Martha Veitch
by Tom Veitch and
Martha Veitch
“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 I 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 outlaws … 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 … everything.
“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.
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 Radion, gawking at the starlines, as Uncle Nok’s silver ship vaulted into the unknown.
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 starjammer, 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.
“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 declared 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 bathhouses, 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’ll 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 repulsorjumped 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 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 better’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.”
“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 me 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 Dekk-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.
“HNUUAARRN!”
“Te kalya skrek, grulla woska!” Put me down, ya hairy heap!
The Wookiee turned Greedo with his paws so he could look into the snouted green face. “NNHNGRRAAAGH!” 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 holstered 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.
“HWARRNNUNH.”
“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?”
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.
“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 protégé 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. I 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 Rodian. 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 hell get himself aced in a month or two … Anyway, who knows, maybe he will make a good bounty hunter … ’Tho I never saw a Rodian good for anythin’ except killin’ unarmed Ugnaughts!
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 happened 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 firefighters’ 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 some-thin’. 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.
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 he 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 Kast just told me Jabba 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 ol’ 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 Stenness 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 kill Zardra?”
“Easy. She killed a Hutt, that’s why! When the Thig Brothers came lookin’ for Jodo, 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 Hutt’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.”
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 ’tronics 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 but 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, majordomo 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.
“Moja jpo 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 Hurt’s lardaceous body seemed to periodically release a greasy discharge, sending fresh waves of rotten stench to Greedo’s sensitive nostrils.
“Ne subul Greedo, pombo gek fultrh badda wanga!” Goa put one hand on Greedo’s shoulder as he introduced his protégé 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 no thin’ 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 uncollected 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.
“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. But 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, I’ll 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 gulley fish 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 sove 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 protégé. “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 dan 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 Gorm 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 holstered 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?”
“WNHUARRN!”
“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 protégé 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 protégé.”
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 protégé 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!”
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 hyperspace, 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 nacht vakee 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.”