Free Tales from Jabba's Palace by Kevin J. Anderson

Bloor.
    Oh dear, oh dear , the Kalkal thought as he blundered through the honeycombed underbelly of Jabba’s lair. Where is that fellow? You would think that at the price I paid him—in advance, sight unseen, solely on the recommendation of my colleagues—he would at least manage to be at the rendezvous point on time .
    His cumbersome boots stepped into something thick and sticky on the corridor floor. There was very little light in this part of Jabba’s palace but Melvosh Bloor had the excellent vision common to all Kalkals, day or night. Therefore he could not avoid noticing that part of the large and gooey mass he had just stepped in had eyes.
    “Mercy,” said Melvosh Bloor, placing a trembling hand to his lips as the acidic tide of queasiness surged up his wattled throat. His most recent meal had not been of the finest, to say the least—in fact, it made the refectory fare at dear old Beshka University seem attractive by comparison—so he had no desire to experience it a second time. (Although Kalkals were famous for their ability to eat anything, even university food, there were no guarantees that what they once downed would not make a reappearance if something upset them enough. The goop with eyes was enough to physic Jabba himself.)
    “Mercy? Mercy? ” The dripping darkness exploded with a shrill, harsh voice that mocked Melvosh Bloor’s own erudite pronunciation to a tee. Cackling laughter bounced from the maze of pipes overhead and echoedback from the ends of gloomy passageways that led off into the who-knows-where.
    Melvosh Bloor gasped, huge yellow eyes rotating wildly in his head as he flattened himself against the nearest wall. “Who’s there?” he whispered, tiny flakes of scale falling from his wide, thin lips as he spoke.
    Silence answered.
    Shaking badly, the academic fumbled for the sidearm his Jawa guide had pressed upon him before they parted ways outside the palace. Far outside the palace. Much as he hated the thought of violence and as repulsed as he felt by any of its symbols, Melvosh Bloor thought himself capable of shooting another living being if need be (strictly in the interest of preserving academic freedoms, such as his life). He felt a fleeting spark of gratitude for the Jawa’s stubbornness in insisting he take the weapon.
    Perhaps the fact that he would be unable to pay the Jawa the remainder of his fee until they were both safely back in Mos Eisley had more than a little to do with the guide’s devotion to Melvosh Bloor’s personal safety. But that was a low, common thought, unworthy of Beshka University’s premier up-and-coming (albeit untenured) professor of Investigative Politico-Sociology. Melvosh Bloor pushed it far from his mind as he continued to scan the shadows.
    “Er … hello?” he ventured. A glimmer of hope as to the unseen speaker’s identity struck him. “Darian Gli, is that you? You’re—you’re late, you know.” He tried not to make it sound like an accusation. Wishful thinking made him certain that the voice he’d just heard coming out of the shadows belonged to his precontracted, pig-in-a-poke guide to Jabba’s palace and he didn’t want to alienate him. “And—and you were supposed to meet me farther back down this tunnel. Unless I was mistaken in our agreement.Which I probably was. All my fault. No hard feelings. I apologize.”
    Somewhere water was dripping, an eerie sound made even eerier by the fact that Jabba’s palace lay in the midst of the Dune Sea, a fierce, unforgiving wasteland where it was cheaper to let blood drip away than water. A faint breeze passed over Melvosh Bloor’s face as lightly as a dancing girl’s veil. His breath sighed from his wide, flat nostrils as he waited for some response to his words.
    A thunderous sound that was half bellow and half shriek shook the wall he clung to. Melvosh Bloor leaped forward, a pathetic cry of startlement involuntarily escaping his lips. Unfortunately for the academic, he landed