so far as I can ascertain. I—oh!”
Another shriek cut him off. His head turned.
Oola nudged his hard, cool side with a bare elbow.
“Tell me about that… picture that the other droid projected this morning,” she said urgently. She needed to know now. She’d learned not to hope for second chances.
“What?” Threepio swiveled his head toward her.
“The… human.” Humans looked almost Twi’leki, but pitiably maimed… just as Jabba looked horribly mutated, one lek bloated to obscene proportions. “Who was it?”
Threepio’s tone brightened. “Oh! That is my—” He halted before saying “owner,” or “master”—he belonged to Jabba now—but his speech had clearly started to imply ownership.
She touched her collar in unexpected empathy. Ignoring his faltering, she said, “I’ve seen him.”
He drew up with a grandiose sweep of both arms. “I am afraid that’s impossible.”
“Is his name Luke?” Oola asked.
Threepio’s eyes glimmered in the dark, smoky air.
“My goodness. Yes. Yes, it is. Where was he?”
Mournfully, Oola explained.
Oola relaxed on her deceleration chair, relieved that her first spaceflight had ended smoothly. Jerris Rudd, Bib Fortuna’s employee and their pilot-escort on the short trip from Ryloth to Tatooine, had warned her that unexpected sandstorms or hostiles might agitate their landing.
Oola flexed her legs, eager to spring from this cramped cabin. At her twilit home on Ryloth, deep in underground warrens where eight hundred people acknowledged her father as clan chief, she’d been known as an exquisite dancer. The height of her kicks and the sensuous swing of her lekku had won dozens of admirers.
Four months ago, Bib Fortuna had coaxed her aboveground. He’d abducted her, instead of paying her father as custom dictated. He’d enslaved her—and another Twi’lek girl, even younger and more petite—at a complex on Ryloth where he’d once conducted a lucrative smuggling business. He’d bought them the most expensive training on six worlds: four months with Ryloth’s most elegant, experienced court dancers.
The older dancers disdained her clan’s quaint, primitive ways. To Oola’s way of thinking, her clan preserved faith and dignity that the rest of the world had lost in its rush to accommodate slavers and smugglers.
Expediency was a deadly god to serve.
Still, Oola rose to her training. She couldn’t escape, and she did love to dance. The twin temptations of power and fame set hooks in her soul.
Fortuna’s performers selected the girls’ dancing personae: Sienn would appear slightly younger, naive, and guileless; Oola would seem knowing, worldly-wise, and callous.
Sienn sat stoically as Fortuna’s grim groomers tattooed delicate floral chains up and down her nerve-laden lekku. Oola held Sienn’s hand and wiped her silent tears of pain.
Sienn was too young and vulnerable for work that made her beauty a commodity. Twi’leks called her kind a “morsel”—one gulp and a client could eat her.
Their aging head trainer, who still boasted some beauty, tried hardening Sienn. “Don’t play with that kind of appetite,” she’d warned. “Make them drool, butdon’t let them bite.”
Oola sleeked her lekku and shimmied her shoulders infinitesimally.
She and Sienn had been trained by the best. Groomed for the best.
Sienn sat in another deceleration chair, wearing a simple hooded coverallmlike Oola’s, but pale yellow instead of dark blue—and stroked her freshly tattooed lekku. “Do they still hurt?” Oola murmured.
“They’re fine,” insisted Sienn. “They—” The cabin door slid aside.
Jerris Rudd stepped through, one point seven meters of scum.
Rudd was the first human she’d met. Perhaps all humans dressed in baggy, torn clothing. Perhaps they all smelled this foul, with matted fur covering their heads (the worst of Rudd’s stench came from that fur). If so, humans were scum. In keeping with her worldly-wise role, Rudd had
Another shriek cut him off. His head turned.
Oola nudged his hard, cool side with a bare elbow.
“Tell me about that… picture that the other droid projected this morning,” she said urgently. She needed to know now. She’d learned not to hope for second chances.
“What?” Threepio swiveled his head toward her.
“The… human.” Humans looked almost Twi’leki, but pitiably maimed… just as Jabba looked horribly mutated, one lek bloated to obscene proportions. “Who was it?”
Threepio’s tone brightened. “Oh! That is my—” He halted before saying “owner,” or “master”—he belonged to Jabba now—but his speech had clearly started to imply ownership.
She touched her collar in unexpected empathy. Ignoring his faltering, she said, “I’ve seen him.”
He drew up with a grandiose sweep of both arms. “I am afraid that’s impossible.”
“Is his name Luke?” Oola asked.
Threepio’s eyes glimmered in the dark, smoky air.
“My goodness. Yes. Yes, it is. Where was he?”
Mournfully, Oola explained.
Oola relaxed on her deceleration chair, relieved that her first spaceflight had ended smoothly. Jerris Rudd, Bib Fortuna’s employee and their pilot-escort on the short trip from Ryloth to Tatooine, had warned her that unexpected sandstorms or hostiles might agitate their landing.
Oola flexed her legs, eager to spring from this cramped cabin. At her twilit home on Ryloth, deep in underground warrens where eight hundred people acknowledged her father as clan chief, she’d been known as an exquisite dancer. The height of her kicks and the sensuous swing of her lekku had won dozens of admirers.
Four months ago, Bib Fortuna had coaxed her aboveground. He’d abducted her, instead of paying her father as custom dictated. He’d enslaved her—and another Twi’lek girl, even younger and more petite—at a complex on Ryloth where he’d once conducted a lucrative smuggling business. He’d bought them the most expensive training on six worlds: four months with Ryloth’s most elegant, experienced court dancers.
The older dancers disdained her clan’s quaint, primitive ways. To Oola’s way of thinking, her clan preserved faith and dignity that the rest of the world had lost in its rush to accommodate slavers and smugglers.
Expediency was a deadly god to serve.
Still, Oola rose to her training. She couldn’t escape, and she did love to dance. The twin temptations of power and fame set hooks in her soul.
Fortuna’s performers selected the girls’ dancing personae: Sienn would appear slightly younger, naive, and guileless; Oola would seem knowing, worldly-wise, and callous.
Sienn sat stoically as Fortuna’s grim groomers tattooed delicate floral chains up and down her nerve-laden lekku. Oola held Sienn’s hand and wiped her silent tears of pain.
Sienn was too young and vulnerable for work that made her beauty a commodity. Twi’leks called her kind a “morsel”—one gulp and a client could eat her.
Their aging head trainer, who still boasted some beauty, tried hardening Sienn. “Don’t play with that kind of appetite,” she’d warned. “Make them drool, butdon’t let them bite.”
Oola sleeked her lekku and shimmied her shoulders infinitesimally.
She and Sienn had been trained by the best. Groomed for the best.
Sienn sat in another deceleration chair, wearing a simple hooded coverallmlike Oola’s, but pale yellow instead of dark blue—and stroked her freshly tattooed lekku. “Do they still hurt?” Oola murmured.
“They’re fine,” insisted Sienn. “They—” The cabin door slid aside.
Jerris Rudd stepped through, one point seven meters of scum.
Rudd was the first human she’d met. Perhaps all humans dressed in baggy, torn clothing. Perhaps they all smelled this foul, with matted fur covering their heads (the worst of Rudd’s stench came from that fur). If so, humans were scum. In keeping with her worldly-wise role, Rudd had
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