Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [41]
“Don’t,” she groaned. What had Luke tried to warn her? That Jabba would … k-something. Kill her? Surely he couldn’t predict the future.
Threepio touched her shoulder. “He’s coming here to rescue me. I’ll see that he rescues you ladies, too. Leave that to me.”
Oola eyed the droid critically. “He used so many hard words in that message—the one your friend … projected,” she finished in Twi’leki.
“Oh, that. Perhaps you should play along with His High Exaltedness just a little longer?” Threepio imitated a human shrug.
Yarna nudged her, her face compassionate. “Listen to Metal Man, Oola. If I can survive this, you can.”
“Not for long. Not with my—” The court rang with raucous laughter. At any moment, she’d feel the tug at her slave collar. “Threepio, help us escape. You must.”
Threepio touched her stout chain and then the greasy round bolt on his chest. “Creating a plan,” he dithered in Twi’leki, “is beyond my capacity. Artoo has a vibro-cutter among his appendages, but he has been assigned to the garages.”
Oola forced down her glimmer of temporary hope. She mustn’t forget bright eternity, nor the Great Dance. Not in here. Not for a moment. “That’s the difference between us,” she muttered. “For all of your six million forms of communication, you’re faithless.”
“I beg your pardon.” Threepio brushed his midsection again. “I have every faith in Master Luke. He will rescue me.” Since hearing her story, he’d called Luke “Master” twice—a term he’d hesitated to use before. Evidently her story had done him some good, anyway.
And if “Master Luke” was coming, she might get a second chance after all. She eyed her fellow dancer. “Perhaps I can survive this,” she agreed. And perhaps Sienn was already safe somewhere. “I’ll do my b—”
Her collar tugged up and backward. Half strangled, Oola yanked her headpiece back on, flailing for balance as Jabba hauled her over his side. She dug her fingers and toes into fetid flesh. Jabba purred as if tickled by her struggling. His jizz-wailers swung into a new dance tune.
Furious, Oola leaped off her grotesque master’s dais. She vaulted into the middle of the floor, defiantly landing on the rancor pit’s grate. Jabba’s trapdoor had closed again. Maybe he hadn’t even opened it.
Maybe.
Yarna joined the dance, as did Melina Carniss with her long dark fur. Oola kept at the far end of her chain. In one dark alcove she seemed to see blue eyes watching from under a roughly woven black hood. She would dance for him this time. For a second chance. She kicked head-high and higher, powerfully swinging her fleshy lekku. Her grace was her glory. The physical rapture of dancing swept through her and owned her, freely and naturally. Every step and each gesture marked out a melody. She’d found perfect sensual poise. At last.
Evidently Jabba thought so, too. He tugged her chain.
More angry than frightened at first, she grasped it with both hands and yanked back. She didn’t care if the Gamorreans beat her again—she would not dance closer. She only knew a few words of Huttese. She shouted them. “Na chuba negatone!”
Jabba tugged again, drooling.
Oola braced her feet at the trapdoor’s edge. Though terror robbed her of poise, she would not yield. “Na! Na! Natoota …”
Let Us Prey: The Whiphid’s Tale
by Marina Fitch and Mark Budz
Feeding time again. The crunch and snap of bones resonated through the walls of the Whiphid J’Quille’s room as Jabba’s “pet” rancor snacked on its latest morsel.
J’Quille paced his stark room. Huntlust vibrated through his tall, golden-furred frame, wrinkled his broad snout. His tusks tingled even though it had been several hours since Jabba dropped the Twi’lek dancer into the rancor’s pit. The screams had ceased long ago, but J’Quille couldn’t stop salivating. The savory aroma of fresh blood warmed the pit of his stomach.
The warmth wouldn’t last long. J’Quille snarled low in his throat. Next time it might be J’Quille the rancor feasted on. Jabba