Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [66]
Nadon stared in shock, realizing belatedly that the captain had not wished to convene a tribunal. He simply needed a scapegoat.
“I will expect your testimony to be recorded,” the captain said. Momaw Nadon stood blinking, unable to move, and the suns seemed to have gone cold. He wavered, feeling faint. The stormtroopers all began walking away, apparently heading toward a transport so they could leave Tatooine. The Law of Life kept running through Nadon’s mind like a litany. “For every plant destroyed in the harvest, two must be cultivated to replace it.”
Nadon knew that his act would require penance. The blood of a man was on his hands, and such a stain could not easily be removed. But surely the Bafforr would understand. Surely they would forgive him.
At last, before the Imperial medics could arrive, Nadon forced his legs to move. Numbly, he went to the warm corpse, leaned over, and took two golden needles from his belt. He inserted the needles and removed the genetic samples. On Ithor were cloning tanks that would allow him to create duplicates of Alima. For his penance, Nadon would nurture Alima’s twin sons. Perhaps in their day, they too would grow wise and kind, serving as Priests on Ithor, promoting the Law of Life.
Nadon packed the needles in his utility belt, then headed toward his biosphere. There would be so much to do before he left Tatooine—depositions to give the Imperials, plants to be uprooted in preparation for the move, hubba gourd seeds to be sown in the wilds.
A stiff wind kicked up, and stinging sand blew in from the desert. Nadon closed his eyes against it, and allowed himself to become lost for a moment in the memory of his wife’s final embrace as he was banished from Ithor, and in the memory he relished the scent of his young son. “I will be waiting here for you if you ever return,” she had said. And for the first time in ages Momaw Nadon walked free and his steps felt light. He was heading home.
Be Still My Heart:
The Bartender’s Tale
by David Bischoff
On his way to work, Wuher, after-double-noon shift bartender at the Mos Eisley Spaceport Cantina, was accosted. To make matters worse, the accoster was his least favorite of the many things that congregated in this most egregious of congregations of intergalactic scum.
An extensor whipped from the pale shadows of the alley, wrapping around his ankle lightly, yet with enough strength to detain him. Automatically, Wuher reached to the back of his belt for his street-club. A weapon of some kind was always a necessity for those who strode the byways of a haven for cutpurses and cutthroats like Mos Eisley. However, the pathetic voice from the juncture of walls and garbage cans gave him stay.
“Please, sir. I mean you no harm. I humbly request asylum.”
Wuher blinked. He rubbed his grimy sleeve over his puffy eyes. He’d drunk too much of his own barbrew last night and overslept. He had a faint growl of hangover nagging him; he was in no mood to deal with riffraff begging for shelter or alms.
“Get off me,” he snarled. “Who the hell are you?” Wuher was a surly sort who preferred to keep his thoughts to himself. He also had a rather aggressive curiosity sometimes, though. This was a trait that his employer, Chalmun the Wookiee, found to be a resource in the chemical experimentation aspects of Wuher’s work, but claimed would ultimately cause him grief.
“I am Ceetoo-Arfour,” squeaked the voice, accompanied by a curious blend of whistles and clicks. “I have escaped from the Jawas, who intend to utilize me for spare parts, despite extreme functional utility if I am left in one piece—to say nothing of the value of my consciousness. Through sheer good luck, the Jawas used a corroded restraining bolt, which fell off, allowing me to escape.”
Wuher moved farther into the shadows, his eyes adjusting farther away from the ambient, anguished brightness that was one of the planet