Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [2]
Or so I’d thought. Was he back for revenge?
He wore no restraining bolt. Rolling around a blaster-scarred column, he headed toward us. Frantically I looked around. Nobody showed signs of waking up to rescue us.
The droid raised his upper limbs. Both ended at elbow joints. Somebody’d disengaged his business parts—but that didn’t leave him helpless. Assassin droids carry backup.
“Figrin Da’n?” he asked in a brassy green treble.
“What would you do … if you found him?” Figrin sidled closer to me, trying to sound colorless. I’ve never carried a blaster. I wished I had one then, for all the good it would’ve done.
“Message delivery,” honked the droid. “Do not fear. My assassination programming has been erased, and as you can see, my weapons are gone. My new employer saved me from deconstruction by using me this way.”
“He doesn’t remember us,” Figrin whispered in Bithian. “His memory’s been erased, too.”
As I slowed my breathing, my longstanding attitude about assassin droids resurfaced: Never worry about one you can see. He hadn’t fired before we spotted him, so we were safe. And I’ve always gotten along better with droids than with most sentients. Particularly humans.
But as for stripping Eefive of his weapons, that would be like … like saving my life by cutting off all my fingers.
“Who’s your new owner?” I asked.
The droid hissed, shushing me with white noise.
I dropped my voice. “Who?” I repeated sotto voce.
The answer came softly. “Mistress Valarian.”
Oh, ho. Val to her friends, Jabba’s chief rival in the spaceport town of Mos Eisley, a tusk-mouthed Whiphid recently arrived on Tatooine. Gambling, weapons running, information for sale, the usual … but she’d thrived. No wonder she sent a recycled envoy.
Now that I’d processed the lack of immediate risk, I leaned back against the stage. “What does she want?”
“She wishes to hire your services for a wedding, to be held in Mos Eisley at her Lucky Despot Hotel.”
I’d heard of the Lucky Despot. Figrin puckered his lip folds. “We don’t do weddings,” we answered in unison.
Please understand. A wedding gig wastes two days (three days, with some species, plus the time it takes to learn new music). You’re treated like a recording, told to repeat impossible phrases and lengthen the usual processional, and ordered to play a final chord as the nerve-wracked principals arrive center stage … if they arrive. Someone always brings a screaming neonate. Then the reception, where they inebriate themselves until no one hears a note. All this for half pay and full satisfaction: You’ve helped perpetuate a species.
Eefive swiveled his flat head toward Figrin. Obviously his recognition circuits still functioned. “Mistress Valarian procured a mate from her home world,” he declared.
Good thing I wasn’t drinking. I’d’ve choked. The only thing uglier than a Hutt is a Whiphid. I tried to imagine another gargantuan, rank-furred, yellow-tusked Whiphid arriving on Tatooine. Valarian had probably promised luxury accommodations and good hunting. Wait’ll he saw Mos Eisley.
The droid continued. “This job is for their reception only. Mistress Valarian offers your band three thousand credits. Transport and lodging provided, and unlimited meals and drinks during your stay. Also five breaks during the reception.”
Three thousand credits? With my share, I could start my own band—live in the finest habitats—
Figrin hunched forward. “Sabacc tables?” he asked.
Too late, I recovered from my greed attack. Jabba had given us an exclusive contract. He wouldn’t like our performing for Valarian, and when Jabba frowns, somebody dies. No, Figrin! I thought.
“Except while performing, certainly,” the droid answered.
I buzzed my mouth folds for Figrin’s attention, but his sublime vision didn’t deal me in. Figrin set down his deck and commenced negotiating.
We flew into Mos Eisley during first twilight, with one of the suns dipping behind a dull, murky horizon. Our cramped little transport