In a single follow-through motion, the rancor swept its claws sideways
and tore open the Tusken Raider that had been knocked from the bantha.
The second rider wailed a challenge, thrashed his own gaffing stick in
the air, and charged directly at the rancor. The bantha kept its head
down, curved tusks forward like a battering ram--but the rancor flitted
sideways with deceptively easy speed and snatched the Tusken from the
bantha's back. It raised the victim to its cavernous mouth and stuffed
the Tusken in, chomping down with vise jaws of razor fangs, swallowing
the attacker in only two gulps.
With its rider gone, the bantha went wild, as if crazed. The rancor
scooped up an enormous broken sandstone boulder that had fallen from the
cliffs above in ages past.
Malakili staggered to his feet. The first Tusken Raider had turned his
bandaged face to stare at the battle between rancor and bantha,
forgetting his human victim. Watching the rancor, Malakili felt the
fury from his pet monster. He saw the Tusken who had attacked him, who
had swung a gaffing stick at him.
Malakili picked up a much smaller boulder, but one still deadly enough.
The bantha reared up and tried to butt the rancor, but the rancor hefted
the sandstone boulder. It brought the stone crashing down on the
mammoth beast's shaggy head, snapping the tusks like brittle straws and
caving in the creature's thick skull. The bantha grunted.
Momentum carried it forward until it slumped in a tumbled heap to the
canyon floor.
As the last Tusken Raider heard a sound beside him, he whirled, bringing
his gaffing stick up just as Malakili struck with the smaller boulder,
crushing his attacker's swathed head. The Tusken Raider fell to the
rocks, thick bandages soaking up the spreading flower of bright blood.
Malakili's heart pounded as he looked at the carnage.
The rancor let out a ululating bellow of triumph and looked at Malakili
with something like contented satisfaction. Then the monster squatted
over the bloody carcass of the slain bantha and began to feed.
Later, Malakili clung to the dry knobby skin of the rancor's neck as the
monster trotted across the sands in the desert twilight. It knew where
its home was and arrowed straight toward the underbelly of Jabba's
palace.
As it ran hunched over, puffs of sand drifted into the purpling night.
The rancor had gorged itself, and blood spattered the monster's chest.
It seemed to consider Malakili strange for not devouring the Tusken
Raider he had killed, but Malakili had no appetite.
Already he was wondering how he would explain everything to Jabba the
Hutt.
Lunchtime Beneath the Jaws
It turned out that Jabba didn't particularly care that Malakili had
taken the rancor out for a romp in the wastelands--he was furious,
however, that he had missed its titanic battle with the two banthas.
Malakili beamed with a paternal pride as he extolled his monster's
bravery and viciousness, but Bib Fortuna whispered a different
suggestion into Jabba's ear. The Hutt lurched upright on his dais with
a belch of delight. Wouldn't it make a magnificent duel to pit the
rancor against a krayt dragon?
The legendary desert dragons of Tatooine were huge and rare and
instilled more fear than any other creature in this sector of the
galaxy. None had ever been captured alive before, but Jabba's
incentive--one hundred thousand credits guaranteed to anyone who could
bring in a live, unharmed specimen--was enough to ensure the most
ambitious efforts. Even the great bounty hunter Boba Fett vowed to
remain at Jabba's palace as he considered the best way to tackle the
challenge.
Malakili was convinced that someone would succeed, and he looked upon
the threatened battle with great dread. Though he was proud of his
rancor's abiLities, he knew how awesome the krayt dragons were.
Jabba planned to build a special amphitheater out in the bowl of desert
rancor would face off and tear each other apart. Even if the rancor
managed to defeat the incredible dragon, Malakili suspected the battle
itself would wound the rancor grievously, perhaps mortally.
He couldn't allow that.
Down in the lower levels of the dungeons, Malakili wheeled a heavily
laden cart stacked high with dripping stacks of meat, sawed bones, and
leftovers from the slaughterhouse connected to Jabba's kitchens.
Porcellus, Jabba's chef, had set aside choice morsels as treats for the
rancor, as well as a sandwich of sliced, marinated meat for Malakili's
own lunch.
Malakili got along well with the skittish cook, passing along whatever
gossip he managed to hear in the lower levels, though he had to listen
to the chef's ever-increasing fears thatJabba would soon tire of his
culinary abilities and feed him to the rancor.
With a sigh, Malakili pushed the cart to the barred gate of the rancor
pit. The wheels squeaked like a terrified bristling rodent in the
dungeon levels. He swung open the gate, pulled the cart through, and
fastened the door behind him.
The rancor stood up and watched him bring the mound of meat closer,
running a stubby purplish tongue across the edges of its packed rows of
teeth.
Malakili nudged the meat in front of the rancor after removing his own
white-wrapped sandwich from the top of the pile. The rancor used a
hooked claw to sort through the lunch offerings until it selected a
curved dewback rib studded with lumps of gristly meat.
Malakili unwrapped his sandwich and hunkered down on the rancor's
bench-sized toe. Above him, the monster chewed on the long' rib bone,
gnawing and slurping. Malakili's black headdress protected him from the
splattering gobbets of dripping juices that fell from the rancor's
mouth, showering him and running down his own bare back.
As he ate, munching absently on his delicious sandwich, Malakili thought
about his possibilities, the options-and his future.
It had been clear from the start that Jabba's main goal was to challenge
the rancor until some greater opponent killed it. Jabba cared nothing
for the monster, and neither did any of the others. Even greasy-haired
Gonar was terrified of the monster, wanting to be around the rancor only
for the prestige and the power it offered. The other spectators who
hung around the dungeons had no attachment to the beast either--not the
hairy Whiphid guard who poked his tusks against the bars of the cage,
watching the bestial power of the rancor as if it reminded him of
something from his home planet; not Lorindan, the nozzle-nosed spy who
had no motives other than to find information he might sell to someone
else.
No, Malakili was alone on Tatooine. He alone loved the monster, and it
was up to him to see that his pet was protected. He would find some way
to help the rancor escape--and himself along with it.
Malakili continued to chew on his sandwich, swallowing in a dry throat
as plans began to form
in his mind. Jabba was a powerful crimelord,
yes, but he was not the only power on Tatooine. Jabba had many enemies,
and Malakili had much information.
Perhaps he could find some way to buy freedom for his pet.
!n the monster's Lair
Near the center of the grubby city of Mos Eisley, a battered cargo
hauler gathered dust. After landing one time too many, the Lucky Despot
could no longer pass a single safety test, and so the hulk had remained
where it sat, abandoned, until a group of misguided Arconan investors
decided to convert it into a luxury hotel, hoping to take advantage of
the extensive tourist trade on Tatooine.
Shortly after the entrepreneurs went bankrupt, the Lucky Despot hotel
and casino was taken over by a new crimelord on Tatooine, an upstart
rival to Jabba who had great dreams, modest capital, and a mean streak
The Lady Valarian lounged back in her contorted chair, relaxing in her
plush office. She looked as suave as was possible for a horse-faced,
tusk-mouthed, bristle-haired Whiphid female. As she spoke her smooth
syllables, it seemed as if she were trying to purr--but to Malakili, it
sounded like an overgorged gun dark gargling with its own bodily fluids.
"I know you are from Jabba's palace," Lady Valarian said with a grunt
deep in her throat. Her peg-like tusks shoved forward from her underjaw
as she leaned closer. She batted long eyelashes at him.
Malakili whiffed her heavy perfume that attempted to mask the rank,
musky smell of Whiphid fur; he thought this was a worse odor than
anything he had smelled in the cages at the Circus Horrificus.
"Yes, I am from Jabba's palace," Malakili said, stroking his black
headdress, "but Jabba can't always provide everything I need. So I've
come to you, Lady Valarian."
She hunched her shoulders and lifted her brutally ugly face. Her body
trembled in what Malakili took to be an expression of mirth. "And how
do you expect to pay for this favor you ask of me?"
"I know that Jabba is your enemy, Lady Valarian," Malakili said.
"I know that you might wish to have full schematics of the palace. The
B'omarr monks who built it have kept the layout secret. You might wish
to learn some of the hidden entrances to the lower levels. You might
wish to know some of Jabba's habits and weaknesses."
Lady Valarian snorted. "Don't you think I have my own operatives inside
Jabba's palace?"
Malakili showed no expression, although he was terrified.
"I said nothing about your operatives. I merely offered my own
services. If you intend to challenge Jabba the Hutt, you must be very
careful, indeed."
He hoped he had said the right words. He, who had spent seven seasons
taming the wildest creatures in the Circus Horrificus, now felt
completely out of his depth in a plush room with a perfumed female who
could squash him with a snap of her fingers.
"I'm not saying that I have any personal interest in doing harm to
Jabba," she said. "In fact, he and I have a limited partnership. He
owns a token percentage of the Lucky Despot. But, information is
sometimes incalculably valuable, difficult to estimate its worth. It is
unwise to dismiss an opportunity to increase one's knowledge." She
raised a bristly eyebrow.
"Would you care for a drink? Then you may tell me about this favor I
can grant you."
Malakili nodded dumbly as she brought him one of Tatooine's most
expensive beverages in a frosted glass: clear, chilled water with two
ice cubes floating in it.
Malakili sipped his drink, licked his lips as the cold liquid danced
down his throat.
"I'll need a ship--a cargo ship with a specially reinforced cage
chamber."
Lady Valarian widened her nostrils with a hefty sniff Of curiosity. "A
cage? What are you going to transport?"
"A live animal," Malakili said. "And myself. I intend to take Jabba's
pet rancor with me. I need to find a deserted world, preferably lush, a
jungle moon perhaps a backwater forested planet where a resourceful
person could eke out a living, and where a large creature could have his
freedom and enough prey to hunt to his own satisfaction."
Lady Valarian growled in stuttering low bursts, which Malakili
interpreted as delighted laughter.
"You want to steal Jabba's rancor? That would be hilarious!
Oh, this is too good to miss. Yes, yes, I will provide the ship you
need. We can set the time and the date."
"As soon as possible," Malakili said.
Calmly, Lady Valarian waved a clawed hand across the glowing sheen of
her antique desktop. "Yes, yes, as soon as possible. The most
important thing, I think, will be to install a tiny spycam in Jabba's
throne room --just so I can watch the expression on his bloated face
when he finds out what's happened!"
Valarian tapped some unseen marker on her desk, and a melodious chime
rang out. The door whisked open, and two heavily polished protocol
droids marched in. "Yes, Lady Valarian?" they said in unison.
She directed one of the droids to take Malakili to another room where he
would provide "certain information."
The other she instructed to arrange for a ship, to find a suitable world
according to Malakili's specifications, and to arrange all the details
of the passage.
"My gratitude, Lady Valarian," Malakili said, stumbling over his words,
still unable to believe that he had stepped down the irrevocable path.
Valarian chortled again as Malakili got up to follow the protocol droid
into the corridor. "No, thank you," she said. "This is worth any
number of investments."
The door closed behind her while she was still chuckling.
Bad Timing
Malakili tried to remain calm and behave normally as he counted the days
to the appointed hour of his rescue.
He watched with furtive eyes, suspecting spies in every shadow but Jabba
and his followers above in the throne room seemed oblivious to
Malakili's actions.
Jabba was caught up in the troublesome details of running his new
cantina, and he also boasted that his bounty hunters would shortly bring
him a krayt dragon--which meant that the Hutt limited the violent
challenges upon the rancor, not wishing the monster to be injured before
its titanic battle. The most recent fresh and kicking meal the rancor
had devoured was a mere Twrlek dancing girl, which the rancor savored,
consuming her in three delicate bites rather than the customary one
large gulp.
Malakili tried to relax, hoping that perhaps his plan would come off
smoothly after all. But, as he was wheeling the meat-laden cart of the
rancor's lunch to the cell gate, pallid-faced Gonar stepped out of the
shadows with an idiotic, devilish grin.
"I know about you, Malakili!" Gonar said in a hushed, hoarse whisper.
"I know about you and the Lady Valarian."
Malakili stopped the cart and turned slowly, trying to keep from showing
his shock--but he had never been good at hiding his emotions.
"And just what do you know about me and Valarian?" he asked.
"I know you're spying for her. You were traced going into Mos Eisley,
into the Lucky Despot. I know you saw her in her private chambers. I
don't know what your game is, but I know that Jabba won't like it."
Malakili couldn't hide. His eyes flitted from side to side.
Inside the cage the rancor sensed his keeper's alarm and let out a low
growl. "What do you want?"
Malakili said.
Gonar heaved a relieved sigh, as if pleased that he wasn't going to have
to argue any more. He swiped a greasy strand of hair out of his eyes.
"I want to take care of the rancor," he said. "I've been around him as
much as you have. He should be my pet."
Gonar flicked his eyes toward the cage. "Either you flee now and leave
me to take care of the monster," he said, "or I'll report you to Jabba,
and he will kill you, and I will still claim the rancor as my reward.
Either way, I get what I want. The exact manner is up to you."
"You don't leave me much choice? Malakili said, whimpering.
"No," Gonar said, drawing himself up, puffed with his own triumph.
"No, I don't leave you much choice."
Malakili grabbed a heavy femur from the rancor's lunch pile.
Without pause, he swung the blood-wet bone with all the strength behind