Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [130]
There is no time, no time—
I clutch him. Turn him. Catch him up in the embrace.
He struggles briefly, too briefly. Proboscii plunge into nostrils, through to the brain.
There is so little soup, and all of it weak.
But it will do. For the moment.
He is discarded quickly, abruptly, proboscii tearing free. I let him fall in a sprawl, ungainly and lacking dignity, against a broken box nearly large enough for his body.
There is blood on the boy’s face. I have left evidence of the means, the method.
There is no time.
It will suffice. It will serve.
Anzat, of the Anzati … loose in Jabba’s palace.
—soup—
Ah, but it is ecstasy, or will be.
Who?
Along the corridors, shadow-cloaked, prowls an Anzat, but shedding habitual wariness in the quest for fact, for truth—
Oh, rejoice!
—it is here, is here; all of it, here … Solo’s, another’s. Another’s.
I catch myself up short at the corner, on the cusp of Jabba’s audience chamber. For it is there, all of it there: Solo, thawed from carbonite, his soup wild and reckless, tinged with fear, with panic: he is blind, blind and untrusting, but all his instincts are to fight, to fight—
Another’s. Wild and free and boiling.
Frightened as well, that she—
—she?—
—will not be able to get him free despite precautions, despite plans: Chewbacca, Lando, Han; always Han, foremost—
—Calrissian—
Then he is the third.
Solo. The woman. Calrissian.
Betrayer.
Rejoice … oh, rejoice!
But Solo overwhelms them all with his presence, his soup; and in the doing overwhelms me. Proboscii extrude, quivering.
—soup—
She has unmasked, the woman. Unhelmed so he knows her, so he will not be afraid.
No. Let him be afraid, so he might overcome it. And in the fear, in the overcoming of it, the pushing through to awareness and competency and the wild, crazed courage, he becomes what I want, what I need—
—Han Solo’s soup—
Oh, let it be mine!
I will take all of them. One by one.
No. Wait. There is the task first.
—soup—
No! The task.
Possess yourself of patience.
But it is difficult. Self-denial is a discipline I have never learned; nor ever had to learn.
Solo. The woman, royal-bred. And Lando Calrissian.
All it wants is the boy, so rich in Jedi promise.
—Han Solo’s soup—
I fall back. Containment, control is difficult; proboscii rebel as I try to withdraw them, urge them to withdraw. There is war within my skull.
Have I gone so far? Lost so much?
Never have I been so close to the edge.
There must be a death. Now. Soup must be drunk. Now.
I turn. I scrape myself against the walls and retreat rapidly, hearing the echo of Jabba’s laughter. Are they caught, then? Has the Hutt captured them all?
—soup—
Solo. The woman. Calrissian.
All. I will have them all.
Or die in the trying.
It is not sleep, with us. It is stupor, near to coma. A withdrawal from that which is living, to those whose lives are slight; and to a deepness, a darkness, an otherness, where my body repairs itself in the ways both large and small, if necessary. But it has not been necessary for a long time, for I am cautious, and careful, and no one save my victims has ever seen me, except for when I choose to walk among entities without offering threat. It is a lonely life, else; and I choose not to be lonely.
But that bears its cost. The stupor is deeper than most. The coma nearly complete. So that when roused out of it by something most unexpected, I am as close to walking the edge of madness is as possible, with us.
And so it is madness, and overwhelming, when I am roused abruptly, too abruptly, by the awareness, sharp and painful, exquisitely demanding, of power beyond reckoning. Like Yoda’s, like Kenobi’s. But young yet, still young, still learning its way.
And the way, the precipice of the power, is yet to be understood fully by the one who does and will wield it.
Thus roused, I am angry. And comprehending abruptly, so abruptly: he will be stronger than any in