Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [129]
The Rodian held a blaster pointed straight at Solo’s chest. BoShek slipped his own blaster out of its holster, ready to help if it looked as though Solo needed it, but then he saw something that made him reholster his weapon and watch with amusement. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Solo was drawing his own blaster under the table.
Sure enough, when he got it free of its holster, he gave a little shrug as if to say “So long, sucker,” and fired right through the table at the Rodian, who collapsed forward on the smoking remains.
Solo stood up, flipped a couple of credits to the bartender, and stalked out before BoShek could catch his attention. He downed his drink and followed him out, but he had barely made it out the door when he felt someone grab his arm and an authoritative voice said, “All right, hold it right there, spaceman.”
He turned slowly to see a local cop pointing a blaster at him. “What’s the problem?” he asked, keeping his voice as unconfrontational as he could manage.
The cop scowled. “The problem is, a wanted starship ran an Imperial blockade, dusted four interceptors in the process, and landed here in town just a little while ago. Darth Vader’s on one of the battleships and wants somebody’s head for it, and yours looks about the right size to me. You’re still suited up; how ’bout you and me have a little chat down at the station?”
Only his years of practice at talking his way through customs allowed BoShek to keep his expression neutral. Inside, he was close to panic. If they got him under a mind-probe, they’d know for sure he’d done it, and there was a good chance he’d blow the monastery’s cover as well. Either way, he was dead.
Forcing himself to sound calm, he shrugged and said, “You’ve got the wrong pilot, I’m afraid, and there’s a whole bar full of people in there who can prove it. I’ve been here all afternoon.”
The cop hesitated, looking into the dark doorway, and when he squinted to see inside, BoShek lashed out with a foot and kicked the blaster out of his hands. He followed with a punch to the side of the head, putting all his weight behind it, and the cop collapsed like a shorted droid.
The blaster clattered to the ground a few steps away. BoShek lunged for it but lost the race to a pair of Jawas, who scurried away with their prize and quickly disappeared among the dozens of taller aliens on the street. BoShek didn’t particularly care; he had his own blaster if it came to that, and as long as the cop didn’t, he was happy. He turned and walked nonchalantly—but quickly—away from the cantina toward the city’s central plaza and the thickest crowds.
He had only made it across the street and down half a block to the wrecked Dowager Queen when he heard a shout behind him. Few of the street’s inhabitants even looked up, since shouts from the cantina were a regular thing, but BoShek quickened his stride toward the old colony ship’s rusted hulk.
Twisted girders arched out over the packed dirt, awnings tied between some of them providing shade for the crowds gathered to listen to the street preachers pontificating from the upper levels. Ruptures in the hull and busted portholes provided glimpses into the ship’s dark interior, from which the red glow of Jawa eyes peered outward.
BoShek ducked inside the sagging cargo lock. The hold smelled strongly of Jawas, but he didn’t care. The more the merrier, in fact. He stepped over vagrants and preachers resting in the shade, pushing past them until he was well hidden from the street. In the dim light filtering in through holes in the hull, he stripped off his flight suit and flung it farther into the darkness, keeping only the tool belt with all his personal belongings. A chorus of growls and high-pitched chattering erupted as the wreck’s inhabitants quarreled over