• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

That boy. Kenobi’s boy, whom I first saw years ago in Chalmun’s cantina. Who did not then know what he is, but knows now, and plainly; knows enough how to use, how to shield.

Here, in Jabba’s palace.

Solo. The woman. Calrissian. The boy.

All of them here. Now.

Why has he unshielded? Why do I know him now? A Jedi excretes power when he chooses; to Anzati, it is obvious. But there is control in it regardless. This time there is none. He is wholly open, unshielded, yielding to some purpose I cannot conceive.

—soup—

Proboscii rake my nostrils. Roused, no longer stuporous, I walk out of the shadows of the labyrinth and make my way through, passing those who barely see me, but know enough to stop, to stare, to blink; to question what they have seen, albeit in silence, in the interior of their fear.

Let them see. It serves.

—Anzat, of the Anzati—

—loose in Jabba’s palace—

But that is of no moment. It is plain to me now, too plain; the boy, that boy, has come into the lair intent on his own purpose … it was planned, all of it planned: Calrissian, infiltrating; the princess, clad in costume; the Wookiee, beleaguered bait; and now the boy, Kenobi’s pupil, so rich—so rich!—in power that was before only potential, barely promised—

And Solo, always Solo … all of them now, together: Solo, the Wookiee, the woman, Kenobi’s boy, and Calrissian—

And Jabba!

I have been careless. I!

—through the corridors, running—

Running. Running.

How could I have been so careless?

—running—

Closer now. Proboscii twitch, extrude.

—soup—

All of them here, at once.

Somewhere.

—soup—

So many dead of my need. But none of them count, none—they are nothing, all of them—the only soup of the moment is here, now, but retreating—

It cannot be; will not. I am I: Dannik Jerriko.

I have never failed.

I am here for Jabba’s soup.

For all the soup, of all of them.

—soup—

The massive gates stand open. There is no one to guard now, no Hutt to protect. He is gone, is gone; they are all of them gone, are gone—

The dust from the sail barge, from the hovercraft playing remora, drifts slowly to the ground.

—are gone, all of them gone—

—soup—

Jabba has taken them away. Jabba has taken himself.

Away. Not here. Apart from me.

Oh, foul! That I should come so close. That I should let it be known an Anzat is among them. That I should reveal myself to no purpose at all, save to feed the nightmare.

Oh, foul.

I am undone.

Failure is intolerable.

Among my kind, impossible.

Oh, the horror. The horror.

In my body, need cries out. Comprehends. Acknowledges.

Distant now, so distant, carried across the dunes.

All of it my soup. And now denied to me.

Oh, most foul.

There is nothing to do but wait. Wait for the Hutt’s return. They will none of the others be with him, for he will have disposed of them and wasted all the soup

—fool! fool!—but there is still Jabba.

Jabba.

And Dannik Jerriko.

O fool. O corpulent, fatuous fool.

There is yet a chance for me to redeem myself, to permit me success, not failure. Jabba is my task. The others, merely spice.

Jabba will return. And I will drink his soup.

Jabba will return.

He must.

Or I am undone.

There are shadows here, always. It is a simple thing to walk into them and put on the raiment they offer.

I can wait. I have always waited, when necessary. It is a gift. A power.

I am a thousand and ten years old, and I can wait forever.

Shaara and the Sarlacc: The Skiff Guard’s Tale

by Dan’l Danehy-Oakes

Yes, Mister Boba Fett, this is indeed a very serious matter. There is no other subject of conversation heard anywhere else in Jabba the Hutt’s palace. But this does not surprise me at all, because I have never seen any party work their way beneath the skin of Jabba the Hutt in the way this self-proclaimed Jedi Knight and his friends have done. I mean, just to think of the very gall of their coming in the place and threatening Jabba the Hutt, damaging his rancor, even releasing that two-credit phony smuggler Solo