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Music is the only thing I know that feels the same way.

The music surrounds me until I cease to exist.

I die as I kill.

It’s what I live for.

I’m glad my fathers are dead.

In the morning I went to see Jabba.

He had me stand on the trapdoor, and his tail twitched as we spoke. That always bothers me. Part of me was frightened by it; even carnivores get eaten by bigger carnivores. Another part of me wanted to pounce on it.

He regarded me with those slitted ugly eyes, and laughed a rumbling, unpleasant laugh. “So … what information does my least favorite spy have to sell me?”

I made it good. I spoke to him in Hutt, which I normally try to avoid; it hurts my throat, and I have to use both sets of teeth to make some of the sounds. After a long conversation, the front row aches from being pulled up and then dropped down again quickly. “There’s a mercenary in town.” I’d learned what I could about him before heading over. It hadn’t been much, but I’d been rushed. I wanted to move on this quickly—if Jabba didn’t like Da’n and the Nodes, I might never get to see them play. Nor would anyone else. “Obren Mettlo. A real professional, fought in dozens of battles, often on the winning side, looking for employment. Moorin, has an attitude—”

He made a low, grumbling sound that might have been interpreted as interest. Jabba had plenty of muscle, but not always smart muscle; and Moorin tend to be bright as well as vicious.

I forged ahead. “If you like, I could get in touch with him. Bring him by to meet you … for dinner, perhaps. Possibly some entertainment, some music—music is good with Moorin. Keeps ’em peaceable.”

His eyelids drooped slightly; either he was bored or he was thinking. Finally he gave me a slight chuckle, and said, “Send him over.”

I bowed and backed away as quickly as was polite, getting off that trapdoor. “As you wish, sir. We’ll be by—would first dark be appropriate?”

He smiled at me and it made the fur on the small of my back stand straight up. “Send him by,” he clarified. “You are not invited.”

I stood frozen at the edge of the trapdoor, mind refusing to function. Surely there had to be some way to wangle—

Jabba made a sound. A familiar sound; I’ve heard Devish make it, too—except that it takes a pack of Devish. It straightened my ears and made my front teeth jump out of the way. “You can leave now.”

I bowed and got out.

I spent the evening at the cantina, drinking myself into a stupor.

I just knew Jabba would feed the Modal Nodes to the rancor. He’d never had a decent band before, never, not once. The closest he’d ever come was Max Rebo’s bunch, who could carry a melody if you gave them a basket to keep it in.

But the next morning, I learned that Rebo was out looking for work.

Jabba had a new favorite.

• • •

It came this close to killing me.

For four days I couldn’t sleep for thinking about it. There they were, not a half part’s speedster trip from Mos Eisley. Playing for him. It ate me alive thinking about it. I lost so much Grace in those days that if I had any shame left to me, I’d have to use some of it on that period.

Sometime on the fifth day I drank too much. I awoke lying facedown in the alleyway upstairs and behind the cantina, in darkness, with someone nudging my shoulder with his toe. I decided to take a chunk out of his calf—

Wuher knelt next to me. “Can you stand up?”

The cold gravel pressed against my cheek. I had bruises, cuts—the memories came back slowly. Several someones had beaten me—heavy wood or metal staffs, I vaguely recalled. Just a random robbery. My right arm wouldn’t move at all. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on.” My body is denser than humans’; he staggered, helping me to my feet. The strain sent a jolt of astonishing pain through my shoulder. “Where do you live?”

He half carried me to my apartment, and stood at the opening while I fumbled with the interlock. “Do you need medical help?”

I don’t remember if I answered him or not. It was a stupid question. No