Star Wars_ Tales From the Mos Eisley Cantina - Kevin J. Anderson [67]
“You—you’re a blasted droid!” he spat.
The metallic creature released what little tension was left in the extensor and cringed back with the vehemence of Wuher’s accusation.
“Why, yes sir, I am indeed. But I assure you, I am no ordinary droid. My presence on Tatooine is a mistake on a veritable cosmic level.”
The droid’s body was low and rounded, similar to the streamlined contours of R2 units. However, this was where the similarity ended. Bulbs and boxy appendages hung like balconies on the robot’s sides, amidst an array of two whiplike metal extensors and two armatures invested with digits. In the very middle of its sensor-node “face” was an opening with a grill, set with what appeared to be jagged, sharp teeth. The whole affair looked cobbled together, as though the droid had indeed begun its life as an R2 unit, but had been sent onto other paths with the help of a demented mechanical mind owning a half-baked electronic and welding talent.
“Wait a minute. You look like a souped-up Artoo unit, but you sound like one of those pansy protocolers!”
“My components include aspects of both units, as well as several more. However, my specialties include meal preparation, catalytic fuel conversion, enzymatic composition breakdown, chemical diagnostic programming, and bacterial composting acceleration. I am also an excellent blender, toaster oven, and bang-corn air-popper, and can whip up an extraordinary meal from everyday garbage.”
Wuher goggled at the plasteel contraption in disbelief.
“But you’re a droid. I hate droids.”
“I would be of extraordinary use!”
Wuher wondered why he was even giving the droid the time of day. Damned curiosity, that must be it. He needed a blasted brain scrub, that’s what he needed. “Look, machine excrement. I despise your kind, as does my boss, for good reason. Even the lowliest Jawa knows what tribe he’s from, even if he’s stabbing that tribe in the back. You droids—who knows who you are or where you’re from. You look like bombs, and nine times out of ten you blow up in the face of your owners, doubtless just to spite them.” Wuher lifted a foot, planted it squarely on the thing’s head. “Now get out of my way. I have work to do!” He gave the thing a shove. It rolled back, beeping, into the recesses of its corner as Wuher proceeded on his way.
“Sir! Kind sir! Forgive my offense! Reconsider! I shall be here all day, recharging my batteries. I dare not emerge in sunlight, for the Jawas will find me. Grant me asylum, and you will not be sorry, I swear.”
“Pah! The word of a droid. Useless!” the man snarled in contempt.
With grand, elevated disgust, Wuher hurried away. Just one more proof that he should not be so free about strolling through alleys to save a scant few seconds. He avoided the darker, cooler ones, since they tended to attract crowds. This one, though, was lighter and Wuher had thought it would be a safe shortcut.
The normal byways of Mos Eisley were a dusty cloud through which double suns beat beat beat hot radiation upon ugly buildings and hangars. Occasionally a roaring beast of a spaceship would propel itself into the brightness of the sky, or descend shakily to hunker down in hiding. The place smelled even more strongly of its usual blend of noxious space fuels and heated alien body effluvia, touched with the occasional whiff of exotic spice, or rather more mundane rot or urine. Wuher noticed amidst the urban burblings a larger number of speeders than usual, as well as a discomfiting percentage of stormtroopers.
Something odd was afoot, that was certain.
Oh, well. It just meant that maybe he’d be busier at the cantina today. Another shuck, another buck, as Chalmun so eloquently stated.
Still, as the human bartender bustled through the busy streets, sun hood up, squinting, he was bothered by that droid who had accosted