Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [119]
Mesmerized by the very thought that so few could accomplish so much, Davin felt a rush of solidarity—he felt an empathy with the Rebels, fighting against such overwhelming odds … and surviving. He hadn’t felt this much emotion since the day he left for Carida …
The noise and confusion were overwhelming. Smoke sprang from stray laser blasts that ignited building material. Stormtroopers shouted conflicting orders.
Directly in front of Davin, Captain Terrik knelt on one knee and took careful aim at the athletic-looking man who was still holding off the Emperor’s finest. Captain Terrik waited for the precise moment before slowly squeezing his blaster rifle to take out the Rebel—
Davin glanced quickly around. No one was behind him … and more importantly, no one was watching him.
Without hesitation, Davin pulled up his blaster and shot Captain Terrik in the back.
The officer slumped to the ground, unnoticed by the others.
The athletic-looking Rebel scrambled safely up the access ramp as it closed, sealing off the starship. An earsplitting wail came inside his helmet over the stormtrooper’s frequency: “Clear the area, the Rebel’s lifting off! Clear the area!”
Defeated, the stormtroopers scrambled back. Anyone left in the docking bay would be irradiated by the starship’s exhaust. Someone’s voice came over the secure frequency: “Where’s Captain Terrik?”
“Leave him,” came another voice. “He’s dead. Killed in the crossfire.”
Cursing filled the stormtroopers’ airways. Several threw their blasters against the wall in disgust.
But as Davin pulled back with the rest, a new sense of purpose swept over him, like a cool wind cutting through the endless heat. He felt a kinship with the Rebels and almost wanted to join their cause.
But how?
Maybe he could warn them of the AT-AT’s vulnerability. Or maybe he could work as a “deep plant,” passing along vital information …
A spy? Maybe that was it. He’d have something to live for, something to believe in. He felt heady, as things suddenly fell in place.
As the stormtroopers formed up, Davin knew that he could help the Rebels best by staying in the belly of the beast.
Soup’s On: The Pipe
Smoker’s Tale
by Jennifer Roberson
Pain/pleasure … pleasure/pain. Inseparable. Indescribable. Ineluctable.
—come closer, a little closer—
Tatooine. Mos Eisley. A cesspit planet, a cesspit spaceport, offering little to the undiscerning save perhaps the loss of coin, of limb, of life, but rich to others in risk, in Chance, in Luck, in the endless mirage of hope—illicit, illegal, wholly intoxicating.
—closer, if you will—
To me, as to blood-bred crèche-mates, Tatooine and Mos Eisley are richer still in potential: of the flesh, of the blood, of the viscera, of the overwhelming promise of risks already taken and risks to be taken; in the ineffable indefinable we of my race call soup.
Pleasure/pain … pain/pleasure. Deep in flesh-molded pockets beside my nostrils, hidden by subtle flaps in otherwise humanoid features, proboscii quiver.
—closer yet—yet—
This is what I live for, what I fish for, what I hunt. The scent of soup, then the soup itself, running hot and fast and sweet in the confines of the veins, the vessels, the brain. In the confines of the flesh.
It lends us to legend. It makes of us myth. It shapes of us demons of dreams: Don’t misbehave or an Anzat will catch you and suck all your blood away.
But it is not blood at all.
—nearly within reach—
In the bloated brilliance of Tatooine’s unyielding high noon there are no such things as shadows. Only the boldness of the day, the magnified munificence of double suns, and the still brighter blazing of the glory of my need.
—it has been long, too long—
Mos Eisley is never uncrowded, but those who understand Tatooine’s uncowed character understand also its malignance, its maleficent intent: to bake, to broil, to sear. And so they flee, those who