Gasping, Oola collapsed. Her lekku fell flaccid. Fortuna pulled free
of them.
Oola let him drag her to her feet. She hadn't been shot. Neither had
Fortuna, but Rudd lay facedown and twitching. Sienn was dashing up the
street. Both of her lekku swung down the back of Luke's too-long cloak.
She had almost reached the street corner beyond that debris heap. Luke
followed her, carrying his weird weapon . . . but the glimmering shaft
had vanished.
As Sienn dashed out of sight, Luke slowed. He glanced over his
shoulder, caught Oola's stare, and hesitated.
Sienn wouldn't survive two minutes alone in these streets. "Go!"
Oola shrieked.
Luke raised both eyebrows in a pained expression, as if she had finally
jabbed him. He spun away, and then he too was gone.
"So you want Jabba to yourself." Bib pulled her so close to his leather
chest protector that she could smell rancid breath venting between his
long, pointed teeth. He dug his blaster muzzle into her stomach.
"All of the goodies for Oola. No rivals."
"No rivals," she sneered back, full of adrenaline and bravado. It was
either that or recoil. She mustn't show fear.
Fortuna flung her away. Oola caught her balance with a languid
handspring, turned back to Bib, and waited.
"My speeder is parked around the corner," he growled. His orange-pink
eyes glowered. "This way."
Oola sighed away the memory. She'd lost daylight and hope, and she'd
never wielded power. But no one could steal her honor. She would never
again lose her best reason for living.
"Fortuna hates me now," she murmured. She fingered the hideous leather
headdress. "Here are my soft cushions." Mocking her own words, she ran
a finger over the stony lip of Jabba's bed. Her dainties?
Scraps Jabba tossed when she groveled . . . or food he suspected of
harboring poison.
Threepio finished translating her tale for Yarna, then they both shook
their heads. Beyond Jabba's throne, a scream faded into the floor. Oola
shuddered.
She'd seen Jabba feed his stinking, hideous underground monster.
The rancor usually devoured its prey whole. By the standards of this
place, it looked like a quick death. She'd rather be next on the menu
than watch it again, and that was likely enough. She'd choose it over
Jabba's ardent embrace. How ironic that Sienn, the obvious morsel, had
escaped . . . but Oola was glad that she had, and proud to have helped.
"At least you can dance," Yarna pointed out. "Be thankful Jabba doesn't
have your cubs in his clutches."
Oola raised her head. "I can dance," she agreed.
"If I could have one wish . . ."
"What?" Yarna encouraged, straightening her own headdress.
"I would dance the perfect dance. Once. It wouldn't matter who
watched. I would know it was perfect."
Threepio's head swiveled jauntily over his metal shoulders. "But Miss
Oola, Master Luke is close by."
"You do know him?"
"Oh yes. I--"
"I wasn't heat-crazy? He can do all those things?"
"Oh yes. I too was a gift to Jabba." His singsong voice sounded giddy.
"Master Luke is aJedi Knight, a very important person in the Rebel
Alliance. He's very good at rescuing people. You should have--"
"Don't," she groaned. What had Luke tried to warn her? That Jabba
would . . . k-something. Kill her?
Surely he couldn't predict the future.
Threepio touched her shoulder. "He's coming here to rescue me.
I'll see that he rescues you ladies, too.
Leave that to me."
Oola eyed the droid critically. "He used so many hard words in that
message--the one your friend . . . projected," she finished in
Twi'leki.
"Oh, that. Perhaps you should play along with His High Exaltedness just
a little longer?" Threepio imitated a human shrug.
Yarna nudged her, her face compassionate. "Listen to Metal Man, Oola.
If I can survive this, you can."
"Not for long. Not with my--" The court rang with raucous laughter. At
any moment, she'd feel the tug at her slave collar.
"Threepio, help us escape. You must."
Threepio touched her stout chain and then the greasy round bolt on his
chest. "Creating a plan," he dithered in Twi'leki, "is beyond my
capacity. Artoo has a vibro-cutter among his appendages, but he has
been assigned to the garages."
Oola forced down her glimmer of temporary hope.
She mustn't forget bright eternity, nor the Great Dance. Not in here.
Not for a moment. "That's the difference between us," she muttered.
"For all of your six million forms of communication, you're faithless."
"I beg your pardon." Threepio brushed his midsection again. "I have
every faith in Master Luke. He will rescue me." Since hearing her
story, he'd called Luke "Master" twice--a term he'd hesitated to use
before.
Evidently her story had done him some good, anyway.
And if "Master Luke" was coming, she might get a second chance after
all. She eyed her fellow dancer.
"Perhaps I can survive this," she agreed. And perhaps Sienn was already
safe somewhere. "I'll do my b" Her collar tugged up and backward. Half
strangled, Oola yanked her headpiece back on, flailing for balance as
Jabba hauled her over his side. She dug her fingers and toes into fetid
flesh. Jabba purred as if tickled by her struggling.
His jizz-wailers swung into a new dance tune.
Furious, Oola leaped off her grotesque master's dais. She vaulted into
the middle of the floor, defiantly landing on the rancor pit's grate.
Jabba's trap-door had closed again. Maybe he hadn't even opened it.
Maybe.
Yarna joined the dance, as did Melina Carniss with her long dark fur.
Oola kept at the far end of her chain. In one dark alcove she seemed to
see blue eyes watching from under a roughly woven black hood.
She would dance for him this time. For a second chance. She kicked
head-high and higher, powerfully swinging her fleshy lekku. Her grace
was her glory.
The physical rapture of dancing swept through her and owned her, freely
and naturally. Every step and each gesture marked out a melody.
She'd found perfect sensual poise. At last.
Evidently Jabba thought so, too. He tugged her chain.
More angry than frightened at first, she grasped it with both hands and
yanked back. She didn't care if the Gamorreans beat her againmshe would
not dance closer. She only knew a few words of Huttese. She shouted
them. "Na chuba negatorie!"
Jabba tugged again, drooling.
Oola braced her feet at the trapdoor's edge.
Though terror robbed her of poise, she would not yield. "Na! Na!
Natoota . . ." Let Us Prey: The Whiphid's Tale
by Marina Fitch and M ark Budz
Feeding time again. The crunch and snap of bones resonated through the
walls of the Whiphid J'Quille's room asJabba's "pet" rancor snacked on
its latest morsel.
J'Quille paced his stark room. Huntlust vibrated through his tall,
golden-furred frame, wrinkled his broad snout. His tusks tingled even
though it had been several hours since Jabba dropped the Twi'lek dancer
into the rancor's pit. The screams had ceased long ago, butJ'Quille
couldn't stop salivating. The savory aroma of fresh blood warmed the
pit of his stomach.
The warmth wouldn't last long. J'Quille snarled low in his throat. Next
time it might be J'Quille the rancor feasted on. Jabba grew bored so
easily. What if the novelty of employing a former lover of the Whiphid
crimelord Lady Valarian to trret out conspiracies wore thin?
No doubt the kind of reminder Jabba intended when he gave J'Quille
quarters this close to the pit. If Jabba suspected J'Quille still
worked for her . . .
Owner of the Lucky Despot, Lady Valarian was Jabba's most powerful
rival. Not only was her nightclub the most successful in Mos Eisley--on
the entire planet of Tatooine--she siphoned business from Jabba as
easily as she sipped Sullustan gin.
As easily as the rancor would sip the marrow from J'Quille's bones if he
was discovered.
J'Quille snorted. All he had to do was keep his tusks clean for a few
more days. Then the rancor and his devoted keeper, Malakili, would be
gone, free of Jabba. J'Quille had helped arrange their escape with Lady
Valarian. One of the few good things he'd been able to do behind
Jabba's back.
That, and bribing the kitchen boy, Phlegmin, to lace Jabba's snack tank
of freckled toads with slowacting poison. A little too slow by the look
of things.
Another bone snapped.
J'Quille's claws tensed. He smoothed the fur bristling around his neck,
raised by the scent of the Twi'lek's blood and the huntlust surging
through him.
But was he hunter or prey? Or both?
He stopped pacing and glanced at the room, barren except for his
sleeping pallet. Built by the B'omarr monks, the room's stark ascetic
reminded him of the rock-and-bone shelters of his homeworld, Toola.
Two ceremonial trophies hung on opposite ,,vails: a necklace of Mastmot
teeth, dipped in poison; and the skull of a young bantha he had brought
down one night with his bare claws. He was a hunter, not some weak Ice
Puppy that sat back and waited for death to come.
He jerked open the door and slipped into the hallway.
A pain-filled moan issued from one of the rank cells. A Gamorrean guard
grunted as he pushed past J'Quille, bleary with sleep or too much
Sullustan gin.
J'Quille stroked the spiky hairs along his lower lip.
Lady gin. If only he were back at the Lucky Despot! Two days ago, when
it looked like everything was going according to plan, it had seemed a
possibility. His "falling out" with Lady Valarian would end and they
could finally stop pretending.
That was before the note. Someone knew he was bribing Phlegmin.
He had already paid a hefty ten thousand credits to keep the blackmailer
silent. But it was only a matter of time before Jabba found out.
How much time? That was the question.
The crunch and snap of bones stopped. Blast. Sweat beaded J'Quille's
forehead and long, broad snout.
When was the last time he'd been cool? He wiped his face with the back
of his paw. Strands of fur clung to the sweat. He grimaced.
Shedding again. Tatooine's dry, sweltering heat sucked the energy out
of him.
What he wouldn't give for a couple of minutes in one of the Lucky
Despot's ice saunas.
Something scuttled past him---one of those spider-like droids
enlightened B'omarr monks used to ferry around their pickled brains.
The glass jar winked in the dim light, then droid and brain disappeared
around the corner.
J'Quille snarled in disgust and hurried on, stopping outside the
rancor's pit. The inner gate stood slightly open, as he'd known it
would. Malakili was cleaning the outer cage.
The scent of blood was stronger here. J'Quille closed his eyes and
breathed deeply. The intoxicating scent soothed his taut nerves, taking
the edge off his repressed frustration. If he could just track down the
blackmailer and kill him . . .
A foot scraped on the stone floor near him. His eyes snapped open. One
hand jerked up, claws extended, while the other reached for his
vibroblade.
shadows. Sweat glazed his bare chest and heavy arms. He patted
J'Quille's shoulder with a black-gloved hand. "Easy. You're stiffer
than an Imperial stormtrooper."
"Been a bad night," J'Quille said, letting go of his vibroblade.
"Tell me about it," Malakili said, adjusting his black headband.
His eyes narrowed in his thick, doughy face. "Something's in the air.
Even my friend here is jumpier than usual."
"This place is a tomb," J'Quille said. "Even the living are dead inside
these walls. Might as well stuff our brains in jars."
"Yeah, but the monk's brains aren't dead." Malakili leaned closer to
him. "Listen, I heard something I think you should know."
J'Quille tensed. "What?"
"This afternoon Bib Fortuna tried to get Jabba to throw you into the
pit. Thinks it would be an interesting contest."
J'Quille peered at Malakili. "What did Jabba say?"
"I tried to talk him out of it. You'd inflict too much damage before my
friend killed you. ButJabba wasn't convinced. He said he'd give it
some thought."
"So I have a little time," J'Quille said.
Malakili nodded little. With luck, we'll both be out of here soon
"Alive, I hope," J'Quille said, curling the corners of his lips back
around his tusks in a smile Malakili smiledI'll let you know if I hear
more."
"Thanks," J'Quille said.
Gnashing his tusks, J'Quille hurried back to his room. Things were
moving much too fast, forcing his hand. Jabba's increasing coolness,
the blackmailer · . . and now Bib Fortuna's plotting. Time to get
Phlegmin to increase the dosage of slow poison sooner Jabba was reduced
to a vat of gibbering slug jelly, the sooner J'Quille could return to
Lady Valarian. He'd wanted to increase the dosage earlier, but he'd
been afraid someone would notice a sudden change in Jabba.
Now he could no longer afford the luxury of caution.
J'Quille slipped into his room and went to the string of Mastmot teeth
hanging on the wall. Lifting the necklace from its pe, he slipped it
over his head.
Luckily most people, includingJabba, considered him a mindless brute
with a taste for crude jewelry suspected the teeth had been dipped in
poison J'Quille started at a low mechanical warble outside his door. His
nostrils flared, crinkling at the acrid stench of oil and metal A droid.
The claws of J'Quille's right hand curled involuntarily around the grip
of his vibroblade, then slowly relaxedn droid wouldn't announce its
presence.
The warble repeated. J'Quille yanked open the door.
The maintenance droid, a blue U2C1 housekeeping model, chirped and took
a step back. Both of its flex-tube arms quivered. With a whine, it
sucked in air through the stiff brush
at the end of its left arm and the
upholstery attachment on its right.
"I hope I'm not disturbing you," it said tinnily.
"I've been instructed to clean this room J'Quille stepped aside,
allowing the droid to enter Another calculated nuisance on the part of
Jabba or one of his servants--most likely Salacious Crumb That
drool-lapping Kowakian lizard-monkey probably scavenged the droid's
waste tank for between-meal snackseered. He'd love to program the
cleaning droid to suck up that cackling little rubbish heap.
"Please close the door," the droid said. "This won't take long J'Quille
grumbled.
The droid's right arm snaked out to sweep the floor. The loud whine
grated on J'Quille's nerves. He reached for the doorknob.
"I have a message," the droid said.
J'Quille hesitated. "A message?"
"From a friendhe droid paused, but left its vacuum runningho's
blackmailing you. Meet me on the citadel roof at sunrise and I'll give