  followed his backup, more confused  than  ever.
Rebels? Why would the Rebel force be so blatant and try to  escape
now?
   Running down the alley, they rounded a corner and came upon the
firefight. A modified light freighter cruiser sat in the middle of
the docking bay, its back hatch open. Davin caught a glimpse of  a
boy  running  up the ramp into the ship. A volley of laser  blasts
peppered the area.
   A score of stormtroopers were scattered around, firing upon the
light  freighter.  The air was filled with the searing  sounds  of
laser blasts.
   Davin was stunned to see that an athletic-looking man held  the
stormtroopers at bay-he fought at twenty-to-one odds! Was this man
one  of  the  mysterious Rebels that dared  to  rise  against  the
Emperor?  It  was the same man Davin had seen at the  cantina!  So
this was the one who had kept two detachments of storm-troopers on
the run!
   Mesmerized by the very thought that so few could accomplish  so
much, Davin felt a rush of solidarity-he felt an empathy with  the
Rebels,  fighting  against  such  overwhelming  odds  .  .  .  and
surviving. He hadn't felt this much emotion since the day he  left
for Carida . . .
   The  noise  and confusion were overwhelming. Smoke sprang  from
stray  laser  blasts that ignited building material. Stormtroopers
shouted conflicting orders.
   Directly  in front of Davin, Captain Terrik knelt on  one  knee
and  took  careful aim at the athletic-looking man who  was  still
holding  off the Emperor's finest. Captain Terrik waited  for  the
precise  moment before slowly squeezing his blaster rifle to  take
out the Rebel-
   Davin  glanced quickly around. No one was behind him . . .  and
more importantly, no one was watching him.
   Without  hesitation,  Davin pulled  up  his  blaster  and  shot
Captain Terrik in the back.
   The officer slumped to the ground, unnoticed by the others.
   The  athletic-looking Rebel scrambled safely up the access ramp
as  it closed, sealing off the starship. An earsplitting wail came
inside  his helmet over the storm-trooper's frequency: "Clear  the
area, the Rebel's lifting off! Clear the area!"
   Defeated, the stormtroopers scrambled back. Anyone left in  the
docking  bay  would  be  irradiated  by  the  starship's  exhaust.
Someone's  voice came over the secure frequency: "Where's  Captain
Terrik?"
   "Leave  him,"  came another voice. "He's dead.  Killed  in  the
crossfire."
   Cursing filled the stormtroopers' airways. Several threw  their
blasters against the wall in disgust.
   But  as Davin pulled back with the rest, a new sense of purpose
swept over him, like a cool wind cutting through the endless heat.
He  felt a kinship with the Rebels and almost wanted to join their
cause.
   But how?
   Maybe he could warn them of the AT-AT's vulnerability. Or maybe
he could work as a "deep plant," passing along vital information .
. .
   A  spy?  Maybe  that was it. He'd have something to  live  for,
something to believe in. He felt heady, as things suddenly fell in
place.
   As  the stormtroopers formed up, Davin knew that he could  help
the Rebels best by staying in the belly of the beast.
   
   
   Soup's Oh: The Pipe Smoker's Tale
   by Jennifer Roberson
   
   Pain/pleasure...  pleasure/pain.  Inseparable.   Indescribable.
Ineluctable.
   -come closer, a little closer-
   Tatooine.  Mos  Eisley. A cesspit planet, a cesspit  spaceport,
offering little to the undiscerning save perhaps the loss of coin,
of  limb, of life, but rich to others in risk, in Chance, in Luck,
in   the   endless   mirage  of  hope-illicit,   illegal,   wholly
intoxicating.
   -closer, if you will-
   To  me,  as to blood-bred creche-mates, Tatooine and Mos Eisley
are  richer still in potential: of the flesh, of the blood, of the
viscera,  of the overwhelming promise of risks already  taken  and
risks to be taken; in the ineffable indefinable we of my race call
soup.
   Pleasure/pain...  pain/pleasure. Deep in  flesh-molded  pockets
beside  my  nostrils, hidden by subde flaps in otherwise  humanoid
features, proboscii quiver.
   -closer yet-yet-
   This  is  what I live for, what I fish for, what  I  hunt.  The
scent  of  soup, then the soup itself, running hot  and  fast  and
sweet in the confines of the veins, the vessels, the brain. In the
confines of the flesh.
   It  lends  us to legend. It makes of us myth. It shapes  of  us
demons  of dreams: Don't misbehave or an Anzat will catch you  and
suck all your blood away. But it is not blood at all.
   -nearly within reach-
   In  the  bloated brilliance of Tatooine's unyielding high  noon
there are no such things as shadows. Only the boldness of the day,
the  magnified munificence of double suns, and the still  brighter
blazing of the glory of my need.
   -it has been long, too long-
   Mos  Eisley  is  never  uncrowded,  but  those  who  understand
Tatooine's  uncowed character understand also its malignance,  its
maleficent  intent: to bake, to broil, to sear. And so they  flee,
those who know, into the sullen succor of sand-scoured, sun-flayed
shelters.
   What  need have I of shadows when the daylight itself will  do,
and the heedless, headlong haste of a man fleeing it?
   -three more steps-
   Humanoid.  I  can  smell  him-taste  him,  there,  just  there;
measured  in all the ways we measure: a tint, a hue, a whisper,  a
kiss  ... a soupcon, if you will, of minor excrescence, the  steam
off  body-boiled soup, undetectable to all humanoid races save  my
own.
   -two more-
   He is not a fool, not completely; fools die long before meeting
those such as I, which saves us some little trouble. Better by far
to let life handle the screening process. By the time folk come to
Tatooine, the true fools are already dead. Those who have survived
to  come  have  some  small measure of wit,  talent,  ability,  of
significant physical prowess-and a greater portion of Luck.
   An  intangible,  is  Luck; an attribute one  can  neither  buy,
steal, nor manufacture. But it is finite, and wholly fickle.  Only
you never know it.
   Only  I  know  it. I am Dannik Jerriko, and I am the  Eater  of
Luck.
   -one more step-
   -YES-
   He is good. He is fast. But I am better, and faster.
   An image only; I am too lost, too hungry: the black-blind glaze
of  shock  in his eyes, naked and obscene to those who understand;
but  he  does  not  understand, he comprehends nothing.  He  knows
neither  who nor what I am, only that I am - and someone  who  has
clapped  hands across his ears and grasped his skull  to  hold  it
face-to-face in an avid embrace.
   - hot, sweet soup -
   He  would fight, given leave, extended invitation. And  I  give
leave,  extend  invitation - outright terror curdles  the  soup  -
briefly,  oh  so briefly, to make him think he is better  than  I;
that  Chance is his confidant and Luck remains his lover. It isn't
fear  I  want, nor cowardice, but courage. The blatant willingness
to  step  off  the edge with a life at risk, your  life,  trusting
skill and Luck and Chance to spread the safety net.
   He is good, is fast, is willing to step off the edge; and so he
does  step: leaping, lunging, lurching . . . but no one is  better
or  faster than I, and I have unraveled the net. Chance and  Luck,
thus mated, are dismissed in my presence: I am after all Anzati.
   It  is simply and quickly done with the manifest efficiency  of
my  kind: prehensile proboscii uncoiled from cheek pockets,  first
inserted,   then  insinuated  through  nostrils  into  brain.   It
paralyzes instantly.
   I eat his Luck. I drink his soup. I let the body fall.
   They  will  not  know when they find him; they  never  know  at
first.  That comes later, after, and only if someone cares  enough
to run a scan on him. I knit my own nightmare, make my own mythos.
A quick, clean kill; no fuss, no muss.
   But  assassins  by trade have no friends, and no  one  to  care
enough. This is why I kill the killers.
   Exterminator. Terminator. Assassin's assassin.
   Soup  is  soup is soup, but sweeter from the container  sitting
longest on the shelf.
   - oh - it is sweet -
   But sweet - like Luck, like Chance - is finite. Always. And  so
the  cycle  begins,  ends, begins again, and ends;  but  there  is
always another beginning.
   I  am Anzat, of the Anzati. You know me now as Dan-nik Jerriko,
but I have many names.
   You knew them all as children, forgot them as adults. Legend is
fiction, myth unreal; it is easier to set aside childish things in
the  false  illumination  of  adulthood,  because  the  fears   of
childhood are always formed of truths. Some truths are harder than
others. Some folktales far more frightening.
   Let there be no fear. Fear is not what I crave, neither what  I
desire.  It is corrosive to the palate, like vinegar in  place  of
wine.
   Let  there  be  courage, not cowardice; let there be  arrogance
aplenty.  Self-confidence,  not  self-doubt;  security  in   one's
skills.  And  the  willingness, the  restlessness,  the  boundless
physicality   of   the  only  constant:  the  testing   of   one's
limitations.  Assumption of risk, not reticence. The challenge  of
Chance.
   Make me no predictions. Write me no prophecy. Permit me to take
what is best of you, what is best in you.
   Let me liberate it. In me you will live forever.
   
   It is not that I want to kill beings.
   Yes,  I  know-you have heard the tales. But this is a truth  of
the heart, if you can believe I have one: Beings embellish.
   I  am  not crazed; I do not skulk; I don't drink blood. I  take
pride  in appearances, pride in my heritage, pride in my work.  It
is serious to me, such work; there is no room at all for error, no
latitude for a bad attitude.
   Given  a  legitimate and efficacious way out, I would stop  the
killing  .  .  .  but  I have tried joydrugs,  and  they  are  not
effective; the rush is temporary and counterproductive.  Synthetic
derivatives  and recreations are utterly useless;  in  fact,  such
half-measures  make me ill. Which leaves me only one  answer,  the
answer for all Anzati: the soup in its purest form, freshly exuded
and as freshly extracted. It rots outside of the body.
   Which means there must be a body.
   It  is  a mother lode, Mos Eisley, a powerful concentration  of
entities of all gender, gathering on private business that no\v is
also  mine. Between jobs, it is vacation, holiday, opportunity  to
hunt  for  myself. To track and find the vessel  most  capable  of
satisfying  my  palate. Gall me gourmet, if you  will;  I  see  no
reason  not  to please myself between those assignments  that,  in
their  completions, in the method of their completions,  serve  to
please my employers.
   I  have time. I have wealth. I am in fact quite rich, though  I
say  nothing  of  it; credits are a wholly vulgar  topic.  If  you
cannot afford to hire me, you do not even know I exist.
   Only one employer, my first, complained about my prices. He was
a  hollow man of small imagination . . . I drank his soup for  it,
but  he  left me unsatisfied; the entities who hire me are usually
cowards  themselves, incapable of anything beyond the  desire  for
power  and  financial reward, and their soup  is  dilute.  But  it
served, that death; no one ever again complained.
   Loyalty, like Luck, cannot be purchased, only bar-rowed  for  a
precontracted  space of time in which I serve  myself  even  as  I
serve  others  in furthering the ambitions-or settling  the  petty
squabbles-of   myriad   entities.  It  is  altogether   a   wholly
satisfactory  arrangement:  My  employers  have  the  pleasure  of
knowing  a  certain "annoyance" will no longer annoy, I drink  the
soup of the fallen foe, and my employers pay me for it.
   But  what  the  entities do not realize is  how  transitory  my
bondage: It is only the soup to which I am loyal, and the purposes
of extraction.
   Other  Anzati  bind  themselves to small  lives,  lives  wholly
focused on hunting. But there is more, so much more; one need only
have the imagination to see what lies out there, and to find a way
to take it.
   Let  them  bind  themselves. Let them live their  small  lives,
drinking soup from unworthy vessels. Let me take the best instead.
A  heady  brew,  such  soup,  far more intoxicating-and  therefore
longer-lasting-than the temporary measures that other Anzati  rely
on.
   And meanwhile I am paid to do what I must do.
   Yes. Oh, yes. The best of all the worlds.
   
   It  is  always the spaceports, always the bars. I  suppose  one
might  equally  suggest the brothels serve much the same  purpose,
but  in  those  places an entirely different sort of  business  is
conducted,  transitory in nature and without much risk taken  save
in  choice  of  partner and, perhaps, of mechanics. In  bars  they
drink, they gamble, they deal. They come here first when a run  is
completed, seeking such vice and spice and entertainments as might
be  purchased in the cantina; and they come here looking for work.
Space  pirates, blockade runners, hired assassins, bounty hunters,
even a handful of those involved in the Rebel Alliance. The Empire
has  driven  the latter out of such places as they  might  prefer,
altering  good-hearted,  once-innocent  entities  into  souls   as
desperate  as  others, but with a vision pure and  argent  as  the
double  suns  of  Tatooine,  wholly  unadulterated  by  the  harsh
realities of the times.
   When  one  believes firmly enough, when conviction is absolute,
one is undaunted by odds. Their soup is very sweet.
   Sand  chokes.  It  is  an entity of itself,  at  once  coy  and
pervasive. It dulls boots, befilths fabric, insinuates itself into
the  creases  of the flesh. It drives even Anzati to seek  relief,
and  thus I go indoors, out of the heat of the double suns; and  I
pause   there-remembering  one  day  many  years  before,  and   a
corpulent, unforgiving Hutt -eyes closed to adjust more quickly to
wan, ocherous light, thick and rancid as bantha butter.
   It  is  too  much to hope the cantina owner might install  more
lights,  or improve his Queblux Power Train, identifiable  by  its
lamentable  lack of efficiency and a low, almost inaudible  whine.
Such  repairs  would be at odds with Chalmun's  nature,  which  is
dictated  by  dis-trusl; deals are done at  dusk,  not  under  the
fixed,  un-miligated glare of Tatoo I and Tatoo II, conflagrations
of  eyes  in  the  countenance of a galaxy that is,  much  as  the
Emperor's face, shrouded within a cowled hood.
   Ah, but there is more here, inside, than relief from sand, from
heat. There is the scent, the promise of satiation.
   -soup-
   11 is thick, so thick-at first I am overwhelmed; this is better
than I remembered: so many layers and tastes, the hues, the tints,
the whispers . . . here I may drink for endless days, replete with
satisfaction.
   Ahh.
   So  many entities, so many flavors, so much Luck to eat. Chance
is  corporeal  here, variety infinite. It is a  symphony  of  soup
running  hot and fast and wet, like blood ever on the boil beneath
the fragile tissue of flesh.
   I  am  not  droid, the detector says; I am welcome in Chalmun's
cantina.  And I laugh in the privacy of my mind, because  Chalmun,
contented by his bias, doesn't know there are things in the  world
more  detestable than droids, which are on the whole  inoffensive,
unassuming, and more than a little convenient. But leave a man his
bigotry; if they were all like the Rebel Alliance, so intransigent
in honor, the soup would be weak as gruel.
   -soup-
   In  cheek  pockets, proboscii quiver. For an instant,  only  an
instant,  they extrude a millimeter, overcome by the  heady  aroma
detectable only to Anzati; the others, despite races and  genders,
are   in   all  ways  unaware.  But  nothing  is  earned   without
anticipation;  it is a fillip wholly invigorating, and  worth  the
self-denial.
   Accordingly  proboscii withdraw, if resentfully,  coiling  back
into  the pockets beside my nostrils. I brush a film of sand  from
my  sleeves,  tug the jacket into place, and walk  down  the  four
steps into the belly of the bar.
   Soup here is plentiful.
   Patience will be rewarded.
   
   He  is  at  first disbelieving. A sour, sullen, mud-faced  man,
doughy-pale  despite double suns, somewhat lumpy and misshapen  as
if  he  were  unfinished, or perhaps unmade  later  in  the  small
hostilities of his life. A long blob of a swollen nose  downturned
above a loose-lipped mouth. His clothing is unkempt, his hair lank
and stringy. He does not remember me.
   Courtesy  is  nonexistent; in Mos Eisley, in Chalmun's  cantina
from Chalmun's bartender, none is expected. "You want what?"
   "Water," I repeat.
   Dark eyes narrow minutely. "You know where you are?"
   "Oh," I say, smiling, "indeed."
   He  jerks  a  spatulate thumb beyond his  shoulder.  "I  got  a
computer  back  there  that  mixes sixteen  hundred  varieties  of
spirits."
   "Oh,  indeed, so I would imagine. But I want the one  it  can't
mix."
   He  scowls.  "Ain't  cheap, is it? This is  Tatooine.  Got  the
credits for it?"
   His soup is slow, and weak, its scent barely discernible. He is
servant, not the served, not one who acknowledges edges or assumes
risks  beyond  setting  a glass before a patron;  he  would  offer
little pleasure, and less satisfaction.
   But there are those who would. And all of them are here.
   I  withdraw from a pocket a single flat coin. It glints in  wan
light:  clean, ruddy gold. It is not precisely a credit chip,  but
it  will nonetheless buy my water. On Tatooine, they know  it.  In
Mos Eisley they know to fear it.
   The  bartender  moistens his lips. Eyes  slide  aside,  busying
themselves with glaring at a tiny Chadra-Fan coming up to ask  for
libation.  "Jabba's marker ain't any good here," he  mutters,  and
reaches beneath the bar into his hidden reserve to bring forth  an
ice-rimed crystal container of costly chilled water.
   I leave the coin on the bar. It tells him many things, and will
tell  others also; Jabba pays well, and those who work for  him-or
work  for others who work for him- recognize the tangible evidence
of the Hutt's favor.
   It  has  been  a  long  time. There have been  countless  other
employers  in  all  sectors  of  the  galaxy,  but  Jabba  is  ...
memorable. Perhaps it is time I sought a second assignment;  there
are  always  failed assassins the Hutt wants killed. He  does  not
suffer incompetence.
   I consider for a momenl whal it would be like to drink his soup
.  . . bul Jabba is well guarded, and even an Anzat might find  it
difficult  to  locate  within  the  massy  corpulence  ihe  proper
orifices into which lo insert proboscii.
   I  shut  my  hand upon the glass and feel the bite of  ice.  On
Tatooine,  such  is luxury. It is not soup, in no way,  but  worth
anticipation. Even as the bartender lurns away lo bellow rudely at
two  droid-accompanied  humans slopped  by  ihe  deleclor,  I  sip
slowly, savoring the water.
   Spirits  muddle  the mind, slow the body, nourish  nothing  bul
weakness. Anzati avoid such things, even as we avoid joydrugs  and
synthetics.  What is natural is best, even to the soup.  There  is
strenglh in what is pure.
   There is weakness in vice-and I, after all, should know. In the
freedom  of  my lifestyle there is also captivity.  There  are  no
bars, no mesh, no energy fields, no conlainment capsules. There is
instead  an imprisonment more insidious than such things,  and  as
distaste-ful lo an Anzat as soup drunk from a coward.
   I  drank tainted soup from a tainted man, and assimi-lated  his
vice:  the  daily need for a proscribed bul oft-smuggled  offworld
substance known as nic-i-tain, its vector named t'bac.
   I am Dannik Jerikko. Anzat, of the Anzati, and Eater of Luck.
   But I never said I was perfect.
   
   It  blows up quickly enough-a Tatooine sandstorm from the heart
of  the  Dune Sea-as bar confrontations do. I pay it no  attention
beyond air-scenting for promise; it is there, but muted. I take my
time preparing my pipe-there is comfort in ritual, satisfaction in
preliminaries-set the mouthpiece between my teeth,  then  draw  in
t'bac smoke deeply. It is a despicable habit, but one that even  I
have been unable to break.
   Behind me, music wails. Chalmun has hired a band since my  last
visit.  It is appropriate music for a cantina dim as desert  dusk.
Through the malodorous fug of smoke and sweat, the whining  melody
waxes and wanes, insidious as dune dust.
   -soup-
   I turn, exhaling evenly; in cheek pockets, proboscii twitch.
   -soup-
   A  flare,  abrupt and unshielded, wholly raw and unrefined.  It
takes me but an instant to mark it, to mark the entity: human, and
young.   Fear,   defiance,  apprehension;  a  trace   of   brittle
courage-ah,  but he is too young, too inexperienced.  Despite  the
stubborn  jut of his jaw, the flash of defiance in blue  eyes,  he
has  not  lived long enough to know what he risked. He is  as  yet
unripe.
   The  young  know nothing of life, nothing of its  dangers,  its
small  and large hostilities. They know only of the moment,  blind
to  possibilities; it is not courage in the young, only the  folly
of  youth.  In  males  it is worse: a bantha-headed  intransigence
mixed  with hormonal imbalance. Their soup is immature and  wholly
unsatisfying. It is better to let them ripen.
   I  draw in smoke, hold it, exhale. In the small moment of  such
activity the confrontation worsens. Two entities now challenge the
boy: human and Aqualish. It is bar belligerence, born of drink and
insecurity; a foolish attempt to establish dominance  over  a  raw
boy  whose  inexperience promises shallow entertainment for  those
amused  by  such things. A scuffle ensues, as always; the  boy  is
swiped away to crash against a table.
   Behind  it  the music stops, cut off in mid-wail. It  tells  me
much  of  the band members: Clearly they are unaccustomed to  such
places  as  Chalmun's cantina, or they would know never  to  stop.
Experienced musicians would play a counterpoint to the shouts, the
shrieks,  the squalls, using the cacophony, no matter how  atonal,
to build a new melody.
   Then  a wholly unexpected sound is born, a sound such as I have
not  heard for a hundred years: the low-pitched, throbbing hum  of
an unsheathed and triggered lightsaber.
   -soup-
   I  turn  instantly,  seeking . . . proboscii  quiver,  extrude,
withdraw reluctantly at my insistence. But they know it even as  I
know it: Somewhere in Chalmun's cantina is the vessel I need.
   It is a quick, decisive battle, a skirmish soon ended. With but
a  single stroke of the lightsaber, the Aqualish is-well, unarmed.
One-armed, if you will.
   The  boy  hangs back. I scent him again, wild and uncontrolled.
But  there  is more here now, far more than expected, hovering  at
the  edges,  tantalizing me with its presence, with the repression
of its power . . . and then I see the old man quietly putting away
the lightsaber, and I realize what he is.
   A  Master despite his reticence, seeking no battles in word  or
deed; Master of what is, in such times, left wholly unspoken, lest
the  Emperor suspect. But I know what he is: Jedi. I could not but
know.  He  is  too  disciplined, too well  shielded  against  such
intrusions  as  Anzati  probing, and in that  very  shielding  the
truth, to me, is obvious.
   I  leave  it its due: unspoken. I see no need to speak it.  Let
him  be  what he is; no one else will suspect He is safe  a  while
longer.
   The  boy  has  earned  my  study. If they  have  true  business
together it is information worth knowing. If the old man has taken
a  pupil  there is indeed cause to fear -if you are  part  of  the
Empire, and recall the old ways.
   If  not, as I am not-save I recall the old days, the even older
ways-it  matters  not at all. Unless you care to  count  the  coin
Jabba would pay, or others, including Darth Vader.
   Including the Emperor.
   
   Braggadocio. It is a staple of such places, the ritual boasting
of  entity to entity to save face, or to build face; to request  a
place  in  the world, or to make a place; an attempt to create  of
oneself something more than what one is.
   There are those who are indeed more-as Anzat I am far more than
anyone  might suspect (or comfortably imagine)-but only rarely  do
they  resort to braggadocio, because everyone else knows who  they
are and what they have done. To say anything at all is redundancy,
which dilutes the deeds.
   But even those most skilled, even those most notorious may well
be  pressed to resort to braggadocio in the implacable face  of  a
Jedi  Master dubious of those deeds. Such entities as the old  man
can  reduce the strongest to creche-born, and with little said  or
done.
   The  band  has  recovered itself, or is under pain  of  reduced
payment  if  the musicians do not immediately resume playing.  The
music,  less  strident  now,  mutes all  conversations  but  those
closest  to  me,  but  I  need not rely  on  words  and  tone  for
information. In braggadocio is often borne the scent of soup.
   I exhale, feel proboscii quiver, turn slowly to take my measure
of the cantina. The direction is easily gained, and as I mark it I
cannot  help but smile; the old man and his pupil have  gone  into
one  of  the cubicles. It is not them I scent now, but those  with
whom they speak: a hulking Wookiee, and a humanoid male.
   -soup-
   It boils up quickly, powerfully, so quickly and so powerfully I
cannot help but mark it. It leaves me breathless.
   Not  the  old Jedi, who is disciplined, and shielded.  Not  the
boy,  who is young and unripe. Not the Wookiee, who is passive  in
all but loyalty. The humanoid. The Corellian.
   Anzati are long-lived. Memory abides.
   A  curl of smoke winds its way from my pipe. Through the wreath
of  it  I smile. He is wanted, as is the Wookiee, but all entities
in  Chalmun's cantina are wanted somewhere. Even I am  wanted,  or
would be; no one knows who or what I am, or what I am wanted  for,
and in that there is continuance.
   I  am  careful in the hunt, always meticulous in those  details
others  ignore,  and too often die of; I require  confirmation.  I
commit nothing until I am certain.
   In  this  instance confirmation and certainty need little  time
and  less  patience.  The  Jedi and  his  pupil  depart,  but  are
immediately replaced by a Rodian. He is nervous. His  soup  is  so
insubstantial as to be nonexistent; he is servant, not served.
   He  is  coward. He is fool. He is incompetent. He  is  slow  to
commit  himself.  And  thus he is dead in a  burst  of  contraband
blaster in the hand of a wholly committed and consummate pirate.
   -soup-
   I  exult  even  as proboscii twitch expectantly.  It  is  here,
here-and now, right now, this moment . . . the hue, the tint,  the
whisper,  the shout, the evanescence of soup incarnate,  enfleshed
and unshielded, and rich, so rich-
   I  need  only to go and to get it, to drink it, to  embrace  as
Anzati  embrace, to dance the dance with the Corellian whose  soup
is  thick,  and  hot, and sweet, sweeter by far than  any  I  have
tasted for too long a time-
   Now.
   Now.
   But haste dilutes fulfillment. Let there be time, and patience.
   -such soup-
   The band wails on. There is the sharp scent of smoke; the acrid
tang  of sweat; the smut-dusty stench of dune sand, of city  sand;
the  blatancy of blaster death but newly encountered, redolent  of
the Rodian's cowardice and stupidity. It was a poor death worth no
comment; he will not be mourned even by the entity who hired him.
   He  is-was-the Hutt's, of course. Need you ask? There  is  none
other who would dare to hire assassins in Mos Eisley, on Tatooine.
   None but Lord Vader, and the Emperor.
   But they are not here. Only Jabba.
   The  Hutt  is  in  all things; is of himself  all  things,  and
everywhere, on Tatooine, in Mos Eisley, in Chahnun's cantina.
   -such soup-
   A final inhalation of t'bac, sucked deep inside and savored, as
is  the  moment, the knowledge, the need itself savored.  A  brief
glare  of  searing  sunlight  illuminates  the  interior  as   the
Corellian  pirate and his Wookiee companion depart  with  alacrity
Chalmun's premises, wary of Imperial repercussions. It is  Jabba's
spaceport  in  all but name, and that name is the  Emperor's,  who
need  know  nothing of such dealings as the Hutt's; or who  knows,
and does not care.
   It  is  dusk again inside. They will clear the body  away;  and
someone will report to Jabba that his hireling is dead.
   Has  reported;  he knows it by now, and by whose  hand  it  was
done.
   -such soup-
   But  what  sense in paying for it of my own pocket? Jabba's  is
deeper.
   Indeed, the Hutt will pay well. But it is / who will drink  the
soup.
   -such soup-
   Proboscii  quiver as I exhale the twinned smoke-stream  slowly,
steadily, with quiet satisfaction and the frisson of my  own  soup
as it leaps in anticipation.
   -Han Solo's soup-
   Ah, but it will be a hunt worth the hunting . . . and soup such
as  I-even Dannik Jerriko, Anzat of the Anzati, Eater of Luck,  of
Chance-have never, ever known.
   
   
   At the Crossroads: The Spacer's Tale
   by Jerry Oltion
   
   The Infinity was hot in more ways than one. BoShek smiled as he
prepared  to drop out of hyperspace over Tatooine. He'd just  beat
Solo's time on the Kessel run.
   Of  course he was running empty, bringing in just the  ship  to
have  its transponder codes altered, but even so, it would be  fun
to  tell the braggart Corellian and his furry sidekick he'd broken
their record.
   The cockpit fit like a glove around him. He could reach all the
controls  from the single pilot's chair, and everything was  right
where instinct made him reach first. The windows wrapped around to
give  him almost a full circle of view, and a heads-up holo filled
in  the gap to the rear. In his three years of piloting smugglers'
ships  for  the monastery-cum-forging operation, BoShek had  never
flown one so well designed as this.
   The   computer   counted  down  the  last  few  seconds,   then
automatically   switched  to  the  sublight   engines.   Elongated
starlines  snapped back to points of light, and high to  the  left
the  bright yellow-white disk of Tatooine swelled into being. Holy
bantha breath, it was close! Another second in hyper and he'd have
popped out underground.
   He swung around so the navcomputer could get a straight shot at
the  orbiting  beacons, but he was willing to bet it already  knew
where  they were. Sure enough, within seconds the planetary  image
in  the  navscreen filled with longitude and latitude lines,  then
showed a sparse dotting of oases and settlements across the desert
planet.
   Mos  Eisley was about a third of an orbit away. BoShek was just
about  to  accelerate  toward it when  the  navcomputer  buzzed  a
warning and two bright white wedges slid into view from around the
curve of the planet. Imperial Star Destroyers. BoShek glanced  out
the  windows and shuddered. They were so big he could actually see
them with the naked eye.
   Where  had  they come from? Tatooine was so far off the  beaten
track,  the Empire hardly ever sent a tax collector, much  less  a
pair  of  warships. Somebody must have caused some  major  trouble
while he was gone.
   And  now  their trouble was his too, because the  Infinity  was
still  running  under  hot  transponder codes.  If  the  Imperials
bothered  to  scan for its engines' unique emission  signature-and
they no doubt would-then they would know it was a smuggler's ship,
wanted  throughout the galaxy for tariff violation,  tax  evasion,
gun-running, and dozens of other crimes. The fact that BoShek  was
merely piloting it to Tatooine for someone else wouldn't save  him
in a trial. If he ever got a trial.
   For  that  matter, neither the monastery nor  the  Infinity  's
owners would be happy with him if he let the Empire confiscate the
ship.  His  job  was to bring it in undetected so the  monastery's
technicians could alter its codes and give it a clean record,  not
to lose it to the first patrol that happened along.
   Without  hesitation,  he aimed straight  down  and  accelerated
hard.  In space he wouldn't stand a chance against the destroyers'
short-range  TIE  fighters, but down in the atmosphere,  with  the
planet  to  help confuse their sensors, he might be able  to  lose
them.
   Tatooine  grew  from  a sphere to a close,  mottled  wall.  The
Infinity  began  rocking  gently as it  reached  the  top  of  the
atmosphere, then a bright flash came from the starboard  side  and
the ship suddenly lurched to port. The destroyers had opened fire.
   BoShek  kept  the  Infinity aimed straight  down,  diving  deep
before  he  leveled out, knowing that the more air he put  between
him  and  the  destroyers, the more shielding he would  have  from
their turbolasers. His passage left a glowing, ionized wake behind
him, but when he slowed to just a few times the speed of sound  he
left no trace.
   He wasn't free yet, though. Four TIE fighters from the warships
arced  into the atmosphere after him, and their closer range  made
up  for  the  air's  energy absorption. The  Infinity  once  again
shuddered under Imperial fire.
   Fortunately,  they  weren't trying to kill him  yet.  Confident
that  he  couldn't get away, they were just trying to disable  the
ship and force him down. They were probably even trying to contact
him  by  radio,  but  BoShek left the receiver switched  off.  Any
transmission he could make would only give them his voiceprint; as
it was, if he could lose them he might remain anonymous.
   He  shoved  the  throttles  forward again,  at  the  same  time
corkscrewing down and underneath the fighters to skim the sand. He
was  over the vast Dune Sea, far to the west of civilization;  the
wavelike  dunefield  erupted into clouds of roiling  sand  as  his
shock wave passed over it.
   Lining  up  directly behind him for another  salvo,  the  flat-
winged  fighters plowed straight through 'the clouds, the airborne
particles etching away their instruments and control surfaces  and
pitting  their  windows.  They  immediately  rose  up  above   the
billowing sand, but BoShek chose that moment to pull back  on  the
throttles,  letting  them overshoot him. He  banked  left,  waited
until  they  had committed to a left turn, then banked hard  right
and  shoved  the  throttles down again, racing  for  the  Jundland
Wastes to the east.
   The  TIE fighters were catching up again by the time the jagged
canyonland slid toward him over the horizon. BoShek dodged  a  few
last energy bolts, then dived into the first canyon he reached and
wove  his  way  up it at top speed. The Infinity  handled  like  a
dream,  hugging  the ground as if on rails, but the  TIE  fighters
were  just  as maneuverable. Only the damage they'd taken  in  the
sand cloud kept them from catching him.
   Then  one  of  them made a mistake. Closing in for a  crippling
shot,  it  crossed  into  the  Infinity's  shock  wave,  and   the
turbulence against its wide vertical wings tossed it like  a  leaf
into  the  side of the canyon. The explosion sent another  fighter
into the ground, leaving only two to follow him.
   Losing  half  their number had changed the rules,  though.  Now
they  weren't shooting just to cripple; they were out  for  blood.
BoShek  frowned  as he tried to think of away  to  take  them  out
first, but the Infinity was built for speed, not fighting.
   Fleetingly, he thought of calling upon the Force, of trying  to
use its ancient mystical powers to throw his pursuers off, but  he
knew  it  would be useless. He'd been meditating and concentrating
on  the Force ever since he'd heard of it from one of the few real
monks  at  the monastery in Mos Eisley, but he'd never yet  gotten
any  indication that it even existed, other than a faint awareness
of  other people's presence from time to time. The old Jedi  might
have been able to draw from it to subdue their enemies a long time
ago,  but  the  Force  hadn't protected them  from  the  advancing
Empire.  No, he needed something more concrete, something physical
he could do to escape.
   Then  he  remembered a story Solo had told him once, about  how
he'd faked out a bounty hunter in an asteroid belt. Yeah. The same
thing might work here.
   He  led  the fighters deeper and deeper into the canyon,  until
its  high  walls  boxed  them  in on  either  side.  The  Infinity
shuddered under more and more impacts, and a flashing light on the
instrument board warned of a shield about to fail, but instead  of
speeding up, BoShek intentionally slowed down. He rested  his  fin
ger  on  the  emergency escape-pod launch button, and just  as  he
rounded  a  sharp bend, he hit it. The escape pod  blew  free  and
continued  straight into the canyon wall, where  its  fuel  supply
exploded  in a spectacular fireball. BoShek kept his  eye  on  the
heads-up  rearview, but neither of the TIE fighters  emerged  from
the  flames. Either they'd been swallowed up in the explosion,  or
they'd pulled up and were circling around to examine what they  no
doubt assumed was the wreckage of the entire Infinity.
   Smiling,  BoShek  pulled up out of the canyon,  aimed  straight
east,  then cut his engines completely. He had enough velocity  to
fly ballistic all the way to Mos Eisley if he had to, and with his
engines dead the TIE fighters would never spot him.
   "Solo," he said aloud in the close control cabin, "I owe you  a
drink."
   
   BoShek  knew  right  where  to  find  him,  too.  Whenever  the
Millennium  Falcon  was  onplanet, either  Solo  or  Chewbacca-and
sometimes both-would be at the Mos Eisley Cantina, trying to  drum
up business. After he'd dropped off the Infinity at the monastery,
leaving  instructions  for  the mechanics  to  modify  its  engine
transponders immediately, BoShek headed straight there,  not  even
taking  the  time  to  change out of his flight  suit  first.  The
monastery was south of the city's center; he stopped for a  moment
at  the  ancient  wreckage of the first colony ship,  the  Dowager
Quern,  to pass a sealed note from the abbot to one of the  street
preachers there, then hurried on.
   The streets were lousy with stormtroopers, but they didn't seem
to  be  looking  for BoShek. He saw four of them hassling  an  old
hermit and a kid and two droids in a beat-up old landspeeder,  but
they evidently weren't too interested in them either, because they
let  them  go after just a few questions. BoShek ducked  into  the
cantina before the stormtroopers could take an interest in him.
   It  took his eyes a minute to adjust to the dark interior,  but
Chewbacca was easy to spot, towering above the other beings at the
bar  the  way  he did. BoShek wove his way through the  crowd  and
leaned up against the bar next to him.
   "I beat your record," he said without preamble.
   Chewbacca  grunted the Wookiee equivalent of  "Get  lost,"  but
then  BoShek's voice registered and he turned his head to ask what
record BoShek meant.
   "The Kessel run," BoShek said, grinning. "I beat your time by a
tenth, and I had to take out four TIE fighters when I got here  to
boot."
   Chewbacca  growled appreciatively. He howled a long,  ululating
phrase  that  BoShek  translated as  "You'd  better  not  let  the
customers  catch  you wringing out their ships, or  they'll  start
taking their business elsewhere."
   "Hey,  we're  the best there is, and you know it," BoShek  told
him.  He  waved  at the bartender, who shot him a surly  look  and
turned  away.  "So how's the Falcon holding up? You  need  another
code job yet?"
   The Wookiee shook his shaggy head, then hooted in laughter.  He
howled  another  phrase  that  BoShek tentatively  translated  as:
"After what you charged us last time, we've been keeping our noses
clean. It's cheaper."
   "Think  of  it  as  life insurance," BoShek said,  echoing  the
abbot's  favorite  sales  pitch. He was  about  to  shout  at  the
bartender when he felt an unmistakable awareness of someone behind
him. It was the strongest presence he'd ever felt.
   He  turned  as casually as he could and saw the old hermit  and
the boy in the doorway. The hermit's eyes met his, and just a hint
of a smile showed on his grizzled face. Leaving the boy with their
droids,  he  walked  straight  up  to  BoShek  and  said   in   an
astonishingly rich voice, "May the Force be with you, my friend."
   The  Force?  Had  he really felt it just now?  "I-uh-  thanks,"
BoShek stuttered. "How did you know . . . ?"
   "Your  struggles  are  as plain as words  for  someone  who  is
trained  to see them. I could teach you much, but I fear  my  time
here  is  short  I need passage off the planet. However,  since  I
believe you have a ship, perhaps we could further both our  quests
at once."
   BoShek could, hardly believe what he was hearing. This old  guy
was  practically  reading his mind. BoShek had never  told  anyone
about  his fascination with the Force, yet here came this complete
stranger who picked up on it immediately. But he'd gotten part  of
BoShek's  story wrong. "I wish I did have a ship," he  said.  "But
I'm just a pilot."
   "Ah, that's a pity," said the hermit. "Perhaps when I return we
can discuss the Force anyway."
   "Yeah, maybe we can."
   Chewbacca growled softly, and BoShek took the hint. "I do  know
someone  with  a ship who might be willing to take on  passengers,
though," he said, nodding toward the Wookiee.
   "I  see. Thank you." The hermit glanced toward Chewbacca,  then
looked back at BoShek and said, "I'll leave you with one piece  of
advice:  Beware  the  dark side. Your role here  on  the  edge  of
society  has  put you in a very ambiguous position, one  that  you
must  resolve  before you can continue in your journey.  Only  the
pure  of  heart can ever hope to wield the Force's power with  any
success."
   "Thanks, I think," BoShek said.
   "You're welcome."
   It  was clearly a dismissal, so BoShek bowed out with a nod  to
Chewbacca, letting them discuss business-while he went  around  to
the other side of the bar to get the bartender's attention.
   
   He'd  finally managed to get a drink and was casting  about  to
see if he could spot Solo when the old man pulled a lightsaber  on
a  walrus-faced  Aqualish  and an even worse  looking  human,  and
BoShek  got  knocked  over in the rush  to  give  them  room.  The
Aqualish lost an arm in the fight, and the old man gained  a  wide
zone  of respect, but BoShek didn't care about either one of  them
at the moment, being occupied with wiping a pint of bitter off the
front of his flight suit.
   Bloody  brawls were nothing new in the cantina, and aside  from
the  old man's lightsaber this one was nothing special, but enough
of  the  other bar patrons had spilled their drinks that  it  took
BoShek  another  ten  minutes to get served again.  By  then  he'd
spotted  Solo, but the Corellian was already deep in  conversation
with  the old man and the boy, so he sat back down at the bar  and
waited  his  turn. Maybe he could learn something more  from  Solo
about the old guy after they were done.
   While  he  waited, he tried asking around to find out what  all
the  stormtroopers were doing in town, but nobody would  admit  to
knowing.  The Imperial troops had simply swooped down  from  their
Star  Destroyers  a couple of days ago and set up  roadblocks  all
over  town, and in most of the other towns surrounding  the  Jund-
land  Wastes as well. They were looking for something, but  nobody
knew what.
   A  couple  of them came into the cantina, shining conspicuously
in  their  white  body armor. BoShek looked over to  see  how  the
hermit  and the kid would react to their presence, but  they  were
already gone. He stood up to go take their place at Solo's  table,
but  first  the  storm troopers, then a long-nosed,  green-skinned
Rodian, beat him to it. Solo was a popular guy today.
   The  Rodian  held a blaster pointed straight at  Solo's  chest.
BoShek  slipped his own blaster out of its holster, ready to  help
if  it  looked as though Solo needed it, but then he saw something
that  made  him  reholster his weapon and  watch  with  amusement.
Slowly,  almost  imperceptibly, Solo was drawing his  own  blaster
under the table.
   Sure  enough,  when he got it free of its holster,  he  gave  a
little  shrug  as  if to say "So long, sucker,"  and  fired  right
through  the  table at the Rodian, who collapsed  forward  on  the
smoking remains.
   Solo  stood  up, flipped a couple of credits to the  bartender,
and stalked out before BoShek could catch his attention. He downed
his  drink and followed him out, but he had barely made it out the
door  when he felt someone grab his arm and an authoritative voice
said, "All right, hold it right there, spaceman."
   He  turned slowly to see a local cop pointing a blaster at him.
"What's   the   problem?"  he  asked,   keeping   his   voice   as
unconfrontational as he could manage.
   The  cop  scowled. "The problem is, a wanted  starship  ran  an
Imperial  blockade, dusted four interceptors in the  process,  and
landed here in town just a little while ago. Darth Vader's on  one
of  the  battleships and wants somebody's head for it,  and  yours
looks  about  the right size to me. You're still  suited  up;  how
'bout you and me have a little chat down at the station?"
   Only  his years of practice at talking his way through  customs
allowed  BoShek  to keep his expression neutral.  Inside,  he  was
close  to  panic. If they got him under a mind-probe, they'd  know
for  sure he'd done it, and there was a good chance he'd blow  the
monastery's cover as well. Either way, he was dead.
   Forcing  himself to sound calm, he shrugged and  said,  "You've
got  the wrong pilot, I'm afraid, and there's a whole bar full  of
people in there who can prove it. I've been here all afternoon."
   The  cop hesitated, looking into the dark doorway, and when  he
squinted  to see inside, BoShek lashed out with a foot and  kicked
the blaster out of his hands. He followed with a punch to the side
of  the  head,  putting  all his weight behind  it,  and  the  cop
collapsed like a shorted droid.
   The  blaster  clattered to the ground a few steps away.  BoShek
lunged  for it but lost the race to a pair of Jawas, who  scurried
away with their prize and quickly disappeared among the dozens  of
taller  aliens on the street. BoShek didn't particularly care;  he
had  his  own blaster if it came to that, and as long as  the  cop
didn't,  he  was  happy. He turned and walked nonchalantly  -  but
quickly  -  away from the cantina toward the city's central  plaza
and the thickest crowds.
   He  had only made it across the street and down half a block to
the wrecked Dowager Queen when he heard a shout behind him. Few of
the  street's  inhabitants even looked up, since shouts  from  the
cantina  were  a  regular thing, but BoShek quickened  his  stride
toward the old colony ship's rusted hulk.
   Twisted  girders arched out over the packed dirt, awnings  tied
between  some of them providing shade for the crowds  gathered  to
listen  to  the  street  preachers pontificating  from  the  upper
levels.  Ruptures  in  the  hull  and  busted  portholes  provided
glimpses into the ship's dark interior, from which the red glow of
Jawa eyes peered outward.
   BoShek  ducked inside the sagging cargo lock. The hold  smelled
strongly  of  Jawas, but he didn't care. The more the merrier,  in
fact. He stepped over vagrants and preachers resting in the shade,
pushing past them until he was well hidden from the street. In the
dim  light filtering in through holes in the hull, he stripped off
his  flight  suit and flung it farther into the darkness,  keeping
only  the tool belt with all his personal belongings. A chorus  of
growls   and  high-pitched  chattering  erupted  as  the   wreck's
inhabitants quarreled over their new prize.
   His  gray  suit  liner was a little less of a  beacon  for  the
police,  but  it still wasn't very good camouflage.  BoShek  knelt
down  beside one of the vagrants and said, "Ten credits  for  your
cloak."  That was far more than it was worth, and they  both  knew
it. Without a word the vagrant tugged off his rough brown robe and
handed  it  over. BoShek paid him and wrapped himself  up  in  the
noxious-smelling garment, then pushed back toward the door.
   He had underestimated the cop's tenacity. He had evidently seen
BoShek slip into the wreckage, and was now standing at the edge of
the crowd with a small boot-top blaster in his hand. The crowd had
thinned  considerably under the policeman's glare;  BoShek  didn't
think he'd be able to hide among the few people left.
   He  turned and reentered the ship. There had to be another  way
out  of  it.  He  stumbled over more bodies, circumnavigating  the
cargo  hold,  but  all  he found was a ramp leading  up  a  level.
Thinking maybe there would be a stairway back down over the  outer
hull, he climbed the ramp, but it only led to the observation deck
from which half a dozen preachers harangued the crowd below.
   From  his new vantage, BoShek saw reinforcements coming to  the
first  cop's aid. He was trapped. They obviously weren't going  to
drop  it,  not  with the Empire breathing down their  necks.  They
needed a sacrificial suspect to deliver to the stormtroopers,  and
they  weren't  about  to let him get away now.  Which  meant  they
wouldn't  rest until they'd swept through the entire ship.  BoShek
looked  around frantically, but there was no place  to  hide.  The
observation  deck was even more open than the cargo hold.  It  had
been  gutted  of everything that could be unbolted or torn  loose,
leaving just an empty floor with blasted-out windows spaced evenly
around  it.  All  but  one of the window  frames  had  a  preacher
standing before it, facing outward toward the people on the street
below.  None of the preachers were from the monastery; BoShek  won
dered  why until he remembered the note he'd dropped off  here  on
his  way  to the cantina. The abbot must have called them  in  for
some kind of conference.
   With no place to hide and no friends to help him, he could  see
only one possibility. He bent down and smeared his hands along the
floor  near  the wall, then wiped the grimy black goo he  gathered
there  on  his  cheeks and forehead, darkening his complexion  and
making  his  face fit his clothing. Then he stepped to the  window
and  said  in a quavering voice he hoped sounded old and  wizened,
"Brothers, sisters, friends, and aliens; beware the dark  side  of
the Force!"
   
   A  few  of  the people below him looked up, squinting into  the
sun,  and  BoShek realized why this particular window  was  empty.
Tatooine's twin suns were directly behind him from the vantage  of
anyone  below;  not a good location for a preacher  interested  in
gathering  a  following.  It was perfect for  BoShek,  though.  He
pulled  his hood over his head so nobody could get a good look  at
him  from  the  side,  then he cleared his throat  and  began  his
sermon.
   Despite living at a monastery, he knew almost nothing about the
religion they preached. He spent his time in the underground ship-
alteration complex, not in the cathedral the monks had set  up  to
establish their cover. He knew their doctrine was all based on the
divinity of banthas or some such crock, and had been borrowed from
a  group of true believers who lived out in the wilderness, but he
had  no idea how it all tied together. Far better, he thought,  to
preach something he at least knew a little about, though he didn't
sup  pose  it  really mattered. Who listened to street  preachers,
anyway?
   Remembering  what the old man in the cantina had told  him,  he
said,  "Only  the  pure  of heart can ever hope  to  achieve  true
mastery  of  the  Force." A few more faces looked up,  then  away.
BoShek  spread  his  arms wide. "You must open  yourselves  up  to
salvation. You must cleanse yourselves, make peace with your inner
natures, and accept the Force as your guiding principle."
   The preacher to his right had stopped his own sermon to listen.
BoShek  smiled nervously at him, then went on. "When you surrender
yourselves to the Force, you deliver your lives unto the  greatest
power in the universe. With it you can move mountains, see the  fu
ture,  and  find  eternal life." Hah, he thought,  this  preaching
stuff  wasn't  that hard. Just string all the buzzwords  together,
and you had it.
   Another  of  the preachers fell silent. BoShek wasn't  sure  he
liked  their  attention, but the cops had moved  to  surround  the
ship,  and he could hear the commotion in the cargo hold  as  they
began their search. And now, attracted to a scene of trouble  like
flying  insects to light, a stormtrooper patrol was  also  heading
toward the ship.
   BoShek pulled his robe closer about him and leaned farther  out
the  window, saying, "Repent! Dig deep into your hearts,  and  the
truth shall set you free!"
   "Be  silent," the priest on his right hissed. BoShek noted that
he  wore a robe considerably cleaner than his own, and his fingers
and  wrists were spangled with gold rings and bracelets. Preaching
was evidently good business.
   "Be  silent yourself," BoShek told him. He could hear the  cops
ascending  the ramp now. "On second thought, don't be. Preach,  or
we're both going to be saying our prayers in jail." He turned back
to the window and said to the crowd below, "There are disbelievers
among you, people who deny die existence of the Force, or say that
it's weakened with time and no longer useful in these modern days,
but I say to you, every living creature that is born increases die
power of the Force."
   The  preacher who had shushed him glanced warily down the ramp,
then  turned back to his window and picked up where he'd left off,
saying  in  a  voice  loud enough to drown out BoShek  completely,
"Consider  the banthas of the dunefields. They quail not;  neither
do they sting. They are the holiest of beasts ..."
   Oh,  boy. This guy was the real item. BoShek was glad he hadn't
tried to fake the monastery religion, although the preacher didn't
seem  too  thrilled  to be hearing a competing  doctrine,  either.
Well, it couldn't be helped; BoShek was committed now.
   The  other  preacher resumed his spiel too,  offering  to  heal
anyone who tossed him money.
   BoShek  gladly let them drown him out, babbling  on  about  the
Force  merely to keep up his cover. He could sense the cops behind
him,  three  of them sweeping blast rifles around the  observation
deck.  He  closed his eyes and wished for a miracle,  wished  that
they  would just turn around and march back down the ramp  and  go
away.
   A  high-pitched  Jawa voice chittered angrily from  below.  The
unmistakable crack of blaster fire made BoShek nearly leap out the
window,  but he realized just in time that the shooting  had  come
from  outside, too. He leaned out and peered around the  curve  of
the  hull, and could just see the Jawa lying in a smoking heap  on
the  ground. The patrol squad of white-armored stormtroopers stood
in  the  middle  of the square, waving their blast  rifles  around
menacingly, but no one else fired.
   The   cops  behind  BoShek  rushed  back  down  the   ramp   to
investigate.  BoShek leaned against the window frame for  support,
his  legs  suddenly weak. Whatever the Jawa had  done,  its  noisy
death had distracted the cops long enough for him to escape.
   He turned to go, only to meet a gold-ringed fist with his face.
He  staggered  back and landed hard on the floor. "Mock  us,  will
you?" the preacher snarled at him, aiming a kick at his ribs  that
BoShek barely dodged.
   The  other  preachers quickly joined the first in  kicking  and
hitting  him. "Here's for trying to make people laugh at us!"  one
of  them  said as he nearly wrenched BoShek's arm from its socket.
"And here's for leading the militia up here," another said.
   BoShek  scrambled to his feet, trying to explain. "No, wait,  I
didn't  mean to - " But they weren't interested in excuses.  Under
continual  pummeling, he covered his head and dived for the  ramp,
rolled halfway down it, and came up running. He thought the preach
ers  would leave it at that, but two of them chased him right  out
of  the  wreck and out into the plaza, where the police,  gathered
around  the  Jawa's corpse, turned to see what this new  commotion
was.
   "That's him!" the cop he'd knocked down shouted, and he snapped
off a blaster shot that just missed BoShek's head, blowing a rusty
attitude jet off the side of the wreck instead. BoShek leaped over
the  jet and dashed around the curve of the hull; then when he had
its  bulk between him and his pursuers, he sprinted straight  down
the  street toward the thickest crowd he could see: the buyers and
sellers in front of the Jawa trading center.
   The  preachers were still hot on his tail, which was  the  only
thing  that kept him from getting a blaster bolt in the back.  The
police  were  evidently reluctant to shoot a bona  fide  religious
leader,  even  by  accident, probably fearing  the  trouble  their
followers would cause in retribution.
   Taking  advantage  of  their hesitation, BoShek  ran  past  the
traders and on down the street toward the used-landspeeder lot. He
thought briefly of dodging through the speeders and trying to lose
his pursuers that way, but as he drew closer he saw the triangular-
headed  Arconan dealer gloating over a deal he had just made,  and
he realized his salvation was at hand.
   Running up to the speeder the Arconan had bought -a battered XP-
38A  with  two  engines on the side and a third up  on  a  fin  in
back-he  tossed a fistful of credits at the surprised alien,  then
leaped into the driver's seat and shouted over his shoulder,  "I'm
taking it for a test drive!"
   "No,  wait! What do you think you're-" the Arconan wailed,  but
BoShek  didn't  stick  around to argue.  The  engines  were  still
running; he jammed the accelerator on full and zoomed away, nearly
running  over  a cylindrical droid before he swerved  the  speeder
farther out into the street.
   The  cops  took a couple of wild shots at him, but  the  energy
bolts  only succeeded in making the people in the street dive  for
cover. BoShek zoomed down the clear avenue, took the corner at the
end of the block at full speed, and continued on.
   Two   blocks  farther,  he  slowed  for  another  corner,  then
proceeded  at  a  more normal speed to the next corner,  where  he
turned  again and tried to blend into what little vehicle  traffic
there  was.  His zigzag course was leading him in  a  loop  around
Docking  Bay 94. Good. The jumbled streets dead-ending at the  bay
would  keep the police busy for a long time, if they even bothered
to look for him anymore.
   He  was thinking about ditching the speeder and heading back to
the  monastery  when he turned another corner  and  found  himself
gliding  toward a patrol of four stormtroopers who stood  blocking
the  street. One of the troopers raised a hand with his palm  out,
indicating that BoShek should stop.
   They  didn't  have their rifles drawn, which  meant  they  were
probably  just  stopping everyone on the street  for  questioning.
Even  so,  there  was no way BoShek could get past  them  or  turn
around and flee before they could unsling their blasters and  take
him  out. He forced himself to let up on the accelerator and drift
to a stop before the troopers, all the while frantically trying to
think of a way out of this latest predicament.
   "What's  your business here?" the patrol leader asked him.  His
voice  was  distorted by the full battle helmet he wore,  and  the
bubble  lenses of his visor kept BoShek from seeing where  he  was
looking.
   "I'm, uh, just headed down to the cantina," BoShek told him.
   "I see. Is this your landspeeder?"
   "I'm test-driving it," BoShek said.
   "A likely story. Let's see your-" The stormtrooper's words were
drowned  out  by the roar of a ship taking off under full  thrust.
BoShek winced at the blast as the ship cleared the rooftops,  then
did  a  double  take when he recognized its outline.  It  was  the
Millennium Falcon.
   Looks like the old mart must have made it, he thought. Too bad,
in a way; he could have used a little bit of his luck right now.
   But  it wasn't luck, was it? The guy knew about the Force,  and
by the way he talked and the way he handled a lightsaber, he was a
master  at it. He'd probably used its power to manipulate his  way
past  all the obstacles. A little roadblock like this would hardly
make him sweat.
   Well,  BoShek  was sweating plenty. The stormtroopers  had  all
turned to watch the ship blast free, but
   they would be bringing their attention back to him soon enough.
   Go check out the docking bay, BoShek thought at them. Go bother
somebody else. Whatever, just let me go.
   What had the old man told him about the Force? "Beware the dark
side,"  he'd said. "Only the pure of heart can ever hope to  wield
the  Force's  power with any success." And he'd told BoShek  he'd,
have  to  resolve his role here on the edge of society  before  he
could continue his journey.
   Great.  Stealing  the landspeeder had probably  nixed  whatever
chance he'd ever had at using the Force.
   But  he hadn't actually stolen it, now had he? He'd tossed  the
Arconan who'd bought it at least fifty credits, and while  it  was
true  that  he'd  only been hoping to keep the landspeeder  dealer
from  raising the alarm for a few minutes, he could still take  it
back.
   All  right,  he thought, directing his thoughts  out  into  the
vastness  of  space where he imagined the Force accumulated.  I'll
take  the  speeder back just as soon as I get free, and I'll  quit
running hot ships for smugglers and I'll clean up the rest  of  my
act, as long as you get me out of this mess.
   He  didn't  really  expect it to work. The  Force  wasn't  some
judgmental  god  deciding a person's fate; like the  old  man  had
implied,  the Force just was. It didn't care what BoShek promised.
The  power  to  manipulate it came from within, and BoShek  wasn't
foolish enough to believe he had reached internal harmony  in  the
last few seconds. But maybe, just maybe, he had changed enough  to
make a difference.
   He  concentrated  all his effort on the stormtroopers,  willing
them  to  let him go, and he was almost sure he felt something,  a
twinge  of  awareness directed toward them. An answering sensation
came  back, as if they too possessed some rudiments of the  Force,
or had once been exposed to it. They seemed to feel his touch; all
four of them turned in unison to regard the land-speeder again.
   BoShek  could  hardly breathe. Fog your brains, he  thought  at
them. Forget I'm here.
   "How long have you had these droids?" the storm-trooper captain
asked.
   "Huh?"  BoShek  turned  his  head toward  the  passenger  seat,
wondering how he could have missed seeing a droid there, but  save
for himself the speeder was empty:
   "I-" he said, but the trooper cut him off.
   "Let me see your identification."
   Here  we  go, BoShek thought. He reached slowly for  his  belt,
wondering  if  he  could grab his blaster and take  out  all  four
troopers, but the captain's next words stopped him cold.
   "We  don't  need  to see his identification," he  said  to  the
others. "These aren't the droids we're looking for."
   Bewildered,  BoShek could only say, "That's . .  .  uh,  that's
good."
   "You  can  go about your business," the trooper said. He  waved
his arms in dismissal. "Move along."
   BoShek's  field  of vision was shot full of  tracers  from  the
sudden  rush of relief. He had to take a deep breath to keep  from
fainting,  but  he  managed to urge the  landspeeder  forward  and
around the corner before he pulled it to a stop and collapsed back
against the seat.
   He  had  no idea what had just happened, except for one  thing:
The   Force   was  real,  and  he  had  somehow  manipulated   the
stormtroopers with it.
   But not without a price. He imagined the old man, probably half
a light-year away by now, still watching over him somehow, waiting
to see if he would follow through on his promise.
   Would  he?  It was hardly a question. BoShek had been  given  a
glimpse  of  something  vast,  something  at  once  wonderful  and
terrifying.  Beware the dark side, the old man had told  him,  and
BoShek  knew  the warning was sincere. He could use this  newfound
power  of  his for good or for evil, but once he made the  choice,
there  would  be no. going back. He was standing at a  crossroads,
and  whatever decision he made now would affect the  rest  of  his
life.
   Smiling  for  the  first  time in what seemed  like  hours,  he
started  the landspeeder and began driving it back to its rightful
owner.
   
   
   Doctor Death: The Tale of Dr. Evazan and Ponda Baba
   by Kenneth C. Flint
   
   The  odd  scraping sound could be heard even above the  distant
rumble of thunder.
   One  of  the  two  figures seated at the dining  table  twisted
around, cocking its head to listen.
   "What's that?" a gruff voice demanded. "Rover, go check!"
   Something  shifted  in a shadowed corner. A mass  slid  forward
with  a  wet,  sucking  sound, coming into the  light.  It  was  a
gelatinous form, a mucuslike mass of
   greasily  shining  bile-green that humped and slithered  itself
over  the  floor as a ring of slender, bulb-tipped stalks  wavered
atop  the  rounded mass. It oozed on across the width of the  long
dining  room toward one of the arched window openings in  the  far
wall.
   "I  wouldn't have believed a Meduza could be trained  at  all,"
the second figure at the table remarked with some surprise.
   The first man turned back to the guest seated across the dining
table  from  him. "On the contrary, Senator. It's  quite  easy  to
train.  One of the most malleable species I've found, in  fact.  I
wish there were more like it."
   The  man's face was obscured by a massive scar disfiguring  the
right side, leaving the right eye a slit in the sagging flesh  and
flattening out the nose, giving him a piggish look.
   "I  can  unfortunately imagine what things you  wish  for,  Dr.
Evazan," the Aqualish senator replied with a shudder of revulsion.
Generally humanoid, he had walruslike features, with large, liquid
black  eyes  and thick, incurving tusks. Short bristling  whiskers
lined die stubby snout that was split by a wide, thin mouth.
   The  senator lifted a hand to clutch the glass before him.  The
hand  was  finlike,  fingerless, but with an opposable  thumb.  It
marked  him as a member of the more prominent of the two  Aqualish
races, and thus belonging to their ruling classes. He drank deeply
of  the dark green Andoan ale within the glass as he watched Rover
nervously.
   The  gelatinous creature had by now reached one of  the  window
openings.  Heaving itself into a higher peak, it poised a  moment,
its bulbed stalks jerking about as if sniffing the air.
   Beyond  die opening, the vast sea of the water planet  of  Ando
stretched  away  to  a gray-black horizon. In  the  boiling  storm
clouds that hung there, spectacular lightning flickered and flared
to light the towering thunderheads.
   The  deep boom of thunder rolled across the gale-churned  waves
to  rebound from die sheer stone walls of the spired casde perched
high  upon the cliffs. Hundreds of meters below the casde  window,
fists of massive waves slammed themselves against the base of  the
rocky  isle,  splaying  to  white fingers  that  grabbed  futilely
upward.
   The  full  magnificence of the wild scene was somewhat obscured
by  a  shimmering scrim of light created by the energy shield that
formed a screen across each opening.
   The  bloblike  creature sank back down. Its  pod-tipped  stalks
turned  toward Evazan at once and waved to him, as  if  in  urgent
signal.
   Dr. Evazan cocked the remaining eyebrow above his left eye. His
half-blasted face expressed no other sign of emotion.
   "You might just want to drop down under the table now," he told
his guest in a quite matter-of-fact voice.
   The  Aqualish senator stared in astonishment as one of Evazan's
hands  appeared  from under the table clutching a blaster  pistol.
The  other  hand  lifted to punch one button on a  small  tabletop
console, and then a second.
   All the lights went out.
   Simultaneously a sizzling sound came from beyond  the  windows,
and the energy screens of diree openings were punctured inward  as
three forms dived through them from outside.
   The  senator gave a shrill honk of terror and dived beneath the
thick tabletop.
   The  three forms hit the floor, rolled, and came in-stantly  to
their  feet.  A  flicker  of distant lightning  illuminated  three
humanoid shapes as they lifted blaster rifles to fire.
   Evazan was already rolling from his chair toward the shelter of
a  conform lounge. He fired as he went, his bolt striking  one  of
the diree forms squarely.
   The  attacker let out a grunt of pain as he staggered and  went
down.  The other two dived for cover. Bolts from opposing  weapons
crisscrossed the dark room, cracking into stone walls and  ripping
through furnishings.
   One  of  the attackers was so intent on hitting Evazan, he  was
not  aware of something creeping up-not until a liquid sound  made
him whip about just as Rover lunged.
   The  intruder had no chance for defense as the Meduza's  stalks
all  shot forward, touching their pod ends to the other's face and
chest.  Each pod flared brightly, and the victim's form stiffened,
shuddering  as  if  an  electric shock coursed  through  it,  then
collapsed.
   Evazan's twisted mouth lifted in a grotesque smile. "Good  boy,
Rover,"  he  muttered. But the smile vanished as he looked  toward
the  room's door, adding in an irked tone, "But where in hell  are
you, Ponda?"
   He  moved  out  from his cover, crawling about the  dark  room,
angling  for a shot at the last foe. As Evazan lifted up  to  take
aim  at  the last place he had seen the other, that final  invader
drew a bead on the doctor's shadowy form.
   The  door  of  the room burst inward and a new  figure  plunged
through.  A  quick,  well-aimed  blaster  bolt  skewered  Evazan's
attacker, barely saving the doctor from a fatal shot.
   The last body thudded to the floor. Evazan climbed to his feet,
brushing  himself  off.  "About time,  Ponda,"  he  told  the  new
arrival, stepping to the table to switch the lights back on.
   The  returning  illumination  revealed  another  Aqualish  male
clutching a freshly fired blaster. But Ponda Baba's left hand  was
the hairy, talon-fingered hand of one of the lesser Aqualish race.
The  right  hand  and  the  forearm to which  it  was  fixed  were
artificial, and of a rather crude mechanical type, their  skeletal
metal frame uncovered by bioflesh.
   "You're  lucky," Ponda replied in a growl, shoving his  blaster
back  into  a  holster.  "I  almost left  you  to  take  them  all
yourself."
   With that he turned and clomped out of the room.
   The  Andoan  senator  was just rising from beneath  the  dining
table.  Evazan holstered his own weapon and looked  to  his  guest
apologetically.
   "Sorry.  In  the old days, Ponda Baba would have been  in  here
like a shot. A real team we were then."
   "He  ...  ah  ...  works  for you?"  the  senator  said,  still
recovering from shock.
   "We were partners," the doctor tersely explained.
   The  senator seemed dismayed by that. "You know, he is  of  the
lowest caste here on Ando. Its people have dubious morals and most
violent habits. They are treated with so much contempt that few of
them  stay  on  our planet. They go off and often become  galactic
criminals."
   "Well,  Ponda  couldn't have been a better pal to  me,"  Evazan
said, pouring out stiff drinks for them both. "That is, until  one
day on Tatooine. Had a run-in at the Mos Eisley Cantina there.  An
old  man  "with a Jedi lightsaber took off Ponda's right  arm  for
helping me. After that we had a kind of falling-out."
   "He's here now," the senator pointed out. "And it does seem  he
just saved your life."
   "Well, I still owe him an arm," the doctor explained. "He's had
trouble  raising enough credits for a good bionic replacement.  So
we've set up an uneasy alliance until I can help him out. I supply
an arm, he works as my bodyguard . . . supposedly." He took a deep
draft of his ale.
   "What about them?" asked the senator, looking toward the downed
attackers.
   "Them?"  said Evazan, shrugging carelessly. "Just  more  bounty
hunters. Must have climbed all the way up here."
   He  set down his glass and walked toward one of the bodies.  It
was  clad in a gray jumpsuit and helmet, like the other two,  with
an equipment belt around the waist. He rolled it over with a foot,
revealing  the staring, slack-jawed face of a human male,  swarthy
of complexion, lean and sharp of feature.
   Evazan eyed a small device attached at the man's waist.
   "They  used  individual field disrupters  to  get  through  the
screens," he said thoughtfully. "Looks like a new type. I'll  have
to  boost shield power." He looked around to the Aqualish,  adding
testily,  "Senator, I shouldn't have to worry about this  kind  of
thing at all. You're supposed to be protecting me, making sure  no
one can even get near here with equipment like that."
   "We  can't screen and search everyone who comes to the planet,"
the senator said defensively. "The security we've provided for you
is already very great and incredibly expensive."
   Evazan  shook  his head. "Still not enough. This is  the  third
attempt on my life here. They get better every time."
   "We  had  rather assumed that hiding you in such a fortress  on
such  an  isolated isle would be protection enough,"  the  senator
returned  with an indignant tone. "Of course, we didn't know  then
that half the galaxy was trying to hunt you down."
   Evazan  stepped back toward him. "Are you saying I'm not  worth
it?" he demanded.
   "It  is  that very point about which I'm here," was  the  stern
reply.
   "All  right,"  the doctor assented. "We'll talk about  it."  He
waved at the dining table. "Do you want to finish our meal first?"
   The  senator  looked at their plates still  filled  with  food.
"Eat?" he said, then looked toward the bodies. "What about them?"
   "Oh, Rover will take care of it," said Evazan.
   The blob had already crawled up to one of the dead men. drawing
its  viscous  mass  over the form, engulfing and  hiding  it.  The
creature  began to quiver in excitement and gave forth a  slurping
noise.
   "He  cleans up all leftovers," Evazan said. "It's part  of  why
I've  been  able  to train him with such ease. He's  so  well  fed
here."
   "I'm really not very hungry anymore," the Aqualish said. He sat
down  and took a very deep gulp of ale. "Let's just get on to  the
point  of my visit, shall we? I don't want to ... I mean, I  don't
have much time to stay here."
   "Fine,"  said  the  doctor, taking a seat,  too.  "What's  your
problem?"
   "Credits," the senator replied bluntly. "This whole project has
gotten  at  of  hand.  Supplying this place  and  your  laboratory
facilities  was  costly  enough. And now  there's  security.  This
incident only underscores the problem. It's costing our government
a fortune!"
   "And  well worth one," Evazan returned, leaning forward on  the
table  to  speak with intensity. "For decades now you've been  all
but  slaves of the Empire, living by its orders. You've lost  your
pride  and your identity to survive. Just how much are you willing
to pay to get loose from your chains?"
   Rover had finished ingesting the first body. Leaving only a man-
shaped wet spot on the stone, it crawled to a second form.
   "No  amount  would be too great to be free of the Empire,"  the
senator admitted, trying not to watch the creature's grisly  work.
"Still,  my  appropriations  subcommittee  needs  reassurance   to
continue your financing. Our present budget squeeze-"
   "Your  budget be scorched!" Evazan shouted. "When I  finish  my
research,  you'll  have a secret so valuable to  the  Empire  that
they'll give you your freer dom and anything else you'd want."
   "Yes,  yes, so you assure us," the senator replied. "But  we've
had  little evidence of late to support your claims for some great
medical  breakthrough. Perhaps if you give me some proofs of  your
progress,  something solid I can take back, then  I  can  convince
them to go on."
   "Fair  enough," the doctor conceded. "I'll show  you  how  very
close  to  total  success I am. It's already been  tested  several
different  ways. In fact, I only need one last thing to  prove  my
breakthrough  works. I have to find a specimen of a  human  male-a
young, strong, healthy, perfectly formed one."
   The senator's large eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Why?"
   "You'll  see for yourself." Evazan got to his feet. "I'll  take
you down to the laboratory right now."
   The  senator  looked up at him. "To your . . . laboratory?"  he
said  with  clear  misgivings. "Is that really necessary,  Doctor?
Surely  some other evidence would suffice. Research data, perhaps,
or-"
   "I  insist," Evazan said. "You have to see what I've done  here
for yourself!"
   The  Aqualish  sighed and, with great reluctance,  got  to  his
feet.
   "This  way,  Senator," said the doctor, ushering him  from  the
room.
   Behind  them  the Meduza noisily finished its second  meal  and
moved  on  to  the  final course. The third dead  man  lay  curled
halfway on his side. A small comlink unit attached to his belt was
partly  visible.  The  tiny green "power on" indicator  light  was
aglow . . .
   Outside the castle, not far above the windows, a single  figure
clung  to  the  sheer stone wall-a man of slender build  and  dark
complexion,  with hawkish features, deep brown eyes, and  a  black
mustache. He was clad like the three dead men.
   Both his feet and one hand were wedged in narrow cracks to hold
him  in  the precarious spot, his body pressed tight to  the  wall
against the tearing wind. His free hand held his own comlink close
to one ear.
   He  had listened in on the conversation between Evazan and  the
senator.  He  had  heard the two depart. Now he  listened  to  the
grotesque  squooshing  sound as the creature  enveloped  his  last
comrade.
   With  a  crackling  of shorted power the comlink  channel  went
dead, and the man's face tightened into a grim expression.
   Hanging his comlink back on his belt, he clambered up the casde
wall with great dexterity, onto a slanting section of roof. A long-
range  comlink  unit in backpack form was fastened to  the  smooth
slate  by suction-support webbing. Cramming his body into a corner
between  the roof and a spire to secure himself against the  wind,
he  pulled  the  conlink headset from the pack and spoke  urgently
into its mouthpiece.
   "Hello, Mother? It's Gurion. Do you copy?" He looked up to  the
clouded sky with some concern. "Are you still up there?"
   "Still in orbit, Gur," came a reply. "What's the report?"
   "All  dead," Gurion answered bluntly. "All but me. Evazan  must
have some heavy protection inside there. They were the best."
   After a heavy silence, the voice came again, carrying a tone of
sorrow not fully masked. "That's it, then. You get off there, Gur.
Right now. We'll pick you up."
   "No.  Not  me,"  he said firmly. "I'm going to go  inside,  get
close to him. It's the only way to be sure of nailing him."
   "By yourself?" said the voice in surprise. "That's suicide!"
   "If  it has to be. I don't care," Gurion said fiercely. "I mean
to get to him, and I think I know how!"
   Within  the casde, Evazan and guest descended a long  spiraling
stairway. The deeper they went into the mysterious lower  sanctums
of  the  doctor's  lair, the more apologetic  the  Andoan  senator
became.
   "For my part, there's never been a question of your integrity,"
the  alien explained in a voice pitched ever higher by his  rising
concern.  "It's  my  Senate colleagues who have  been  picking  up
rumors.  Some  are  saying  you have the  death  sentence  on  ten
systems."
   "Twelve, actually," Evazan said carelessly. "It may be more  by
now. I haven't checked."
   "Really?"  said the senator, his voice rising a bit more.  "And
then  there  have been tales of some of your ...  ah  ...  medical
practices."
   "I  won't  deny  there's some truth to them, too,"  the  doctor
admitted. "I don't apologize for what I've done. It was all  to  a
good end."
   They  reached the bottom of the stairwell. Evazan unlocked  and
opened  a  massive metal door. It creaked back on its hinges,  and
they both passed through.
   Beyond,  a single space took up all the huge castle's  basement
area.  Squat  pillars and heavy arches of stone held up  the  high
ceiling. Stretching into the far shadows, bank after bank of large
glass cylinders glowed faintly, filled with gold liquid . . .  and
something  else.  The senator stepped forward, staring  in  shock.
Each cylinder appeared to contain some type of being.
   He  walked  farther forward, looking down a  row  of  creatures
floating  in amber fluid. There were giant Wookiees and diminutive
Jawas,  skeletonlike  Givins and one-eyed  Abbyssins.  There  were
horned  humanoids  from Devaron and insectlike  creatures  of  the
Kibnon  race, along with countless other species from planets  all
across the galaxy.
   "Are  they . . . dead?" the senator nervously inquired, peering
into  the  cylinder  of a reptilian Arcona who  stared  back  with
blank, jewellike eyes.
   "Unfortunately,"  said  Evazan.  "Preserved   in   my   special
embalming fluid. They're some of my patients who didn't survive my
surgical attempts to help them. But the medical work I did on them
has still been of great value to me."
   The  senator looked at the corpses again, more closely. All had
been  worked upon in a manner that might loosely have been  termed
"surgical,"  though  the word "butchery" might  better  have  been
applied.  Most were mutilated, their bodies slashed open,  various
limb  parts  or  organs  missing. In some cases  the  beings'  own
elements had been replaced with things quite clearly alien.
   "I  say they've helped me," Evazan went on, walking down a  row
of  his  "patients."  "Mostly by showing  where  my  research  had
reached  a dead end" - he cast the senator a ghastly smile  -  "if
you'll pardon the expression."
   "You experimented on them?" the senator said in horror.
   Evazan  waved  the idea away. "Of course not. I meant  to  help
them  through  my  creative techniques. I intended  to  give  them
greater health and longer life. In theory, at least."
   He  touched  the  cylinder holding the eviscerated  form  of  a
rodentlike  Ranat. "I've devoted my whole life to helping  others.
They've called me a madman, a criminal, for my pains. But no one's
understood. I was only using my skills to re-form life in  various
ways,  trying  to create something better." He sighed  and  looked
back to the Aqualish. "But it wasn't enough."
   The  senator looked up and down the long ranks of the  doctor's
victims. "Not enough?"
   "Physical alteration wasn't enough."
   The  doctor  moved  on  to  the next  cylinder.  Within  was  a
particularly  hideous specimen. It was a creature  that  had  been
constructed  of  parts scavenged from dozens of different  beings,
stitched and stapled together to form a patchwork monstrosity.
   "As you see, even cutting and splicing together the best of the
galaxy's  body  parts couldn't achieve the effect  I  wanted."  He
lifted  a hand to touch the scarred right side of his skull.  "No,
it  was  the mind that was the key. That's why my research took  a
new direction. Come over here."
   He led the way along the cylinder rows and into a large area in
the  middle  of the room. Here a complex assemblage of  electronic
equipment towered to the ceiling in a rather precarious  way.  Its
various  systems, rigged together with tangled festoons  of  wire,
crackled  and sizzled uneasily even with the minimal  power  input
now running through them.
   The  key  feature of this haphazard but high-tech pile was  two
platforms  set  with  operating tables. Straps  clearly  meant  to
restrain subjects added to their sinister look. Above each an odd,
sievelike  device dangled by a dozen wires from a  pivoting  boom.
More wires connected these to the central machine.
   "This  is  my  transfer instrument," Evazan said proudly.  "The
main    components   were   modified   from   advanced    Imperial
transmogrification  units  originally  intended  to  alter   droid
programming. Ponda and I managed to 'liberate' this equipment from
an  Imperial  research facility. But I've adapted  it  to  use  on
living beings."
   The  senator had been staring with mixed awe and skepticism  at
the  dubious-appearing mass. Now he looked at Evazan in disbelief.
"Living beings?"
   "Living    brains    also   store   their   gained    knowledge
electronically, much like a recording. That record can be altered,
erased  ...  or  moved. The means to do it is now  sitting  before
you."
   "To what end?"
   "To have something no one has ever had before," said the doctor
grandly. "I'm finally on the brink of creating a practical form of
immortality!"
   The  senator's disbelieving look grew more pronounced. "You are
joking, Doctor."
   "No  joke  at  all," said the other. He moved closer,  speaking
with sober intensity. "Just think of it! Not even the greatest  of
the Jedi Masters with all their powers over matter have achieved a
real immortality. They may be able to prolong life to some extent,
but  they  still decay and die eventually. My method will transfer
the higher levels of a being's intelligence into a fresh, new body
whenever needed, just by the flick of a switch. Think how valuable
that  would be to the Empire. Their greatest rulers, their  finest
military  minds  could  live  on  forever,  gathering  even   more
knowledge with each lifetime."
   "I  suppose  that  is  something the Empire  would  pay  almost
anything for," said the Aqualish, but with grave misgivings in his
tone. "If the thing works."
   "It'll  work," Evazan said confidently, "and I'll soon be  able
to  prove it." He grinned in sardonic delight. "Ironic, isn't  it,
that Evazan, the one they've called Dr. Death, will be the one  to
create such eternal life!"
   A  nearby  intercom  console beeped an  alert  to  an  incoming
transmission. Evazan turned to see the face of Ponda  Baba  appear
in  its tiny viewscreen as a voice came with some urgency from the
speaker.
   "Evazan, someone is at our door!"
   "Our door?" the doctor repeated.
   "At  the sea gate below the castle. Says his aqua-speeder  just
broke down. Wants to call for a lift from here."
   "So he says," Evazan replied. "Let's see him."
   Ponda  punched at his own console and the picture on the screen
shifted  to  show a view of the sea gate area. A small ocean-going
repulsorlift craft sat at the castle's single dock. At the massive
gate stood a most impressive-looking human male.
   He was quite large, with a strapping build, as was evidenced by
the   body-hugging  suit  he  wore.  His  chiseled  features  were
handsome,  and a thatch of blond hair waved about his  well-formed
head.
   Evazan  gazed with great interest upon the man, then he punched
console buttons, bringing Ponda's image back.
   "Let him come up," he ordered. "But only into the foyer. Keep a
watch on him."
   "Are you sure that's smart, Doc?" Ponda inquired.
   "Just do it!" Evazan snapped the intercom off and turned to the
senator.  "You  may  get to see more than you'd  hoped,"  he  said
excitedly. "Today could be the climax of my research!"
   He  rushed  up  from  the  laboratory, the  nonplussed  senator
following.  They entered the castle's huge entrance hall.  In  the
wall  beside  its  main  door  was set  a  control  panel  with  a
surveillance  screen. Ponda Baba was already there, staring  at  a
view of the room beyond the door.
   In a small, bare antechamber to the entrance hall, their blond-
haired visitor stood waiting patiently.
   Evazan  peered over Ponda's shoulder at the man. His  eyes  lit
with an eager glow.
   "This  one  will  be  perfect!"  he  said.  "What  a  piece  of
incredible luck!"
   He  reached past Ponda to flick a switch on the panel. From the
ceiling  light in the anteroom a crimson beam shot down,  striking
the  blond  man's head. He went limp instantly, crumpling  to  the
floor.
   "You killed him?" the Andoan senator said, aghast.
   "Just  stunned  him," the doctor replied. He looked  to  Ponda.
"Help me take him downstairs."
   He  took hold of the door handle, but a hairy paw came down  on
his hand to stop him.
   "Hold  on,  Doc," came Ponda's harsh voice. "You're gonna  make
the transfer to him, aren't you?"
   "He looks as good as any I've ever seen," Evazan admitted. "Why
not?"
   "No, Doc," Ponda barked at him. "Me first!"
   Evazan regarded his erstwhile partner. "What do you mean?"
   "You promised I'd go first. You promised I'd get a body with  a
good arm. I brought you to my planet, helped you set this up, kept
you alive for just that one thing. You cost me my arm on Tatooine.
You owe me. It's time to pay up."
   "How  can  I do that, Ponda?" he reasoned. "My perfect  subject
just showed up at my door. He's here right now!"
   "We're  both lucky then, Doc," Ponda answered. "You got  yours.
I've got mine."
   Realization dawned in the doctor's face. As one, both  of  them
turned toward the Aqualish senator.
   The  senator had listened to their dialogue with growing alarm.
As they looked to him, his expression grew taut with horror.
   "He's not young," Evazan commented critically.
   "He's  one of the ruling class, though," Ponda replied. "I  get
an arm, and I get power, too."
   "You . . . you can't mean what I think," the senator gasped.
   "We   do,"   said   the  doctor,  pulling  out   his   blaster.
"Congratulations.  You'll be helping to  make  a  great  step  for
science." He gestured with the gun. "Get going, please."
   "You  can't  do  this!" the senator cried as they  marched  him
downstairs   to   the  lab.  "What  about  your  financing?   Your
protection?"
   "I  won't  need  either  anymore," the  doctor  replied.  "I'll
finally  be able to acquire a whole new identity. Be free of  this
scarred  face. I can go out of here safe from bounty hunters,  and
with a secret that can change the galaxy."
   "That's what you intended from the start, isn't it?" the  other
guessed. "Just to help yourself!"
   "What  else?"  said  Evazan, laughing cruelly.  He  shoved  the
senator  through the doorway into the lab. "Now, go get onto  that
left table. Quick."
   He  and  Ponda  hustled the hapless senator to  the  table  and
strapped  him upon its top. Evazan pulled the left-hand boom  down
closer,  and fastened its dangling metal helmet over the  dome  of
the captive's head.
   Ponda  swiftly took a place on the other table. Evazan repeated
the  process of buckling restraints and fitting the other Aqualish
with the second weird headpiece. Then he stepped away to a bank of
controls.
   He  pulled  levers, rotated dials, and watched readout  screens
indicating  the  surge of power. The machine sizzled  loudly  now,
alive  with enormous energy. The great pile of its parts shuddered
visibly, threatening to tumble down.
   As the indicators showed he'd reached maximum power, he threw a
red  double-handled switch. Blue-white sparks like tiny  lightning
bolts  flickered downward along the wires, into the metal  helmets
on  the  two  heads.  The strapped-down bodies  both  jerked  spas
modically.
   Evazan watched a pair of dials right beneath the red switch. As
the  indicator on the left moved one way, its counterpart  on  the
right  moved the other. In only seconds the two needles had buried
themselves on opposite sides of their dials.
   With  a  cackle of glee the doctor slapped the power levers  to
Off.  The  flickering lights quickly faded, and the  crackling  of
energy died away.
   "It's done! It's worked!" Evazan chortled, running to the table
holding  the elder Andoan's body. "Ponda! I've done it!" he  said,
undoing the straps. "How do you feel?"
   But the Aqualish who had once been the senator lay quite still,
apparently unconscious.
   "It's okay," Evazan assured, patting the being. "You'll be fine
soon. Just rest there. I've got to see to my own new body!"
   He  left  the laboratory, all but running back up to  the  main
hall.  His  eyes  gleamed with a wild look of nearly  overwhelming
anticipation. He threw open the door to the anteroom  and  charged
in. His splendid specimen still lay motionless.
   He  knelt beside the man, gloating over his perfect body.  "All
I've  wanted,"  he said. "Youth, strength . . .  and  an  unmarked
face! I hope he's unharmed."
   He put out a hand to lay on the man's heart.
   The  hand  vanished down through the massive chest  as  if  the
flesh had opened to swallow it!
   He   jerked   his  hand  back,  staring  in  astonishment.   "A
holoshroud!" he gasped.
   His  hand  shot to grip the butt of his blaster. But the  other
man  sat  suddenly upright, swiftly striking out.  A  fist  thrust
forward to slam into Eva/an's face. The blow knocked him backward,
sprawling at full length, stunned.
   Before the doctor could recover, the blond man was on his feet.
The   image  of  his  large  form  wavered,  faded,  and  vanished
completely,  revealing the figure of a thin and hawkfaced  man  of
dark complexion with a black mustache. One hand rested on the belt
control  for  the holographic disguise, the other  hand  held  the
grenadelike shape of a powerful thermal detonator. Its thumb guard
was  already  pushed  back,  and the man's  thumb  rested  on  the
detonator button.
   "Toss the gun away, Evazan," the man grated out, "or we'll both
go up together."
   Evazan  drew out his blaster gingerly and heaved it  far  away.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
   "Gurion's  the name. I've been trying to get you  for  a  long,
long time. Get on your feet."
   "Pretty  smart of you to use that disguise," Evazan  told  him,
climbing up. "You'd never have gotten in here otherwise."
   "That's  just  what I figured. Now, get moving, you  butchering
monster.  Take  me to the roof. Some friends'll be picking  us  up
there."  Gurion  gestured meaningfully with  the  bomb.  "I  said,
move!"
   Evazan readily complied. They went into the main entry hall and
up a broad staircase.
   As  they turned the corner on the first landing to start  up  a
second  flight, Evazan glanced down to see a shimmering first  bit
of  Rover ooze through a doorway into the hall below. He smiled to
himself.
   "Look  here," he told his captor, intent on keeping  the  man's
attention on him, "this is crazy. I'm going to be a very rich man.
I don't know how much bounty you're after, but I can pay you a lot
more."
   "I'm  not after bounty," Gurion shot back. "My family  name  is
Silizzar. Sound familiar?"
   Evazan  blanched at the name. "I-I may have had a-a patient  or
two-" he stammered.
   Gurion cut him off. "You treated my whole family. For a stomach
disorder caused by a poison you gave them as medicine! You  gutted
them  one  by  one like so many fish. Seven people! None  of  them
survived.  No,  I  don't want money for you. This  is  purely  for
revenge!"
   Several  flights higher they reached a small door  that  opened
onto  a  flat area of the roof. A brisk wind from the  sea  tugged
sharply  at their clothes as they came out. The distant  lightning
flickered  eerily on the scene, and the deep growling of  the  far
thunder made a constant, ominous background sound.
   Gurion directed Evazan around the roofs edge, close to the spot
where his backpack comlink was secured.
   "Just  stand  there like stone," Gurion warned. He  lifted  the
bomb. "Remember, if I push this button, we've both only got a  few
seconds  to live. I'd rather take you back to stand trial for  all
the  other beings you've murdered. But I won't hesitate to  finish
it right here!"
   "I'm a statue," Evazan readily agreed.
   Gurion fetched his backpack and crouched beside it to take  out
the  comlink's headset. He kept an eye on the doctor as  he  spoke
into the mouthpiece.
   "Mother, it's Gurion. Do you still copy me?"
   "Still here, my friend. What's happened?"
   "I've  got  our baby here, alive. I'm up on the roof.  Can  you
come get us?"
   "On our way!" the voice said jubilantly. "Mother out."
   Out of the corner of one eye, Evazan saw the door onto the roof
push  open. One bulb-tipped stalk poked cautiously out around  it,
sensing the air ahead.
   "There'll  be  a  shuttle here for us in a few  minutes,"  said
Gurion as he put his comlink headset away.
   The  doctor  took a couple of casual steps around  him  to  get
Gurion's back to the door.
   "You've  really  got to listen to me," Evazan said  pleadingly.
"I've  got  a secret. Right here. An invention. A very big  thing.
Too valuable for anyone to turn down."
   "Not  for  me,"  the  other said flatly, his  hard  gaze  fixed
unwaveringly on his foe.
   The  shining  mass  of  Rover squeezed through  the  door.  The
creature  began to slither forward slowly, noiselessly. Flickering
lightning glinted from its gelatinous form.
   "But  with  it I can make you live forever," the doctor  argued
on. "Real immortality. Everybody wants that."
   "Do you actually think giving me more lifetimes can make up for
all  the lives you stole?" Gurion said in disbelief. "You're  even
more demented than I thought."
   Rover  was  now  only  meters behind  the  crouching  man.  The
creature  began to hump up higher, its stalks shifting forward  to
strike out.
   In  the  tiny mirrors of Evazan's eyes Gurion saw the  Meduza's
twin  reflections as a brighter lightning flare gleamed  from  its
surface.  He  sprang upright, wheeling around  to  see  the  thing
nearly on him.
   Rover struck just as he jumped back away from it. Only a single
bulb's tip managed to graze Gurion's knee with a sharp crackle  of
power.
   The  man cried out at the stinging pain and staggered. The  arm
holding the bomb dropped down.
   Evazan  leaped  instantly for the arm. His two  hands  clenched
tight  on  Gurion's  wrist  and  he shook  hard.  The  untriggered
detonator came loose and bounced away across the flat roof, coming
to rest before the door.
   With  his  captor disarmed, Evazan tried to break away  to  let
Rover finish things. But Gurion grappled tight with him, his hands
going for the doctor's throat.
   "I'll kill you with my bare hands!" he snarled.
   Evazan  stumbled backward as he fought wildly to  break  loose.
Gurion hung on with a strength born of his rage.
   The  back  of the doctor's foot hit the roofs edge. Desperately
he  swung  about, dragging Gurion off balance and out into  space.
The man fell.
   Gurion's  own  weight  tore his hands free  from  the  doctor's
throat. But the last downward jerk overbalanced Evazan also.
   For  a  moment  the doctor teetered on the brink, flailing  out
with  his arms for balance. When that failed, he twisted his  body
violently around, grabbing out for the roofs edge as he went  over
it.
   His  agility saved him. He hung on fiercely, dangling at  arm's
length  against  the  sheer stone face. Below him,  Gurion's  form
plunged downward, striking the jagged cliffs at several spots.
   Evazan glanced down to see the body make the final crash into a
surging  wave.  He then turned his attention to ensuring  his  own
safety, but he quickly found this was not so easy a task. His arms
alone  weren't  strong enough to pull him up. His scrabbling  feet
could find no holds in the smooth stone.
   A  noise came from above him. He looked up as the toes of boots
appeared  over the edge just inches from his face. His gaze  moved
on  up  the  body to see that it was Ponda Baba who  stood  there,
staring down at him.
   "P-Ponda!" he gasped out, at first with great relief. But a new
realization swiftly turned relief to surprise. "But . . . how! You
here? The-the transfer ... it didn't work?"
   "Oh,  it  worked, Doctor," came a voice no longer like that  of
his old friend. "But it worked backward."
   "Backward?" he echoed.
   "That's right. And so you've condemned me to the loathsome form
of  one  of my people's lowest breed of scum." The Aqualish lifted
the  hairy  arm  that marked him as a social  pariah  on  his  own
planet. "You've destroyed my life as a senator, Doctor. So  now  I
am going to destroy yours!"
   The  mechanical arm lifted. In its jointed fingers was clutched
the  thermal  detonator. The metal thumb rested on the  triggering
button.
   "No!" cried Evazan. "No, no, wait! You can't!"
   "Good-bye, Doc!" the new Ponda Baba said simply.
   He  pushed  the  button, dropped the bomb, turned,  and  strode
away.
   "No, no!" Evazan screamed out as the bomb's timer ticked down.
   With the strength of desperation he hauled himself up. His eyes
cleared the edge. He glimpsed the ticking bomb, and just beyond it
the Meduza's form.
   "Rover!" he shouted to it. "Hellllp meeee!"
   Far above, a small shuttle skimmed down through the atmosphere,
flashing  high across the waves. The rocky isle with the  towering
castle  lay  straight ahead. Two men of Gurion's  lean  build  and
swarthy complexion sat at the controls.
   "There it is," one said. He looked to his companion. "Get ready
to hover above the roof, while I get out the boarding-"
   A great flash of light from ahead interrupted him. An explosion
enveloped the entire castle top.
   Both  men  stared with astonishment as the upper  half  of  the
structure  disintegrated in the initial blast.  A  cloud  of  fine
debris billowed up while larger pieces showered out and down. Then
the  lower half of the shattered castle collapsed inward, becoming
in seconds a vast rubble pile.
   "Poor  Gurion," the first man said, looking down at the  broken
remains as they soared overhead.
   "That  blast  probably  attracted Andoan  security,"  said  the
other. "We'd better get well away from here."
   He turned the ship, heading upward again.
   "At  least Gurion got his revenge on that lunatic Evazan,"  the
first man said as they left the ruins behind ...
   Far  below,  halfway down one rugged side of the castle's  high
cliffs, a large bile-green mound of goo lay motionless on a ledge.
From  its  splattered edges a thick yellow oil  ran,  dripping  in
greasy, fat globules over the edge.
   Then the gellike mass heaved and quivered, bulging upward.  Out
of  the  largest  lump of its center an arm suddenly  shot  forth,
followed by another, and then by the head of Dr. Evazan. He took a
great  shuddering breath as he broke the surface, like  a  swimmer
who'd been long under the sea.
   With  some difficulty he extricated himself from the blob  that
had once been his pet. Though the loyal creature had saved him  by
cushioning  his fall, their hard impact together had squashed  the
Meduza's life from it.
   "Thanks, Rover," he said, plucking a last clinging streamer  of
the  slime  off  his shirt. He bent and patted the ruptured  mass.
"Sorry, boy."
   He looked upward to the blasted castle.
   "Backward," he said regretfully. "Damn!" Then he shrugged. "Oh,
well. Maybe I'll get it right next time."
   And with that he began the long climb downward to the sea.
   
   
   Drawing the Maps of Peace: The Moisture Farmer's Tale
   by M. Shayne Bell
   
   Day 1: A New Calendar
   I  thought: This is it. I won't get out of this one. I topped a
dune  in my landspeeder-going fast, always fast-and saw eight Sand
People  standing around the vaporator I'd come out to fix.  I  had
seconds,  then, to decide what to do: Plunge ahead over  the  last
dunes to save a malfunctioning vaporator whose output I needed, or
turn  around  and speed back to the defenses of my house  and  two
droids. I gunned the speeder ahead.
   The Sand People scattered and ran, and I watched where they ran
so  I'd  know  where they might attack from. All for .5  liter  of
water,  I  thought. I was risking my life for .5 liters of  water.
The  vaporator's production was down thirty percent to  maybe  one
liter  a  day, and I had to get its production up to the  standard
1.5  and  keep it there, the farm was that close to the  edge,  so
close that every vaporator had to work at maximum or I'd lose  the
farm.
   In  seconds I was at the vaporator, stopped in a cloud of  dust
and sand my speeder raised. I couldn't see the Sand People, though
their musky scent lingered around the vaporator in the heat at the
end  of  the day. The shadows of the canyon walls were lengthening
across the dunes on the valley floor.
   It  would soon be dark, and I was in a canyon where Sand People
had come, far from home.
   Human  technology  scared the Sand People-my speeder  certainly
had-but  they wouldn't stay scared for long. I grabbed my  blaster
and jumped out of the speeder to see what damage they had done  to
the vaporator.
   A  smashed  power indicator. One cracked solar cell.  Scratches
around the door to the water reservoir, as if they had been trying
to get to the water. The damage was minimal.
   But  what  to  do  now? I couldn't guard all  of  my  far-flung
vaporators. I had ten of them, each placed in a half kilometer  of
sand  and rock, not the standard quarter kilometer-I was so  close
to the Dune Sea that a vaporator needed twice the land to pull the
1.5  liters of water worth harvesting out of the air. If the  Sand
People had figured out that vaporators held water and if they were
determined  to  get into them, my farm would be  ruined.  I  could
replace   power  displays  and  solar  cells.  I  couldn't   guard
vaporators kilometers apart from Sand People who wanted water.
   I heard a low grunt over a dune to the north, and I immediately
crouched  down against the vaporator and scanned the horizon.  The
grunt sounded like a wild bantha waking from the heat of day,  but
I knew it wasn't bantha. The Sand People were coming back.
   They were determined to get this water.
   And why shouldn't they, I suddenly wondered? Before I came, the
water  collected inside my vaporator would have been their  water,
distilled out of the air in the morning dew, not pulled out at all
hours  of the day by a machine. They must have been desperate  for
water  to have come up to a human machine, to have touched it,  to
have  tried to open it. What were they suffering to drive them  to
this?
   I  heard  more "bantha" grunting south of me, over  the  dunes,
then  to the east and west, and finally to the north again. I  was
surrounded, and an attack would come in minutes.
   Suddenly I realized what I had to do. "Go ahead and waste  your
profits," Eyvind, who owned the farm closest to mine three valleys
over,  would say, "waste your profits so I can buy your farm cheap
from  your  creditors when they force you off  the  land."  But  I
wouldn't listen to Eyvind's voice in my head, and I wouldn't  have
listened  to  him  if  he'd been with me  then.  I  spoke  to  the
vaporator, and a panel slid back from in front of the controls.  I
punched  in  the number sequence I'd programmed, and I  heard  the
vaporator  sealing  the pouch of water in the reservoir.  When  it
finished, the door in front of the reservoir slid open.  I  pulled
out  the  pouch  and set it on the sand west of the vaporator,  in
shade out of the light from the second setting sun. I took out  my
knife  and made a tiny slit in the top, where the air was, so  the
Sand People could smell the water and get to it.
   I  punched  in the command to close the door to the  reservoir,
then  told the vaporator to close the door over its controls,  ran
to  my speeder, and flew it to the top of a dune southwest of  the
vaporator.  I  could  see no Sand People, but  I  knew  they  were
masters at blending into a terrain and surprising the unwary.  I'd
heard  plenty of stories about just how quick - and deadly -  they
could be with their gaffi sticks, the double-bladed axlike weapons
they made from scavenged metal off the Tatooine wastes. I sat  low
in my speeder and tried to watch for any movement - I did not dare
fly  farther  away: They were all around me and they would  surely
throw  their  axes if I tried to run, and I did  not  fancy  being
beheaded  in  my  own  landspeeder. Besides, I  hoped  they  would
recognize what I had done: that I had given them water. I did  not
know,  then, if I could hope it would buy my life and their  trust
and thus my farm.
   I  saw movement: one of the Sand People, coming from the north,
slowly, low over the sand toward the vaporator and the water. When
he  reached  the  water pouch in the shadow of the  vaporator,  he
knelt  in  the sand and smelled the bag: smelled the water  inside
it.  He  lifted his head slowly and gave out one keening cry  that
echoed  through  the canyon. Soon I counted eight Sand  People-no,
ten-hurrying toward the water, from all directions, four making  a
wide berth around my speeder.
   Only  one of them, a small one-young?-took a drink. Two  others
poured  the  rest of the water in a thin pouch of animal  skin  to
take  with  them,  and  they did not Spill any  water.  When  they
finished,  the one who had first smelled the water looked  at  me.
Then  they all looked at me. They did not speak or make any noise,
and  they  did not run. The one who had smelled the water suddenly
raised his right arm and held up a clenched fist.
   I  jumped  from the speeder, walked a few steps  from  it,  and
raised my right arm and clenched my fist in return. We stood  like
that,  looking at each other, for some time. I had. never been  so
close to them before. I wondered if they had ever been so close to
a human. A light breeze from the east down the canyon blew over us
and  cooled  us,  and  abruptly all the  Sand  People  turned  and
disappeared in the dunes.
   They did not destroy my vaporator. They did not try to kill me.
They  left  the vaporator alone after I gave them the  water,  and
they left me alone. They had accepted my gift.
   I pledged, then, to leave them the water from this vaporator. I
would miss selling the water, I knew that- I needed to sell it-but
it seemed a small price to pay if by giving them a few liters they
would then not ruin my vaporators. I could make do with the output
of  the  other nine vaporators for a short time-and meanwhile  buy
two of Eyvind's old second-generation vaporators to fix. When they
came  on-line, my output would be back to the minimum I'd need  to
survive.
   All  this effort seemed a small price to pay to be able to live
near the Sand People in peace.
   I counted the days of my farm from that day.
   
   Day 2: A Farm on the Edge
   Eyvind  had told me I was crazy to come out this far.  "No  one
has  gone  that  far,"  he  said. "I can't  believe  the  moisture
patterns  consistently  flow up those  canyons  -  you're  only  a
handful of kilometers from the Dune Sea!"
   But  I had tested the moisture patterns: There was water to  be
had  there.  Not  a lot. It would not be a rich farm,  like  those
outside  Bestine,  but one morning when I was  camped  in  what  I
thought  of then as a far canyon, I woke on the blanket  I'd  laid
out  on  the  sand, and it was damp from the dew. My clothes  were
damp.  My hair was damp. I pulled the instruments from my  speeder
and  set  them up and they all read one thing: water.  Harvestable
water.  Somehow it blew over the mountains and setded here  before
evaporating in the wastes of the Dune Sea farther west, and it did
it  day after day for the two weeks I spent in that canyon running
tests.  Over  the course of a year, I tested that canyon  and  the
surrounding  canyons twenty-nine more times - I had to  have  that
much  detailed data to prove that this farm could work so I  could
borrow the startup money. But I'd known from that first day when I
woke up with damp hair that I could have a farm here.
   I  spent months filling out Homestead Act forms and waiting for
a  grant  of  land, then months filling out loan applications  and
waiting for replies, all the while listening to other farmers tell
me  I was crazy. But I had the undeniable facts of my readings  to
hand anyone who could authorize my homestead or loan me the start-
up  money  or  even just listen and offer advice, and finally  the
manager  at  the Zygian branch bank did listen - and  he  read  my
reports,  checked  my background to see whether  I  knew  anything
about  moisture farming, which I did, and whether I would keep  my
word, which I would. He loaned me the money.
   He gave me ten thousand days to pay him back.
   Ten  thousand days was enough time to make any dream come true,
I thought.
   I  lay  on  my bed in the dark at the end of a hard day,  after
leaving  the  Sand People the water I'd pledged them,  remembering
all  this, remembering how badly I'd wanted to come out here,  how
hard  I'd worked to get my homestead and the loan and then to  set
up  my farm. Not once had I thought about who might already be out
here, depending on this land I called my farm.
   I rolled over and asked the computer to display the holomap I'd
made of my farm and this region.
   "The files you have requested can only be accessed after a user-
specified security clearance," it said.
   "Please prepare for retinal scan."
   I  stared  for  a few seconds into a bright, white  light  that
suddenly shone out of the monitor. I had to guard my map. I'd made
the  map  myself-after a year of surveying and taking  photographs
that I fed into the computer and working from notes and memory-and
if  the wrong people knew I was making maps it could be dangerous.
I  programmed the computer to display the maps only to me  and  to
never reference them when working with other files; they were  not
cross-referenced or indexed. When asked if such files existed,  it
would  say  no  to anyone's voice but my own. If asked  to  access
them,  it  would  respond and proceed with the security  clearance
only if it heard my voice.
   "Retinal  scan  complete,"  the  computer  said.  "Hello,  Ariq
Joanson. I will display the requested files."
   Part  of  the  wall  I  kept  blank and  white  just  for  this
projection  suddenly became the canyons of my farm seen  from  the
air:  my  house, marked in blue; the vaporators, smaller  dots  of
green,  widely separated; the canyons and mountains and dunes  all
in  natural colors. A red dot far up Bildor's Canyon northeast  of
my  farm  marked a Jawa fortress. White dots marked the houses  of
the  farms closest to mine-and none of those dots were very close.
"You'll be three canyons and kilometers away from me-and I've been
the  farthest one out for two years!" Eyvind had warned. Over  all
the  canyons and mountains and dunes I'd had the computer draw  in
black  lines for the boundaries of the farms. The land lay  spread
out  over  my  wall in the darkness, and the dots for  houses  and
vaporators  gleamed like jewels behind their black  lines.  Except
for  the red jawa dot, all of them represented human houses or  ma
chines. I'd never thought of putting in dots for the nomadic  Sand
People-or of drawing boundaries for them and thejawas.
   "Computer," I said. "Draw in a boundary line from the northeast
border  of  my farm in Bildor's Canyon, along the ridges  on  both
sides of the canyon to a distance of one kilometer above the  Jawa
fortress."
   "Drawn  as requested," the computer responded, and it was.  The
lines appeared.
   "Label the space inside those new lines 'Jawa Preserve.' "
   "Labeled as requested."
   The  words appeared, but I didn't like them. "Relabel the  Jawa
Preserve, the 'Jawa-" What? Land? Reservation? Protectorate? "Just
label it 'Jawa,' " I said.
   "Labeled as requested."
   The  word  "Preserve" disappeared from the map,  and  the  word
"Jawa" centered below the red dot.
   "Now  draw borders west from the northwest boundary of my  farm
to  the  Dune Sea and west from the northernmost boundary  of  the
Jawa land also to the Dune Sea."
   "Drawn as requested."
   "Label that 'Sand People.' "
   The  words  appeared over the land. "Have the  Jawas  and  Sand
People acquired rights to this land?" the computer asked.
   "No," I said. "I'm only daydreaming."
   "Do you wish these changes saved?"
   I  considered  that. "No," I said finally. "It  is  a  fiction.
Erase the changes and shut down."
   It did so.
   I  lay back on my bed. What I had told the computer to draw was
worse  than  a  fiction.  I  had  asked  two  successive  Imperial
Governors to commission a mapping project of this region, with the
same response: "We just don't have the money." Translate that: "We
have  too  many people here who don't want accurate maps  made  of
what  lies beyond the known settlements and farms, and if you want
to  live  to  bring  your next water harvest to Mos  Eisley,  quit
asking for such things."
   So I'd quit asking for them. But it wasn't criminals who needed
to  hide  places  of illegal activity who threatened  my  life  or
livelihood,  yet. It was Sand People violence and Jawa  dishonesty
and  manipulation-all caused in part, I was coming to realize,  by
constant  encroachments  into what had no doubt  been  traditional
Jawa and Sand People territories. Maps would be the first step  to
a  secure  peace for the farmers and Jawas and Sand People-if  you
could get them all to draw in negotiated boundaries on those  maps
and  honor  them.  Without  such  agreements,  farmers  faced  the
equivalent  of blundering around in the dark-setting up  farms  in
areas  where  maybe  no  one  should go,  living  in  places  that
could-and  did-get decent people killed. I wanted the  killing  to
stop.
   But  for  that, we needed a map. The government would not  draw
it.
   So I drew it.
   And I decided, that night, to take my map to the Jawas near  my
farm and talk to them about how to take it to the Sand People.  If
we  agreed  among  ourselves  on how to  live  together  in  these
mountains and canyons, maybe someday the government would make our
agreements official.
   I  looked  at  the monitor for another inevitable retina  scan.
"Computer," I said, "redisplay the map I just requested and redraw
the  boundaries  I had you erase. Copy this file to  the  portable
holo-display unit."
   
   Day 3: In the Jawa Fortress
   I  knew  these Jawas. I had been to the gates of their fortress
many  times,  especially during the year  I  spent  measuring  the
moisture  in the canyons of my farm: They would come out to  trade
water for trash I'd found in the desert and for information. about
the  Empire and its cities and the systems that made them work and
the  alien races and how to deal with them. I tried to be good  to
the  Jawas, and fair. If they got the better of me in a few deals,
I'd  come out ahead in a few others, and the tally remained  about
even.  Some of the Jawas even became my friends-the old ones,  the
ones  I  could learn from who had the patience to teach  me  their
language,  the  uses of native plants, geographic  lore,  j  Their
thick-walled fortress blended into the walls of] the canyon, but I
knew how to fly straight to its closed and hidden gates. I stepped
out  of my speeder and held up the holo-display unit. "Oh, Jawas!"
I  called out. "I come to you with information and to barter." The
gates  opened  at once-the word "barter" would always  open  their
gates-and eight Jawas rushed out. I tried again to see inside, but
could  not in the darkness there. They had never invited me in.  I
had no idea what lay inside. This was a new family fortress, maybe
only  a  hundred  years old, with, I guessed,  fifteen  clans-four
hundred  Jawas. They were jealous of any secrets and wary  of  any
alien,  but  they would talk to me and barter with  me  and  spend
hours outside on the sand.
   The  first  Jawa  to reach me was my old friend Wi-mateeka.  He
began chittering at me in Jawa, slowly, so I could understand.
   "Do  you still come here asking for water now that you farm  it
yourself?" he chittered, and they all laughed.
   "No,"  I said. "But I have brought you a gift of water to thank
you for your generosity to me in the past."
   I set a pouch of water in Wimateeka's arms, and he could barely
hold it up alone. The others crowded around to help him set it  on
the sand and to touch it, to feel the water move inside it.
   "What  else  have  you  brought  us?"  Wimateeka  asked.   "The
knowledge  of  maps,"  I said, "and how the Empire  uses  them  to
decide questions about land. We can use them in the same way."
   I  set  the  holo-display unit on the level  sand  outside  the
fortress,  sand beat down and compacted by the comings and  goings
of  Jawa  crawlers, and I asked the unit to display my  map  close
above  the  sand.  The  Jawas shrieked and rushed  back,  but  not
Wimateeka. He would not leave the water pouch: He kept  his  hands
on it.
   "What is this that you have brought, Ariq?" he asked.
   A  map,  I explained. I told them what maps are and the purpose
of  them, how all the mountains and valleys and sand plains around
us  were  represented here with small replicas, and they began  to
recognize  and point out familiar features, marvel  that  at  this
scale their fortress was as small as the red dot.
   I  explained boundaries to them and what they could mean to us:
How  if they agreed to respect the boundary of the land grant  the
government had given me, I would not go to the government to claim
land farther up the canyon toward their fortress-I would, in fact,
help  them  fill  out  the forms to claim the land  themselves.  I
suggested that they buy and put out vaporators of their  own,  all
down the valley, to the border of my farm. Even if they didn't  do
this,  the  imaginary line between their land and mine would  give
diem some protection, and I told them how I hoped the Empire would
come  to accept the lines we agreed on and keep other humans  from
making farms in their valley.
   When  I  finished,  the Jawas hurried inside  the  fortress  to
discuss my information and proposal. They took the water. I  asked
Wimateeka to stay outside with me for a short time. We sat in  the
shade of my landspeeder to watch the sunsets while we talked.
   "Can you teach me a Sand People greeting?" I asked him.
   He  looked  up  at  me, surprised. After  a  moment,  he  said:
"Koroghh gahgt takt. 'Blessed be your going out from us.' "
   "No,  a  greeting," I said. "Not a farewell." I thought  I  had
mispronounced the Jawa word for "greeting" the first time I asked.
   "That  is  a  greeting," he said. "The most polite. They  greet
each  other like this because they are always traveling. They will
seldom stay long in one place."
   Not  even  long  enough to develop greetings, I  thought,  only
hasty blessings because they left each other so soon.
   "Say  it again," I asked, and Wimateeka did, and I repeated  it
till I could say it.
   "Why do you want to learn this greeting?" Wimateeka asked me.
   I  explained to him about the Sand People and the water and  my
questions about the land - their land.
   Wimateeka was quiet for a time, looking at me. "The young  Sand
People  are  dangerous in the days that come and for a  time,"  he
said. He explained that this was the time when the adolescents had
to  perform  some great deed to earn adulthood, deeds  that  often
included acts of mayhem against non-Sand People races.
   "All  our  crawlers are coming home to wait here  through  this
time,"  he said. "You should take your fellow humans to Mos Eisley
and do the same."
   He  told  me  how  a vast army of young Sand  People  had  once
attacked  a  Jawa  fortress  south  of  us  and  slaughtered   the
inhabitants.  That fortress was still an empty, burned  ruin  that
Wimateeka had once visited. I was lucky the Sand People around  my
vaporator had not been adolescents out to earn adulthood.
   Wimateeka asked me how to operate the holo unit, and I told  it
to  obey  Wimateeka's voice when he asked it to display  the  map,
nothing more. He displayed the map three times, then asked  if  he
could take it to the discussions in the fortress.
   "This  is  not a trade," I said. "I want this holo  unit  back,
unharmed."
   "I  will  bring  it  to you personally," he said.  He  abruptly
snatched up the holo unit and hurried into the fortress.
   I  ate the supper I'd brought with me. After the last sunset, I
laid  blankets out on the sand. I expected to sleep there, blaster
in  hand-especially after Wimateeka's story about the  young  Sand
People's  rite of passage-in the relative safety outside the  Jawa
gates. But in the night, the Jawas came out to me, with torches.
   Wimateeka led them. "You have honored us," he said. He set  the
holo  unit  in front of me. "Extend our boundaries to include  the
valley  west  of  us  to the Dune Sea, and  we  will  accept  your
proposal."
   I displayed the map and told the holo unit to make the boundary
changes.  The Jawas chittered softly when their black lines  moved
to  include  the  valley they asked for. It  was  a  valley  their
crawlers  traveled  through to get to the Dune  Sea  to  scavenge.
Everyone would agree that they needed that valley.
   "It  is  not safe out here on the sand," Wimateeka said. "Bring
your blankets, your speeder, and your holo unit and come inside to
spend the rest of the night with us."
   I hadn't expected this. I got up at once and folded my blankets
and  stowed  them and the holo unit in my speeder and  walked  the
speeder through their gates.
   We did not sleep. The Jawas took me to a great room, and in the
heart  of  their fortress we talked by torchlight about  maps  and
water and the Sand People and how to talk to them about maps.
   
   Day 5: A Greeting
   Eyvind  and I sat openly in front of our speeders on  the  dune
southwest of the vaporator and my day's gift of water to the  Sand
People.
   "So they come here for this water?" Eyvind asked.
   "Every day."
   "And they don't break into your other vaporators?"
   "No."
   "I  still  don't like this. Your farm's the farthest  out,  and
you're  separated from the rest of us-so maybe you  have  to  deal
with  the Sand People-but my farm's the second farthest out and  I
don't want to do anything to encourage Sand People to come around,
it.  I won't give them any water-but how long before they show  up
on my farm expecting it?"
   "There-I can see one of them. Watch the dunes to the northwest.
They come most often from that direction. They must camp somewhere
to the northwest"
   "And you're luring them down here."
   I  didn't  answer that. We'd argued about this again and  again
over  the last few days. I was not going to argue with Eyvind when
Sand People were so close to us. To give Eyvind credit, he stopped
arguing, too. The canyon was utterly still, then. No wind blew.  I
could  not hear the Sand People moving. It was the first time  I'd
brought anyone else to see die Sand People take my gift of water.
   I stood and put my hand on Eyvind's shoulder. I did not believe
that  the Sand People would harm me. I hoped that if they  saw  me
physically  close to Eyvind they would learn not to  harm  him  or
ever want to. I'd made decisions, and I meant to stick by them-but
I  realized  my  decisions  had moved  the  boundaries  of  racial
interchange  for everyone out here, I hoped for the  good,  that's
what I hoped.
   Suddenly  one  of the Sand People stood in the  shadow  of  the
vaporator, near the water pouch. I hadn't seen him come up. He was
just  suddenly  there. I raised my arm and  clenched  my  fist  in
greeting, but he would not raise his fist in return.
   "Maybe  this wasn't a good idea," Eyvind whispered.  "Should  I
leave?"
   "Not  yet,"  I  said. I kept my arm up and  my  fist  clenched.
"Koroghh gahgt takt," I called out.
   The  Sand  Person stepped back, out of the shadow and into  the
sunlight, almost as if he were going to run.
   "Koroghh gahgt takt!" I called again. I hoped I was pronouncing
the  words right-that Wimateeka had learned the greeting right  to
begin with before teaching it to me, that I wasn't challenging the
Sand People to a fight or cursing their mothers.
   Slowly,  the Sand Person began to raise his arm and clench  his
fist "Koroghh gahgt takt!" he shouted back.
   So I had it right, I thought. This was working.
   I  heard  the  greeting shouted at me from somewhere  over  the
dunes  to  the east-then from all directions and from  the  canyon
walls, again and again the same greeting: Koroghh gahgt takt.
   Eyvind stood up. "They are all around us!" he said.
   But we could see only one of them. That one picked up the water
pouch and disappeared into the dunes.
   Eyvind and I took our speeders and got out of there and saw  no
more  of the Sand People that day. We went to my house and  talked
late into the night.
   I'd  sent Wimateeka's warning about the Sand People's  rite  of
passage  to  all  the other farmers in this region,  and  everyone
agreed  that  we couldn't run to Mos Eisley. If we did,  we  could
never expect to stay out here at all. But to stay, we had to  have
peace,  and  most farmers felt that could only be guaranteed  with
blasters and maybe Imperial protection. A few listened to my ideas
about maps and good neighbors. Not Eyvind.
   Never once did Eyvind tell me about his wedding plans.
   
   Day 15: Eyvind and Ariela
   I  took  my speeder to Eyvind's farm to pick up one of his  old
broken-down  vaporators, and he walked out of  his  house  with  a
beautiful girl.
   "This  is Ariela, my fiancee," he said. "We're getting  married
in five weeks."
   As  simple  as that. Eyvind hadn't told anyone about this,  not
even me. I hadn't known he'd kept boundaries like this between our
friendship.
   "I'm  pleased to meet you," I told Ariela. "And congratulations
to both of you."
   "You're the farmer with the big plans for us all," she said.
   Eyvind  looked  closely at me. "Can you understand  now  why  I
don't want Sand People coming around my farm?" he said.
   The  arguing wouldn't stop. I'd barely met Ariela-  I'd  barely
been  told  about their wedding-and already the three of  us  were
arguing.  "Look,"  I said. "I just believe that  none  of  us  can
survive  out here if we can't make peace with the Sand People  and
the  Jawas.  At  any rate, I'm sure the two of you don't  want  to
argue  with  me five weeks before your wedding. Sell me  that  old
vaporator, Eyvind, and I'll go."
   "But  I think you're doing the right thing, Ariq," Ariela said,
and that stopped me, fast. I didn't know what to say.
   "I  think  we should help you-and I believe I know the  way  to
start.  Would  your  Jawa friends come to our wedding?  Would  you
invite  them  for us? As neighbors, they should  be  part  of  the
important things in our lives."
   "She's never smelled them," Eyvind said.
   "They'll come," I said. "I'll go today to invite them."
   And  I did. I dropped the old vaporator off at my house, packed
up  provisions  for a night in Bildor's Canyon,  and  set  off.  I
reached the Jawa fortress before the sunsets.
   "You  have  honored  us  again!" Wimateeka  chittered  after  I
extended  the  invitation. "But what of presents? We  should  take
something,  but we can spare so little! Our gifts will seem  cheap
and tawdry."
   "They will honor whatever you give them," I said.
   They  took  me, again, inside their gates to the great  council
chamber. We talked late into the night about wedding gifts-of rock
salt,  which they thought might make a good gift; of water,  which
they couldn't spare; of cloth, which was never in adequate supply;
of  reconditioned  droids, which would  make  elegant  but  prohib
itively expensive gifts.
   "Offer to teach them your language," I said. "That would make a
fine gift."
   But  they liked best the idea of rock salt. We did not  resolve
the question that night.
   
   Day 32: Some Neighbors Pay Me a Visit
   I  finished installing the second old vaporator I'd bought from
Eyvind just after dark, and if the diagnostics I'd run on it  were
accurate it would be a decent producer-maybe as much as 1.3 liters
a  day. My farm would be producing one to two liters above my  old
average, so I knew I was definitely not going to miss the water  I
was giving the Sand People.
   I  packed  my  tools in the landspeeder and headed slowly  back
toward my house and supper. I went slowly because it was dark  and
there  were things out here to be wary of. At least I didn't  have
to worry about the Sand People as I had before. At least there was
that.
   I  dropped  down into the canyon where I'd built my house,  and
there were lights around my house-a lot of lights. I sped up then.
   "It's him!" I heard people shouting when I stopped.
   What had happened?
   It  was Eyvind and Ariela, the Jensens, who'd home-steaded next
to Eyvind, the Clays, the Bjornsons-and six or eight others.
   "What's wrong?" I asked.
   Eyvind  stepped  forward.  "We've come  to  ask  you,  as  your
neighbors, to stop giving water to the Sand People. You don't know
what you're doing."
   I'd imagined Imperial trouble of some kind-maybe the razing  of
Mos  Eisley  to  stamp  out  corruption  and  the  need  to  house
refugees-trouble  on that level to bring people  out  here  to  my
farm.  Not  this. "Have the Sand People hurt any of  you  since  I
started giving them water?" I asked.
   "They killed my son five years ago," Mrs. Bjornson said.
   "You don't know that," Ariela said quiedy.
   "I  found him dead in the canyon north of us! Who else  is  out
there  chopping people apart with axes? The Imperial investigators
said Sand People killed my son."
   No  one said anything for a minute. No one wanted to point  out
that  so many people could have been out there, not just the  Sand
People.  No  one  wanted to say that Imperial investigators  might
have wanted to fix blame on suspects who could never be brought to
trial.
   "They destroyed five of my vaporators," Mr. Jensen said.
   "They  broke into my storage shed and tore it apart," Mr.  Clay
said.
   "One  of  them  threw  a  gaffi stick that  lodged  in  a  rear
stabilizer when I was driving into Mos Eisley," Mrs. Sigurd  said.
"I barely made it to the city."
   Ariela stopped them. "So bad things happened out here, and  all
of you jumped to blame the Sand People."
   Mr.  Olafsen cut her off. "It's outsiders like you, coming here
from where was it-Alderaan?-with your ideas of how we should start
living, it's outsiders like you-and this Ariq, here-who cause  the
most trouble."
   "I'm  not an outsider," I said, but that was not the point.  My
ideas  were new. There could be trouble before they worked, before
we  could  all  live  in peace. It looked as if  all  the  trouble
wouldn't come from the Sand People.
   "So you worked on a moisture farm as a kid," Eyvind said to me,
"so  you've made this farm of yours turn a profit - does that mean
you can appoint yourself diplomat for the rest of us and negotiate
with the Sand People and Jawas?"
   "The  Sand People would have ruined my farm, Eyvind,  you  know
that. I have to find a way to live with them. You know that, too."
   "Most people out here are against what you're doing, Ariq."
   "Is  that so? The McPhersons, the Jonsons, and the Jacques  all
support me, and I don't see any of them here. What about Owen  and
Beru? Have you talked to them? Or the Darklighters? Where do  they
stand?"
   "In two days we have a chance to see firsthand how Ariq's plans
are  working," Ariela said. "Eyvind and I asked him to invite  the
Jawas to our wedding, and they are coming as our guests."
   That  announcement  started more arguing amongst  these  people
than  I had ever heard. Eyvind did not look happy to have had  her
say that.
   "The  Jawas were honored to be invited," I said. "We  can  live
with  them-you'll  see. Maybe we can come to live  with  the  Sand
People."
   But  no one listened to me. Ariela looked at me, and she looked
worried.  I could imagine plenty of reasons for her to be worried.
It  was clear she didn't support Eyvind's ideas about my ideas.  I
was  sorry  to  be  the  cause of what was  probably  their  first
argument.
   "We'll  take  this  to  Mos  Eisley-we'll  even  take  this  to
Bestine," Eyvind said when everybody started to leave.
   I  walked  my speeder into the shed and locked things down  for
the night. When I came back out, Ariela was still standing there.
   "What are you going to do?" she asked me.
   I  wanted to ask her the same question. "I don't know," I said.
We sat on the sand in front of my house and were quiet for a time.
   "Are you really from Alderaan?" I asked her.
   "Yes."
   "Don't you miss it?"
   "Not really," she said. "I'm in love, and that makes up for it.
But I do miss the water-we're so wasteful with it there!"
   "I  can't  imagine  such a place. I'm used  to  guarding  every
drop."
   "Not  there.  If I could take you and Eyvind to Alderaan  you'd
get fat on the water."
   "I'd swim in it all day."
   "You could take an hour-long shower and no one would care."
   "I'd keep plants in my house and water them."
   She  looked at me and smiled. After a minute she stood  up.  "I
won't let Eyvind cause trouble for you in Mos Eisley or Bestine. I
can't answer for the rest."
   "Thank  you," I said. After she left to catch up to the others,
I went inside. I didn't have the stomach to eat. It was hot in the
house,  so I took the holo-display unit and walked outside onto  a
ridge  overlooking  my  house and sheds. I'd  shut  down  all  the
lights,  so  the compound was dark. I displayed the  map,  and  it
shone  out  brightly  above the rocks. The rocks  around  the  map
looked  like  the  mountains  around  my  farm.  The  stars  shone
brightly, and I lay back on the rock to look at them.
   I do not look up often enough. I am so busy all the time and so
tired after dark that I do not look up often enough at the stars.
   I wondered how all of this would turn out.
   
   Day 50: Jawa Gifts, and the Wedding
   Thirty-one Jawas came to the wedding, and they brought sacks of
rock  salt,  a liter of water, a bolt of their brown  cloth-and  a
diagnostic  droid so small it could fit in the palm  of  my  hand.
They  couldn't  decide  on  one gift,  so  they  brought  some  of
everything we'd talked about.
   The  diagnostic droid spoke the binary language of  vaporators.
The  Jawas  had polished it so finely that it hurt to look  at  it
lying in the sun with the other gifts.
   People  just stood and stared at their rich gifts and  wondered
at the pleasure the Jawas had in being invited to this wedding.
   Eyvind hurried up to me and asked me to come translate for  him
and  Ariela. They wanted to thank the Jawas. I was standing by the
punch  bowl with the Jen-sens and Ariela's mother and sister,  who
had come out from Alderaan for the wedding. Mrs. Jensen stopped me
before  I  could leave. "Maybe you're right about all this,"  Mrs.
Jensen said. "Maybe you are."
   I  smiled  at her and hurried off to translate. The  Jawas  all
bowed to me, and I bowed back. I translated for Eyvind and Ariela,
then  started  answering  the Jawas' questions  about  this  human
ceremony:   Yes,  the  humans  crowded  here  were  all  potential
customers  of their wares and, yes, the tiny diagnostic  droid  im
pressed everyone; no, Eyvind and Ariela would not consummate their
marriage  in  public; yes, everyone hoped Eyvind and Ariela  would
have  children;  yes,  the humans brought  special  foods  to  the
wedding to make the day memorable. "Try the spiced juice," I said.
"You'll love it. It's better than plain water."
   I wondered what they would think of the spice. They followed me
to  the punch table, and I poured Wimateeka a cup of spiced  juice
and gave it to him.
   He  just held the cup and looked into it. "The cup is so cold!"
he said.
   "We usually serve cold drinks at important occasions," I said.
   "Why is it red? Does it have blood in it?"
   "No-we don't drink blood!"
   Wimateeka looked up at me oddly, and I suddenly wondered if the
Jawas  drank  blood at their weddings. I would probably  find  out
soon  enough. Wimateeka still hadn't tasted the drink. "It's quite
good," I assured him. "At least, we think so."
   "How much does this cost?" he asked, finally.
   So  he  thought he'd have to pay for this. They'd all no  doubt
worried  about having enough to pay for food and drinks-especially
if they were pressed to try certain things. "Everything here is  a
gift to the guests of the wedding," I said.
   Wimateeka smiled then, and lifted the cup to his lips. His eyes
went  wide when he tasted the spiced juice -and I wondered  if  he
would  spit it out, but he didn't, and soon he took another drink.
I  served  the  rest of the Jawas, and they all loved  the  spiced
juice and asked me for more and I served Jawas for fifteen minutes
straight.
   Eyvind  came  up  to me, nervous and anxious. "I  want  to  get
started,"  he said, "but Owen and Beru aren't here yet,  and  they
were sure to come."
   "Who  knows  what's kept them?" I said, while  I  handed  ajawa
another cup of spiced juice. "But you'd better start soon or  I'll
have all thirty-one Jawas drunk before the wedding."
   Eyvind laughed.
   And the shooting started.
   From  over  by  the landspeeders. Everyone had parked  west  of
Eyvind's  house, and the commotion came from there: Two  or  three
men  were shouting and firing at the landspeeders. I wondered  why
they  would do such a stupid thing - and then I saw the  Sand  Peo
ple.
   The adolescents, I thought. They'd taken it into their heads to
steal a landspeeder or two while we were busy with the wedding.
   The  Sand People fought back with their gaffi sticks, and threw
a  few with deadly aim, and people screamed and ran for cover, and
Eyvind ran off to start shooting or to stop the shooting, I didn't
know which. I ran after him, but lost him in the crowd, and when I
broke  through I almost stumbled over Ariela holding something  on
the ground.
   Eyvind. I knelt next to her. She was holding Eyvind with  blood
all  over him, and there was shooting all around us, and then Sand
People.  I  stood  up and held on to Ariela so  maybe  they  would
recognize me and not kill me and Ariela, and some of them did step
back when they saw me -
   But  something  hit me in the back and sent me  sprawling  -  a
backhanded slap from the broad, flat face of a gaffi stick - and I
couldn't breathe for a minute, though I never blacked out. I heard
screams, and I heard Ariela scream, and I couldn't move,  I  could
only see, for a minute, the feet of Sand People rushing around me,
and  then human feet, and a human pulled me up and leered into  my
face.
   "This is your fault!" he shouted. "This comes from giving  them
water."
   He  shoved me back down onto the sand, but I could breathe  now
and get up on my own, and they were carrying Eyvind away.
   "He's dead," someone shouted at me, and the words hit me almost
as hard as the gaffi stick had hit me. I couldn't breathe again.
   "They've taken Ariela," someone else shouted. "They dragged her
away from Eyvind and took her."
   Ariela's  mother grabbed hold of my arm. "You've  got  to  save
her,"  she  said. "The others are going after the Sand  People  to
shoot  them,  and  the Sand People will surely  kill  my  daughter
before she can be rescued. You've got to save her."
   "I'll take Wimateeka," I said. "He can translate for me."
   And that eventually became our plan: I had twelve hours to find
the  Sand People and convince them to turn Ariela over to  me.  In
the  meantime, everyone else would organize a well-equipped posse.
If I wasn't back in twelve hours, they would come looking.
   And they would come out to kill the Sand People.
   I found Wimateeka and the other Jawas huddled in their crawler.
I  explained what I had to do, and I asked Wimateeka to come  with
me.  He  started shaking, but he got up and walked with me  to  my
speeder. He was still shaking when I lifted him in.
   After I'd started off, I wondered why I wasn't shaking.
   
   Day  50, Early Afternoon: I Wait by the Vaporator with  a  Last
Gift of Water
   I  waited  by  the vaporator because I thought the Sand  People
would take Ariela to their main camp, somewhere northwest of here.
I could travel faster than the adolescents in my landspeeder, so I
was  ahead of them and they would pass by me. They would  probably
stop to see if I had left some water.
   And  I  had  worked  out  what I would tell  them.  These  were
adolescents who needed to prove themselves worthy to be adults.  I
could offer them a way to be remembered forever in tales and  gain
an  adulthood always honored: negotiate with the Jawas and  me  to
secure the boundaries of their land and thus their nomadic way  of
life.  I  knew  their adults would have to be consulted,  but  the
adolescents  could  start the process and  convince  them  of  the
necessity of it.
   1  hoped they would agree with me. I hoped they wouldn't behead
me  first.  I  hoped they would agree that Ariela was  a  trifling
matter compared to this and that the water and cloth Wimateeka and
I had brought from my house to trade for her would buy her back.
   So  we  waited on the sand, with our water and cloth,  and  the
holo-display unit and my map.
   And  they  came to us, suddenly. All at once we were surrounded
by  young  Sand People, each armed with a gaffi stick,  glistening
sharp-edged  in  the harsh sunlight. The dunes were  covered  with
Sand People. I looked for Ariela, but could not see her at first.
   I  stood  and  raised my arm and clenched my fist  and  greeted
them: "Koroghh gahgt takt."
   They  were all quiet. None of them spoke or raised their  arms.
That's when I saw Ariela: bound and gagged and guarded on top of a
dune  south  of  me. "Tell the Sand People what I  say,"  I  asked
Wimateeka, and I knew I had to speak quickly and well to save  her
life, and probably Wimateeka's and my own.
   I  told  them  we could stop trouble like we had  gone  through
today.  I  knew a way. I told them my plan, and my hope  that  the
Empire  would  come to recognize what we had done, and  what  this
would mean for their people and mine.
   Wimateeka had trouble explaining the map, and I didn't know  if
they could understand what a map was. Wimateeka and I smoothed out
a  flat space in the sand, and I set up the holo-display unit  and
displayed  my map. Some of the Sand People rushed back,  startled,
but  others  soon crowded forward, and it began to make  sense  to
them.
   But I would not negotiate till they had freed Ariela. "What  we
are  about to do is better than more killing," I said. "I want you
to  free your captive-release her to me. She is my friend.  Accept
this water and cloth as compensation for the trouble you've had in
caring for her till now."
   They argued about that, but eventually they took the water  and
cloth  and passed it back into the crowd somewhere, and  they  cut
Ariela free and let her walk up to me.
   She  came slowly through the throng of Sand People. They  would
barely move aside for her. But she was taller than all of them, so
she kept her eyes on me and Wimateeka and eventually got to us.  I
hugged her, and she hugged me and Wimateeka.
   And we started to haggle and negotiate and draw the lines on my
map.
   It was working.
   I  thought of all the generations of anthropologists who  would
have  wanted to be here with the Sand People. The day  was  bright
with  sunlight, and I could feel the tension ebb away  from  among
us.  My  map had never looked so beautiful, I thought, as  it  did
then  shining  out flat above the sand and divided  by  the  black
lines of boundaries.
   We finished negotiating, six hours before my deadline.
   Ariela and Wimateeka and I packed up.
   The  Sand People stood up and watched us, then started to  move
off into the dunes, heading northwest to their camp.
   Ariela climbed into my landspeeder.
   I handed Wimateeka to her and climbed in.
   And  the  dune west of us exploded in flame. My vaporator  blew
apart,  and steam rushed up from it like smoke. Explosions  ripped
the air-and the young Sand People were screaming and running.
   Six  hours  before our deadline-after everything we had  worked
for had come to pass. I had to stop the shooting.
   I  flew  straight to where the shots were coming from -a  rocky
rise  south  of  us-and we were not hit. A path through  the  fire
opened up for us.
   Stormtroopers. There were Imperial stormtroopers in the  rocks.
The  farmers  who opposed me had called them in, that  was  all  I
could  think. I slammed the land-speeder to a stop and  rushed  up
into  the  rock.  "Stop shooting!" I shouted. "Those  aren't  even
adults you're killing!"
   But  no  one  listened or stopped firing.  I  pushed  into  the
stormtroopers and shoved their guns up to make them stop-and I was
grabbed from behind and slammed into the rock.
   "Stop it!" someone shouted at me.
   It was the other farmers who had me, eight or ten of them.
   "The  stormtroopers will kill you," someone hissed in  my  ear.
"Live through this day and we'll talk later about what happened."
   I tried to break free, and they shoved me back.
   "The  Empire  would  never let your plan  work,"  someone  else
hissed  in my ear, then Ariela was in front of me, her face  white
and tear-streaked.
   "Don't you see?" she said. "They want trouble on all the worlds
so  the majority will welcome their presence to keep the peace. If
you  make peace here, our real enemies would become clear-and what
then?"
   I  should have seen this. I should have known this would happen
from  the  day the Imperial Governors first refused  to  map  this
region.
   The firing stopped. The other farmers thanked the stormtroopers
for "rescuing" Ariela and Wimateeka and me.
   "You'll  have  to  evacuate  from your  farm  for  a  time,"  a
stormtrooper  told me. "It won't be safe to stay  in  your  house,
isolated as it is."
   I  wouldn't just have to evacuate for a time. This could be the
end  of  my  farm.  The  Sand People would want  to  kill  me  for
sure-unless I could find a way to convince them I hadn't  betrayed
them,  unless  I could find a way to convince them  just  who  had
betrayed them.
   "We'll escort the Jawa home," another stormtrooper said.
   "No," I said. "I'm taking him myself."
   And  I did. I would not let them take him alone. I thought they
might  kill  him if they got him alone-to anger the Jawas  and  to
drive  a  wedge  between them and the farmers. So  a  stormtrooper
contingent escorted us to the Jawa fortress.
   I  lifted  Wimateeka out of my speeder, near the gates  of  his
fortress, and he rushed inside without saying a word to me.
   
   Day 50, Night: I Become a Rebel
   The  Imperial commander ordered me into Mos Eisley  to  make  a
deposition,  and I had to go. Ariela asked me to take  her  mother
and sister to the spaceport. She stayed with the other farmers  to
prepare for the Sand People's onslaught of revenge.
   "Eyvind  left me his farm," Ariela told me. "I'd  like  you  to
help me run it after this is over-when we can go back to it."
   So I had that to think about on my way into Mos Eisley.
   I  left Ariela's mother and sister at the spaceport. In a short
time,  they  would be safe on Alderaan. I made my deposition,  and
the Imperials confiscated my map and let me go.
   I wondered for how long.
   In the meantime, my farm was abandoned.
   My  hopes  for making peace with the Jawas and the Sand  People
were ruined.
   The  Sand  People would surely feel betrayed and kill  innocent
people.
   My maps, my dreams, my successful negotiations meant nothing to
the Empire.
   All  because  the  Empire did not want us to  have  peace.  All
because the Empire did not care about the safety and the work  and
the  lives of its citizens. We were pawns to be used and discarded
- our efforts channeled as long as possible into "approved" paths.
   I  stopped at the cantina for a drink. I could not go  straight
back.
   I  sat  in  a  dark corner and watched the people around  me  -
people  from all corners of the Empire. Representatives of peoples
who  had each, in their own way, been oppressed by the Empire.  We
had all endured it.
   But there was another way. I knew there was another way.
   There was the Rebellion.
   The Empire had driven me into rebellion.
   I  took  another drink and looked around. I didn't know how  to
find  the  Rebellion. I didn't know how to join. But this  cantina
would  be  the  place to find out, I thought. If  I  asked  a  few
judicious  questions, maybe I'd find out. I  decided  to  ask  the
Ithorian a few tables down.
   I  took  another drink, for courage, but before I  could  move,
Owen  and  Beru's nephew, Luke, walked in with somebody  I  didn't
know and two droids that got ordered out.
   Where  were Luke's aunt and uncle? I wondered. And that started
me  thinking.  Owen and Beru's farm was quite far  from  mine  and
Ariela's.  Maybe they could use an extra hand or two  till  things
settled down and it would be safe for Ariela and me to go back  to
our farms.
   Then we could start our work for the Rebellion.
   Ariela  would follow me into the Rebellion. Most of  the  other
farmers  probably  would too after what had  happened  today.  The
Jawas  would help. In time, maybe even the Sand People might  come
to  understand what had happened to them - and that restoring  the
Republic  would stop Imperial atrocities. Farmers like me,  in  an
odd alliance with Jawas and maybe Sand People, would have to fight
for our right to live in peace on the world we called home.
   After  I  thought this through, something told me I'd find  the
Rebellion just fine, out in the mountains and valleys of the water
farms of Tatooine.
   Something  told me things were going to change on Tatooine,  in
ways the Imperials never imagined or wanted.
   Something  told  me that, in the end, someday,  somehow,  there
would be pe'ace here.
   We would draw the maps of peace.
   
   
   One  Last  Night  In the Mos Eisley Cantina: The  Tale  of  the
Wolfman and the Lamproid
   by Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens
   
   Instants  after the jump from lightspeed, the situation  became
as  simple  as the balance between predator and prey. Despite  the
secrets  bought  with Bothan blood, the half-finished  Death  Star
above the forest moon of Endor was ready for what was supposed  to
have been an unexpected assault. The Rebel fleet was doomed.
   Sivrak  punched  the  controls of his X-wing  fighter  even  as
Admiral  Ackbar  gave  the order for evasive maneuvers.  But  that
would  buy only a few moments of life. The Imperial fleet  already
advanced from Sector 47- Star Destroyers, Cruisers, waves  of  TIE
fighters-and Sivrak knew it was a trap. It had always been a trap.
   The fur rose on his face and his fangs flashed in the reflexive
grimace  of  attack. In the common tongue of the Alliance,  Sivrak
was  a  Shistavanen Wolfman, and he faced his death with  all  the
primal  rage  that  evolution and unknown  genetic  engineers  had
encoded in his cells.
   The  TIE  fighters surged ahead of their fleet, as if the  Star
Destroyers  were  not needed in this final battle.  Already  space
blossomed  with  deadly  flowers of exploding  spacecraft.  Sivrak
heard  his orders through the static of Imperial interference  and
the cries of the dying: Protect the fleet no matter what the risk.
   Sivrak  howled at the challenge. He had nothing more  to  risk.
All  that had given his life meaning was now ash scattered  across
the icy wastes of Hoth.
   His lips glistened with anticipation of the hunt as he switched
his  weapons  to  manual and wrenched his craft onto  a  collision
course  with a trio of TIE fighters. Over his helmet communicator,
he heard the medical frigate was under attack. But it was too late
to  alter his trajectory. His course was as set now as it had been
the day he had first met her.
   Endor's  moon  spiraled before Sivrak. The three  TIE  fighters
converged  as they changed course to meet him. His weapons  carved
space  like  blazing gouts of blood released by the  stab  of  his
fangs.  The Imperial ships fired back, closing faster than even  a
perfect hunter's eye could track.
   But  Sivrak throttled forward, faster still, and his  fighter's
engines shrieked behind him. His full-throated voice joined theirs
as he shouted out her name as his battle cry. The all-encompassing
roar swept to a thundering crescendo as charged particles from the
Imperial  fighters  resonated against his  own  fighter's  canopy.
Space distorted, wrapping him in red destruction. He embraced  the
end  of his existence, the beginning of nothingness. Yet somewhere
inside that senseless maelstrom, Sivrak heard faint strains of  mu
sic. Music he had heard before. Long ago. The day he had first-
   
   -walked into the Mos Eisley Cantina, boots heavy with the  dust
of  Tatooine,  burning with the heat of streets  scorched  by  two
blazing suns. He wiped a paw against his mouth, feeling the scrape
of grit and sand against his fangs, letting his eyes adjust to the
dimmer light.
   For  a  moment, he experienced a slight wave of vertigo, as  if
his body had not expected to be back in a natural gravity well  so
soon after ... after ... he couldn't remember what. He closed  his
eyes  and  a  green world spun before him. Something  about  a  de
flector  shield. Something about a ... Death Star?  He  shook  his
head  to dispel his confusion, then walked down the stairs by  the
droid detector, heading for the bar.
   Without  prompting,  the bartender served  Sivrak  his  regular
order-a  mug  of  crushed Gilden, organ tendrils  still  writhing,
attesting  to  their freshness. Sivrak lapped  at  it,  trying  to
remember  how  this drink could be his regular when he  had  never
been  in  this  cantina before. He was a rim scout, or  had  been,
until  the Empire had closed off the Outer Rim Territories to  new
exploration. Now he was just another displaced being, on  the  run
from  the  Empire and all political entanglements. And Mos  Eisley
had  too many Imperial storm-troopers for his liking. He knew he'd
leave  as soon as he had the necessary credits. He . . . moved  to
the  side  an instant before a Jawa scuttled past him, rushing  up
the stairs for the door.
   Sivrak felt a shock of recognition. He had expected the Jawa to
run  past  him. He had known what the Jawa would do. Exactly  what
the Jawa had done that first time he had stepped in here and met .
. .
   Sivrak  stared past the bar, into the gloom on the side of  the
cantina opposite the band.
   And he saw her again. Just as he had seen her that first time.
   He  stood  by  her table, savoring the unmistakable  pheromones
that identified her as female, admiring the sinuous twists of  the
muscular coils she draped over her chair, all the more sensual for
the  strength  they contained, able to squeeze the  skull  from  a
bantha.  She turned to him, her loose-hinged coral jaws  revealing
rings  of  glittering  fangs, with the  outermost  the  length  of
Sivrak's claws. Her light sensors bristled as they shifted  toward
him, seeing in wavelengths beyond those even the Wolfman's glowing
eyes could perceive.
   Sivrak had heard of such beings before-Florn lamproids-the sole
intelligence  born  on a world of such dangers  it  meant  instant
death  to  any  who set foot on it without hyperaccelerated  nerve
implants.
   "Buy  you  a  drink?"  the  lamproid  hissed  seductively.  Her
inflection of the predator's tongue was intensely personal, as  if
they had hunted and shared blood a thousand times.
   Sivrak  felt  the  temperature of the cantina increase  and  he
shrugged  off his jacket and sat down across from her just  as  he
had the first time.
   But  this  was the first time, wasn't it? How could two  beings
meet for the first time except for the first time?
   "Lak  Sivrak," she breathed, and Sivrak growled to  acknowledge
that somehow, incredibly, she knew even his litter name.
   "Dice  Ibegon," he replied, disturbed that he knew her name  in
turn, the moment he spoke it aloud, as if he had always known it.
   "You are troubled," Dice said.
   "We've  met before." Sivrak had said those words in  a  hundred
other  cantinas on a dozen other worlds, but this  time  he  meant
them.  Though  how could he, a perfect hunter, forget  having  met
such a perfect killer?
   "Are  you  certain?"  the  lamproid  asked.  She  trailed   the
exquisite   tip   of  her  lethal  tail  through  the   shimmering
translucence  of  a  snifter  of  clarified  bantha   blood.   The
reflective surface of the liquid made Sivrak think of. force-field
emanations.  Wasn't  there  something else  he  should  be  doing?
Someplace else he was supposed to be?
   "At the bar, I knew a Jawa was going to bump into me," he said.
   "Jawas often do."
   Sivrak concentrated. A new memory came to him. "A golden  droid
will enter soon."
   Dice  brought a single drop of bantha blood to Sivrak's muzzle.
The  liquid  trembled on the tip of her tail. "Their kind  is  not
served here," she said. Her voice was inviting, distracting.
   Sivrak,  drew a single, razor-sharp claw against the cool  pink
flesh of Dice's tail tip, transfixed by her light sensors and  her
scarlet mouth and its endless rings of needle teeth. "The farm boy
with the droid will talk to it."
   Dice's  voice dropped in tone, sharing secrets. "And the golden
droid will leave."
   Sivrak's  rough-rasped  tongue flicked  out  and  captured  the
teardrop  of  blood from the lamproid's tail. His claws  tightened
around  the sweet, boneless flesh, feeling the steel cords of  her
muscles flex in response.
   "Tell me what is happening," Sivrak said.
   "Only that which has happened," the lamproid answered. A single
light sensor shifted to the left. Sivrak glanced in that direction
and  saw  a  horned Devaronian sitting against the  wall,  nodding
dreamily in time to the music of the cantina's band as he  watched
the main entrance.
   Sivrak  looked over to the entrance to see what the  Devaronian
saw - an old man in desert robes, a farm boy, an Artoo unit.
   And the golden droid.
   The  old  man  hurried ahead to the bar. Without  knowing  how,
Sivrak was aware of what lay hidden beneath the old man's robes  -
an antique lightsaber. There was an Aqualish pirate at the bar who
would soon be short an arm.
   Sivrak released the lamproid's tail and began to rise from  his
chair. But Dice's coils snaked out to bind him tight, keeping  him
in his place across from her.
   "Hey! We don't serve their kind here!" the bartender shouted.
   "Tell me," Sivrak demanded.
   "What you already know?" Dice replied.
   The  farm  boy spoke to the golden droid. The golden droid  and
the  Artoo unit left. The farm boy joined the old man by the  bar.
Sivrak  struggled-not  against the lamproid,  but  against  hidden
knowledge that was somewhere inside him.
   There could be only one answer, yet it made no sense.
   "Is it the Force that binds us to this place?"
   "The Force binds all, if you would believe in it."
   "I believe only in the hunt."
   The  lamproid's teeth shifted in amusement-the Florn equivalent
of  a smile. "That's not what you said when we first met here. You
were most eloquent then, my romantic Wolfman."
   Sivrak's eyes narrowed. Was she teasing him? "Is there a  price
to  be  paid?" he asked stiffly. An altercation began at the  bar.
"To  understand  why everything is familiar yet new  at  the  same
time?"
   "Poor  Wolfman,"  Dice  said. "You still don't  understand  the
promise I made you. So for now the price of your understanding  is
the same price it was the first time we met here."
   Sivrak  searched his memory for events yet to happen.  He  cast
back to predict what he had already seen. On the other side of the
bar  the farm boy was thrown into a table. Despite Dice's hold  on
him, Sivrak leaned forward threateningly. "You're a member of  the
Alliance, aren't you?"
   A  lightsaber thrummed into life. The Aqualish pirate screamed.
Sivrak's  nostrils  flared at the scent of fresh  blood  exploding
through the smoke-filled air. The lamproid's tail tip fluttered as
she  scented  it,  too. A severed arm fell to  the  floor  of  the
cantina.
   "I  am  a member of the Alliance," she said. "Just as you chose
to be, that first time."
   But  the  heady  wash of the blood scent pushed  Sivrak  beyond
understanding, and Dice swiftly released the pheromones that would
guide  the  Wolfman  to  the one state he  could  achieve  without
endangering bystanders.
   Sivrak   arched  in  her  deadly  grip,  and  with  a  powerful
undulation,  Dice  uncoiled the rest of  her  body  and  slithered
across  the  table  toward him. Then perfect  killer  met  perfect
hunter  as their fangs clashed, then locked in the lethal kiss  of
predators. Sivrak's senses were overwhelmed. He felt the floor  of
the  cantina shift beneath him, gaining momentum as it spun faster
and fester, just as if he rode an-
   
   -X-wing  fighter  spinning through space.  A  storm  of  debris
rattled  against his fighter's skin as Sivrak fought to  stabilize
the  craft.  His  tactical display showed  that  two  of  the  TIE
fighters had survived his headlong strike. The third was  a  vapor
of  incandescent particles dispersing in vacuum. He turned to Dice
to  make  certain she was safe and growled when he  saw  only  the
reflection of his own glowing eyes in the canopy. The cantina  had
been  a hallucination, a dream of what had been... what might have
been ... he couldn't be sure.
   A  second sun flared over Endor's moon and Sivrak was torn from
his  memories by a lance of unthinkable energy that burst from the
Death  Star  to  claim a Rebel frigate. The communicator  channels
were  flooded with transmissions of shock and confusion. The Death
Star was operational.
   Admiral Ackbar ordered a retreat-all fighters were to return to
base.  General  Calrissian countermanded the retreat-all  fighters
were to engage the Star Destroyers at point-blank range. And every
other  Rebel voice asked about General Solo's strike team  on  the
moon's surface. Would they destroy the force-field generator?  Had
they already tried and failed?
   Sivrak  pulled  back  on the controls to bring  his  X-wing  on
course to the nearest Star Destroyer. There were many ways to  die
in space. He would find one soon enough, he knew.
   The X-wing did not respond.
   Sivrak  activated the diagnostics, rechanneled auxiliary power,
and closed his wings for increased etheric stability.
   But  the X-wing continued its fall toward the forest moon,  and
nothing he could do would change its course.
   One  thought and one thought alone flooded through him: He  was
going to live.
   Once  in  the moon's atmosphere, Sivrak knew he could  use  the
fighter's control surfaces-useless in vacuum-to bring his craft to
a  soft landing. A whole forest world waited for him. The Alliance
and the Empire would fall from his consciousness as he stalked its
prey  and  returned  to  what  he knew  and  understood-the  hunt.
Perhaps,  in  time, he might even forget Dice Ibegon,  and  things
would  be  as  they  had always been. Simple. Balanced.  The  pure
equation of life and death, free of the pain of love and duty.
   The  raging  space  battle receded behind him.  He  watched  it
diminish in a cockpit display. It appeared his damaged X-wing  was
no longer a target worthy of the Empire.
   He focused on the forest moon, closing fast, bringing him a new
life. Another life.
   As if any life could have meaning without her.
   Rebel  craft exploded on the battle display. Sivrak  knew  that
meant  the  force-field  generator on  the  moon's  surface  still
protected the Death Star. Perhaps his battle wasn't over yet.
   He  touched the atmospheric controls of his fighter,  searching
for  the first sign of resistance from the wispy upper reaches  of
the  atmosphere he plunged into. To change course one way  was  to
land  in safety. The other way, Rebel tacticians had set the  odds
of  a  successful atmospheric attack on the generator at a million
to one. Standard Imperial ground defenses were too strong.
   Sivrak's  claws  tapped the control yoke as he  considered  his
choice.  One way or another. And then his fighter yawed  violently
as an Imperial particle beam sliced through a rear stabilizer. His
tactical  display  showed  two TIE fighters  closing  behind  him,
hiding  in  his propulsion wake-the same two he had faced  before.
For whatever reason, perhaps to avenge the death of their wingman,
Sivrak was still at least a worthy target to them.
   The  Wolfman felt relieved the choice had been taken from  him.
There  was now no need to plan, no need to decide. There was  only
the fight. The balance. The reassuring enormity of now.
   Unable  to  change his fighter's course in space, he  threw  it
into  a spiraling roll, releasing all his decoys and mines  in  an
expanding  cloud  of sensor-opaque, carbon-fiber  chaff.  Then  he
locked his rear sights onto the cloud's dark center, daring one or
both  of  the  TIE fighters to survive the cloud's perils.  Sivrak
calculated  he would have time for at least two shots  before  the
Imperial  pilots could target him. Perhaps those  shots  would  be
enough. Perhaps they wouldn't. Sivrak did not care either way.
   He  glanced  ahead  at  the rushing disk of  the  moon,  colors
smearing as he wildly spun. At last, he felt the first tremors  of
atmospheric  resistance  fight  his  craft's  roll.  With   fierce
satisfaction, he pictured his X-wing tearing itself  into  pieces,
raining down on the moon like a comet come to die. It was  a  good
image. A fitting image. A hunter's death.
   The  tactical  display  flashed as the mines  he  had  deployed
erupted behind him. At least one of the fighters had vanished. But
then  the  display  glowed as a piercing beam of brilliant  energy
shot  from  the defensive carbon cloud, blinding his rear  sensors
with  a  wash of static-filled white that enveloped Sivrak like  a
smothering snowdrift-
   
   -carved by the icy winds of Hoth.
   Sivrak dove for the trench before him as an energy bolt from an
Imperial  walker  obliterated  a  nearby  gun  emplacement.   Echo
Station-the  Rebel  base's lone outpost on the north  ridge-was  a
charnel  house. The awkward dead lay all around him as  he  pushed
himself  to  his feet and shook the snow and ice from  his  matted
fur. It was so achingly cold he could not even scent the blood  of
the dying. But then he caught the scent of her.
   The  ground  shook with the thunder of approaching walkers  and
the constant firing of the ion cannon as desperate Rebels tried to
clear  the way for the retreating transports. But Sivrak was aware
of only one sensation-she was close.
   He  ran to her, dodging the other troops in the slippery,  ice-
lined  trench, his brilliant orange flight suit startling  amongst
their   white  Hoth  camouflage.  The  main  communicator  channel
crackled  with the call to evacuate all ground crew.  The  command
center had been hit. All troops in Sector 12 were to report to the
south  post  to  protect the fighters. But Sivrak was  beyond  the
reach of orders now. He collapsed in the snow at Dice's side.
   It was stained with the rich purple of her blood.
   Sivrak  spoke her name and touched her face, afraid to  disturb
the  ragged  shard of metal that had sliced through her  insulated
suit  and cut deeply into her upper thorax. Purple drops of frozen
blood shone there, as if, for her, time had stopped.
   Her  eye  sensors trembled and stiffened and she looked  up  at
him.
   "Go," she said.
   "How  can  I?"  he  answered. "I have sworn allegiance  to  the
Princess and the return of the Republic."
   The lamproid's teeth shifted in amusement, even as her gasp  of
pain formed mist in the icy air.
   "You  never meant to wear the uniform of a Rebel. That  day  in
the cantina, when we first met, you only accepted my offer to join
the Alliance as a way to wrap yourself in my coils."
   She  was  right, of course. The first time in the cantina  -the
real  first time-he had made much of his Rebel sympathies, sensing
it might make him a more acceptable companion to her. But in time,
he  had  come  to believe in what the Alliance stood for.  He  had
become a proud and willing warrior in its cause. But now Dice  was
dying and the past no longer mattered.
   "What is the past?" Dice asked, reading his mind again.
   Sivrak  tore  the med-kit from his belt, somehow  knowing  that
another  battle  was  being fought above a world  of  forests.  He
stared blankly at the contents of the kit. Most of its salves  and
ointments  were  for his species. He had no idea  how  they  would
react with Horn biology. But he had to do something.
   "You have done something," Dice said soothingly. Her voice  was
calm,  almost peaceful. She fixed her light sensors on  the  clear
blue sky.
   "We  are alike," she continued, "as you have always known.  The
hunter  and the killer know the sick and diseased must  be  culled
from  the herd-and the Empire is rotten with corruption.  That  is
why you must leave me, to continue our fight until its end."
   The vials and tubes from the med-kit spilled into the snow from
Sivfak's rigid paws. "Dice, no. I can't."
   "I  know you can't. In time, I know you won't. But for now,  my
love, you must. Alliance and Empire. Predator and prey."
   Sivrak's  communicator  sounded the evacuation  code  sound.  A
terse voice announced that Imperial troops had entered the base.
   "I.will die with you here," Sivrak said.
   He cradled her head close against his warm body.
   "What is death compared to love?" Dice asked, her voice fading.
   Sivrak could not move. He was losing her.
   "What you must do," she whispered, "is believe in the Force."
   "If  you  wish me to," Sivrak said thickly, unwilling to  argue
with  the old religion if that is what brought her peace  at  this
time. He felt the mourning cry rise in his chest.
   "Not  because  I  wish you to, but because there  is  no  other
choice you can make."
   Before Sivrak could answer, the lamproid's body shivered,  then
quietened. He stared down at Dice as one by one her light  sensors
drooped,  losing focus, losing contact. And then, amid the  sounds
of  battle  light-years removed from the moment that they  shared,
Dice  blessed him with the Force, willing it to remain  with  him,
forever.
   Sivrak  held  her  body  until  a  walker  destroyed  the  main
generator  and the fall-back lines finally fell. Energy beams  cut
through  the air like falling stars. Sivrak's communicator relayed
a  final  evacuation alert. The roar of departing transports,  now
launching two at a time, was continuous.
   But as if he were on a different world, one that knew no war or
conflict,  Sivrak arose and moved with a slowness and surety  that
set him apart from the chaos around him.
   He  heard  no  explosions  as  he  laid  Dice  upon  the  snow,
sheltering  her  in an alcove of the trench. He felt  no  walker's
footfall  as  he arranged her fur-trimmed hood around her  serene,
unmoving face, and caressed her ringed teeth that were never again
to know the bliss of shredded flesh.
   A  human Rebel slipped to a near halt in the trench and  pulled
on  Sivrak's arm to urge him to the evacuation point. But Sivrak's
snarl sent the human on alone.
   Then  Sivrak  stood over his beloved and took his blaster  from
his  holster.  He  had  heard the stories  of  what  the  Imperial
biogeneticists  did with the bodies of the Rebel dead.  How  parts
could  be  cloned  and  kept  alive for unspeakable  research,  or
Imperial sport. He set the blaster for full immolation.
   "May  your  Force  be with you," he said in the  most  intimate
inflection  of the predator's tongue, and his breath swirled  into
the frozen air to join with hers.
   He would make it to the evacuation point or he would not. There
was no reason to hurry.
   Sivrak activated the blaster.
   Dice's  body  shimmered with the disassociative energy  of  the
beam. She became fiery, incandescent, and somehow, Sivrak thought,
she  might have appreciated diat transformation. And then the fire
that consumed her reached out for Sivrak, engulfing him too as-
   
   -a  single TIE fighter emerged from the carbon cloud  with  all
weapons  firing blindly. Blinking with surprise, Sivrak  felt  the
chill  of  Hoth  still  pulsing through him  as  he  instinctively
switched from his etheric rudder to full atmospheric controls, and
dodged  the killing strands of the TIE fighter's beams  until  his
rear sights locked and he fired.
   The  TIE fighter flew apart as Sivrak's beam tore open its skin
and  the  moon of Endor's atmosphere instantly ripped the Imperial
craft to dust-sized fragments. The hunt was over.
   But  now  the Endor moon filled his canopy. Sivrak, slammed  at
the  atmospheric controls, fighting to reduce the  X-wing's  roll.
The  navigation  display showed his two possible courses.  One  to
safety. One to the gen-; erator. The rear display showed the Death
Star  firing  at i will. The X-wing shook as it tore  through  the
thickening  atmosphere. Sivrak's claws dug into the yoke.  He  was
less than thirty heartbeats from the point of no return. Again, he
had  to  decide. He couldn't decide. The atmosphere sang  to  him.
Like music. Like music from-
   
   -the  cantina.  Sivrak  leaned  against  the  wall  inside  the
doorway, trying to understand what he heard outside on the streets
of  Mos  Eisley. Fighting. Rioting. Speeders rushing.  Detonations
from the direction of the spaceport.
   He stumbled down the stairs to the bar, breathless, feeling the
panic of time running out.
   It was night. The cantina was deserted. The music was recorded.
Something was wrong.
   Sivrak  slumped against the bar, feeling it shudder  as  if  it
coursed through atmosphere.
   "Jabba is dead," Dice said.
   Sivrak looked up from the bar to find the lamproid close beside
him, studying the reflections in her snifter of clarified blood.
   "How...?"  Sivrak rasped. His question took in everything  that
had happened but Dice heard it in only one way.
   "Strangled  on his sand ship," Dice said. "A human slave  girl,
of all things. Used her own chains."
   From  somewhere  outside, there was an explosion,  much  closer
than the spaceport. The bottles and glasses stacked up behind  the
bar rattled.
   Dice  picked up her snifter. "Mos Eisley is in flames.  No  one
knows  who  is in control." She unrolled her drinking tongue  into
the blood and ingested.
   Sivrak smoothed the fur around his muzzle in agitation. He knew
there was something he had to do, but he couldn't work it out.  He
had to discover what was out of place here.
   "If Jabba is dead," he began uncertainly, "then Hoth . . . Hoth
has already been evacuated."
   Dice  put the snifter back on the bar top. "That's right,"  she
said.
   Sivrak felt the fur lift along his spine. "But then," he  said,
"you're dead."
   Dice  slid the tip of her tail across Sivrak's forearm.  "Do  I
feel dead?" she asked.
   The  Wolfman closed his claws over the tail tip, focusing  only
on  the  magic  of her improbable presence. He heard other  sounds
now.  Shuffling. Voices. Boots grinding sand into  the  floor.  He
looked  up at Dice. They were sitting at the table in the  corner,
the  horned Devaronian nodding to the music behind them.  Now  the
cantina was full, bustling. As it had been, long ago.
   "The  golden droid will come in soon," Sivrak said.  He  wasn't
sure  how,  but he was beginning to understand what was happening,
the  choice  he must make. "And then the golden droid  will  leave
again."
   Dice's  light sensors Were unfathomable, as deep as  a  gravity
well. "And what of you, this time?" she asked, as if she had  read
his mind. "Will you choose to leave as well?"
   "The  Force," Sivrak said with wonder as understanding  finally
welled within him. "The Force is with me, isn't it?"
   Dice  smiled, an irksome habit in those who knew the  Force  so
well. "The Force is within everything," she said.
   "But  here and now, in this cantina" - Sivrak's voice  rose  as
all  that  had  happened, all that would happen,  all  that  might
happen,  converged on him at once - "in the trenches of  Hoth,  or
falling  toward some nameless moon of Endor - the Force  binds  it
all."
   His  pulse  hammered, his lungs strained for air. A flicker  of
light by the entrance showed that someone had entered the cantina.
The Devaronian glanced over to see who it was.
   "Of  course," Dice said, as if she had heard every word he  had
spoken uncounted lifetimes ago.
   The  farm  boy  appeared on the stairs as the old  man  hurried
ahead. The Artoo unit and the golden droid followed behind.
   "This  time,  when the golden droid leaves, I  can  leave  too,
can't I?" Sivrak asked.
   "That  choice was yours when we first met," Dice said. "Nothing
has changed."
   Sivrak  felt the worldlines converge, then pull apart,  not  on
this  one  place  and  time, but on this  one  feeling,  this  one
experience that transcended all else.
   He  now  knew  that through some trick of the Force,  he  could
follow  the golden droid back onto the streets of Mos Eisley,  and
all would be as it had been before he had met Dice Ibegon.
   The same choice but a second chance.
   In love, Dice had given him this way out.
   "Hey,"  the  bartender growled from behind the bar.  "We  don't
serve their kind here."
   Sivrak  watched intently. The farm boy talked with his  droids.
Only  heartbeats  remained.  The time  between  one  decision  and
another. One direction or the other.
   "I don't want to leave you," Sivrak said to Dice.
   "Knowing all that you know?" she asked. "Knowing with certainty
what lies ahead?"
   Sivrak  didn't answer. He simply reached out to her, to  gather
her  coils  close  around him for one timeless moment  that  would
last, had lasted, forever.
   The  golden  droid left the cantina. The music  played.  Sivrak
waited  for the hum of the old man's lightsaber to drown  out  all
other noise.
   "Sometimes choice is an illusion," Sivrak said, at last knowing
that  all  choices  were the same choice, and had  been  from  the
instant  he  had set foot into this cantina and seen Dice  Ibegon,
waiting as she had always waited to join him.
   He forced his eyes shut, knowing all that would happen. The old
man  reached into his cloak and pulled out his antique lightsaber.
The  glow  of its beam sparkled from the glasses on the  bar.  The
Aqualish pirate screamed. The cantina shuddered-
   
   -under the withering assault of the Endor moon's atmosphere.
   Sivrak  bayed at that moon as he lifted the nose of the  X-wing
to  make  it  skip through the turbulence, riding  his  own  sonic
compression wave, shedding just enough speed to bring his velocity
below the X-wing's critical stress load. This time he reached  the
point  of no return and knew at once he had always lived his  life
precisely at this moment. The enormity of now. His movements  were
instinctual, no thought required, no decision possible. He  pulled
on  the control yoke to bring his course around to intersect  with
the ground generator's coordinates.
   His   X-wing  screamed  through  the  atmosphere,  the  forward
deflector  shields  blazing red like a dying  star.  His  tactical
display remained silent - no Imperial ground defenses tracked him.
Standard  defenses were unbreachable, but perhaps, with the  space
battle in progress above, these weren't standard times.
   The  navigation  display  confirmed his  trajectory.  Over-the-
horizon  scanners  locked  him onto the  generator's  transmission
antenna.  The  X-wing  bucked like a crazed  tauntaun.  Everything
Sivrak  saw blurred before him, blending in with the cacophony  of
his  communicator: a burst of static, then Ackbar's exultant voice
-  "The  shield is down! Commence attack on the Death Star's  main
reactor!"
   The  moon's forest streaked below Sivrak's X-wing as he  saw  a
plume  of  smoke  and  fire  rush for  him,  the  remains  of  the
transmission  antenna already destroyed. Solo's  strike  team  had
succeeded after all.
   General Calrissian's voice broke up with static. "We're on  our
way!"  Raw  cheering voices. Human and Bothan.  Mon  Calamari  and
Bith. Even a droid who announced it had always wanted to do this.
   It was the frenzy of a successful hunt, Sivrak knew, even as he
understood that no power in the universe could stay the  streaking
course  of  his fighter, because it had already been  set  by  the
strongest power.
   The  flaming  ruins of the Imperial base came at him  with  the
speed  of destiny. Calmly, Sivrak took his claws from the controls
-
   
   -and walked the forest of Endor's moon.
   It  was  night. The breeze was cool. His nostrils  were  aflame
with  the  scents of a multitude of prey and smoky woodfires.  The
fires' distant crackling was punctuated by rhythmic drumbeats  and
excited voices lifted in triumphant song.
   Sivrak drew in die clean air, flushing the last stale traces of
recycled fighter oxygen from his lungs. This time, he did not  try
to remember what had happened. He knew, in time, all answers would
come.
   "Those are the Ewoks singing," Dice said behind him, as he knew
she must.
   He  turned to face her, gasping at the ethereal wonder  of  her
lamproid  form as she glowed with the inner light she  had  always
carried. The dark trees of the forest basked in her radiance.
   "They celebrate the death of the Emperor," she said.
   "Then the battle of Endor's moon . . . ?" Sivrak began.
   "Has been won. Our fight is at its end."
   Sivrak lifted his paw to touch her, and was not surprised  when
he saw that his own arm shone as did Dice's body.
   She  wound  her  tail  tip around his  paw.  "We  are  luminous
beings,"  she said, "and always have been. True love can never  be
denied."
   For long moments, Sivrak stood silent in that forest, united at
last  in  such a way that he knew he would never be alone  again-a
balance  even  simpler than that between predator  and  prey,  the
joining  of  all things in the Force. But blended  in  the  Ewoks'
chorus,  he heard the strains of a different music, from a  differ
ent time.
   "The cantina," Dice explained without him having to ask.
   "I know," Sivrak said. "But there is no need to return there."
   "There never was," she said.
   And then, tail in paw, their hearts and souls entwined forever,
Dice  led Sivrak through the forest of Endor's moon, to a  special
place near an Ewok village where three friends waited, as they had
always  waited, as they always would wait, for all who would  join
them, bound by the Force.
   And  behind  them  in the forest, the music  from  the  cantina
softly faded, and was never heard again.