Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [102]
He looked down to see the Ranat fondling his DL-44 blaster, and Het Nkik snatched it away. He sensed determination and enthusiasm pouring through his muscles. The intoxicant buzzed through his brain. The weapon felt light and powerful in his hands.
He would never be more prepared.
Without saying good-bye to the Ranat, he took the blaster, squeezed the Tusken battle talisman, and scuttled out of the cantina, across the bright streets to the wreckage of the Dowager Queen.
As soon as he was there, Het Nkik knew he had been meant to do this. Pressing the blaster against his side, he scrambled up the hot metal hull plates of the wreck, finding handholds and footholds to get himself to a higher position, a good place to fire from.
His pulse pounded. His head sang. He knew this was his time. His entire life had been focused toward this moment. He found a shaded place. A good spot for his ambush.
A line of stormtroopers on patrol rounded the corner, marching toward the cantina as if searching for something. They marched in lockstep, crushing dust under their white heels, intent on their goal. Sunlight gleamed from their polished armor. Their weapons clicked and rattled as they walked, their helmets stared straight ahead. They walked quickly, coming closer and closer.
He counted eight in a row. Yes, eight of them. If he, a single weak Jawa, could mow down eight Imperial stormtroopers, that would be the stuff of legends. No Jawa could forget that their brother, Het Nkik, had struck such a blow against the Empire. If all Jawas could do the same thing, the Empire would flee from Tatooine.
He clutched the blaster. He bent down. He watched the stormtroopers approach. His glowing yellow eyes focused on them, and he tried to determine the best plan of attack. He would strike the leader first, then the ones in the middle, then behind, then back to the front in a sweeping motion. There would be a shower of blaster bolts. It would take them a moment to discover his location. For some of them, that would be a moment too long.
There was even the ridiculously small chance that he could kill them all before they managed a shot in his direction. In the ruined ship he had a bit of cover. Maybe he could survive this. He could live to strike again and again. Perhaps he could even become a Jawa leader, a warlord. Het Nkik, the great general!
Stormtroopers stepped in front of the ship, looking toward the cantina, not even seeing him. Arrogant and confident, they ignored the Dowager Queen.
Het Nkik gripped the blaster. His knees were ready to explode, springloaded, waiting, waiting until he couldn’t stand it a moment, an instant longer—and uttered a chittering ululation of rage and revenge in a conscious imitation of a Tusken cry. In his life’s single moment of glory, so close to the end, Het Nkik leaped up and swung the blaster rifle at his targets.
Before they could even turn in his direction, he squeezed the firing button—again, and again, and again.
Trade Wins:
The Ranat’s Tale
by Rebecca Moesta
Dodging a pair of potentially meddlesome stormtroopers, Reegesk clutched his treasures and scurried with rodentlike efficiency into the narrow alley beside his favorite drinking establishment in Mos Eisley. Ah, yes, his favorite. Not because their drinks or performers were of superior quality, but because he could always find someone there who wanted—or needed—to make a trade. And in the small Ranat tribe that scratched out a larger place for itself each day on this arid outpost world, that was, after all, his job: Reegesk the Trader, Reegesk the Barterer, Reegesk the Procurement Specialist Par Excellence.
Whiskers twitching with satisfaction, he sat against a sun-washed wall, curled his whip-hard tail loosely around him, and opened his bundle to examine the day’s prizes. An oven-hot breeze carried the not unpleasant scents of