Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [82]
Suddenly Jabba’s immense sluglike body shook with laughter. The Hutt’s huge, tapered tail rose and fell, rose and fell with a thudding noise.
“My master is pleased,” said the translator droid.
Max beamed. “Then we have a contract?”
Jabba growled an answer.
“His Immense Eminence is pleased to grant you a lifetime contract,” the droid translated. “As you are an Ortolan, and know the value of food, he wishes to pay you in that medium—all you and your band can eat in exchange for a lifetime contract.”
“Done!” Max cried. He’d never heard of so fine, so magnanimous a deal in his life. He glanced at Sy and was dismayed to find her glaring at him.
Jabba spoke again, and the droid said, “Keep playing.”
When Jabba turned away, the crowd around him moved forward, clamoring for attention. Max keyed in the intro to an old starfarers’ song Evar Orbus had redone for jizz-wailer orchestration. Jabba’s huge tail, Max noticed, twitched now and then almost in time to the music, but other than that the Hutt seemed oblivious to their playing.
Never mind, though. Max swelled out his chest. He’d struck a deal any Ortolan would be proud of. All the food he could eat for life—incredible! They’d never believe his good fortune back home.
After their fourth set, Sy Snootles managed to pull Naroon Cuthas away from Jabba’s side. She couldn’t believe what Max had agreed to. Playing for food—what kind of deal was that? How could they possibly earn enough to get off this horrible planet?
“About the deal,” she began.
“Indeed, it went better than I had dared hope,” Cuthas said, smiling. “Jabba really likes your music.”
“That’s not what I meant. The terms simply aren’t acceptable.”
“But everything’s agreed,” Cuthas said. “You told me Max was the band’s leader. He agreed to a contract with Jabba. Now you tell me it isn’t acceptable? If you have a problem, it seems to me you should talk to Max Rebo.”
“But—I was just letting Max front for me!”
“Jabba doesn’t like it when people back out on deals.”
“Surely there’s some room for negotiation!”
Cuthas leaned closer, his voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “The last band tried to renegotiate their contract. Jabba dropped them into the rancor pit.”
“The rancor pit?”
“The floor in front of the throne opens up. Jabba keeps an immense, ravenous rancor below … it made very short work of the last band. Just a few tweets and they were gone. And see that man over there?” He pointed into a dim alcove, where a screaming man encased in carbonite hung on the wall.
“Yes,” Sy said.
“He was a smuggler who broke a deal with Jabba. Jabba keeps him there as a reminder to other employees.”
Sy swallowed. “I see what you mean,” she said. She shot Max a violent look, but he didn’t notice. He seemed entirely happy with the plate of bantha steaks a droid had brought him.
Sy Snootles looked around her quarters with a measure of disgust and revulsion. How could they expect her to live in such a hovel? The bedclothes were soiled, filth caked the walls, and the floor had something dark and sticky spattered across it.
She turned to complain, but Cuthas had already gone off with Max and Droopy. She went out into the hall. They were gone.
A droid stood at attention nearby, though, so Sy crossed over to address it: “You there. What’s your name?”
“M3D2.”
“My room requires cleaning.”
“The housekeeping staff is located on level three, room 212.”
“Thank you. Please inform them.”
“That is not my function.”
“What is your function?”
“You are the singer Sy Snootles?”
Sy paused. Why would a droid ask that? “Yes,” she answered cautiously.
“I have a message for you. It must be delivered in private.”
“In here.” Sy moved back to let it into her room. Who would send her a private message here? Did she know someone on this awful world? And what could a droid have to say that could possibly be so private?
“I have a message from the Lady Valarian,” it began. “Jabba has long been a rival of hers, and she