Under the Suns

(Note: the following is a work of what is commonly called "fan fiction," based on the greatest Star Wars character of all, after Han Solo: Bib Fortuna. Unfortunately, it is as yet unfinished, but enjoy nonetheless! It can also be found here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10824635/1/Under-the-Suns)   

         Under the suns, sand. Sand forever, in dunes and in flats, sand on the tops of cliffs and between them in sand valleys, and on the wind and in his boots and between his toes. Bib hated sand. He hated the suns, too, though that felt a little more extravagant. Sand was always right there at hand to be hated. The whole of Tatooine was made of nothing else. Sand could be kicked and spit on. He could only curse at the suns. Which he did, of course, as he did at most things. But hating the suns was a proud and wild thing, an act of almost spiritual aspiration. Hating the suns meant hating his life, despising the fate that had brought him here at all. Under the thumb of Jabba. Fat Jabba, stinking Jabba, slimy Jabba. Jabba who could no longer even move without assistance, but who still lorded it over him and everyone else. Jabba, whom half the galaxy hated and wanted dead, but who seemed indestructible and everlasting.

            These were the rhythms and contours of Bib’s thoughts as he trudged across the dunes. The double suns were completing their slow arc over the horizon, and they cast the whole world-desert in a rosy light, out of which rose the spires of Jabba’s palace, set over the sand like a soldier on watch. Or like a prison guard. Bib had gone wandering out into the Dune Sea because his hatred for the sand had been matched and beaten by his hatred of being in Jabba’s presence. The whole palace seemed to reek of him and echo his croaking voice until Bib could no longer abide it. And so he went from hate to hate, and chewed on his hatred as he went.

            Something unfamiliar caught Bib’s notice as he drew near the squat rotunda. A spider-droid, bearing the preserved and suspended brain of one of the elder monks who lived in the dark recesses beneath the palace, picking its way clumsily through the shifting sands. Bib knew the monks, of course, and had spoken with their initiates from time to time, but the novices did not discard their fleshly frames. Only their masters were deemed worthy to set aside the bodily form, free then (so they believed) to turn their thoughts to the abstract absolute. Every so often, one could see the spider-droids shambling through the palace’s subterranean complex with these unbodied mystics stored in their transparent bellies—but never, so far as Bib knew, did they venture out into the dunes. Its jointed limbs were not well-suited to managing the unstable surface of the desert, and it slid and wavered as it walked, but, still, it seemed intent on its goal. Which, he realized after a few moments, appeared to be Bib himself. An uneasy feeling squirmed through the region of his innards, and his hand drifted vaguely toward the heavy blaster hanging on his hip. Of course, the spider-droids had no armaments. But then, the spider-droids never left the palace, either.

            The droid stopped advancing and scrabbled its legs to gain steady purchase at the crest of a low dune. Bib made to pass it by, and it shuffled laterally as though to cut him off. A tinny voice rang out from it in flat but recognizable Huttese. A vocoder, if a cheap one.

            “Stop. We have words.”

            Bib turned to face it. His knees flexed almost imperceptibly, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to run. Or to drop into a firing stance. The ends of his brain-tails twitched in the dry air.

            “Say them, then, and let me pass.”

            The droid shuffled its feet.

            “Not here,” it said.

            “Piss off, then,” Bib growled, and strode past it in quickstep.

            “Important,” the droid said to his back. “About the Hutt. You will want.”

Bib stopped, and turned in place. He squinted at the droid. One of his brain-tails wavered

gently in the air.

“What about the Hutt?” Fat Jabba. Stinking Jabba. Jabba who kept him shackled to this dusty rock.

The droid’s limbs shifted back and forth as if in agitation.

“Not safe. Not here. Below palace.”

It began moving again in its shambly gait toward the rocky slope of the plateau on which Jabba’s stronghold rested. After a few painstaking yards, it turned itself to face Bib once again.

“Follow.” Though there was an almost plaintive edge to the vocoder’s dull intonation. Almost a question. Almost a plea: Follow? Bib gritted his razor teeth. He lowered his head. He trudged after the droid.

It led him to the base of the plateau and then a quarter of the way around its perimeter, in the lengthening shadow of the palace. Stopping suddenly, the droid arranged itself carefully inside a rough circle of scattered rocks. It stood stock still for a moment and then emitted a series of clicks and bursts of crackling static. Bib blinked and rubbed sand from his eyes. A low rumble shook the packed earth beneath his feet, and the surface of the desert gave way before the droid, resolving itself into a narrow ramp leading into darkness. The droid scuttled its way downward.

“Follow,” it said.

Bib sighed. Follow. He stepped down beneath the sand.

The ramp terminated in a broad, low chamber of smooth stone, clearly cut and shaped, lit very dimly by a pair of lights hanging on a distant wall ahead of Bib. To his left and right, it extended until the light faded and died, and he could not see any longer. The spider-droid scuttled further onward, and Bib carried on after it. Behind him, the automated ramp rumbled into motion once more, closing slowly and depositing a layer of scattered sand on the floor. Bib’s stomach squirmed again, but he suppressed the feeling. Of course, he kept his gun-hand near to the grip of the blaster, too.

Approaching nearer to the far wall with its twin lights, Bib discerned a doorway between them, a black and forbidding durasteel perhaps three feet wide and seven high. Stopping once again, the droid sounded another signal of clicks and bursts, and the door slid open. Bib blinked against the sudden flood of light beyond it. When his focus returned, he saw a crowd of perhaps a dozen figures garbed in the robes of B’omarr initiates. Their faces were obscured by hoods, though this was not the ordinary practice of the order. Bib hesitated at the edge of the doorway, brain-tails waving in rapid but near-imperceptible arcs. One of the assembled monks stepped forward.

“Hrm, please, majordomo. We do not intend to harm you.” Spreading his arms, he added, “We bear no weapons.”

Bib drew the blaster.
            “I do,” he said. “And I would like to know what is going on.”

“Of course,” the monk said. “Please, come in here.”

“I prefer to stay where I am,” Bib said.

The monk shrugged.

“As you like. This is not a trap, Bib Fortuna. It is… an opportunity.”

“What do you want?” Bib growled.

“Something we suspect you do, too. We want Jabba the Hutt to die.”

One brain-tail jerked spasmodically. This all felt distinctly off. The B’omarr monks were not inclined to interfere with politics. Even criminal politics. When Jabba had claimed their monastery as his own personal fortress—and before him, the thief-prince Alkhara—they had meekly accepted the new way of things and gone about their lives as before, neither resisting nor even complaining, at least that one might hear. No less likely assassins existed in the known universe. Bib stepped backward slowly, blaster still trained on the hooded monk.

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “And I will be leaving now.”

“You can’t get out,” the monk replied. “Not without this.” He produced a tiny, dark sphere, smaller in diameter than the width of Bib’s fingertip.

“Please,” the monk said, “Take it. It’s a coded sound emitter. It will open our doors to you so that you can leave. Or return, if you reconsider.” He held it out to Bib on an open palm, though he did not come any closer. Bib squinted, considering. Blaster leveled in his right hand, he extended the left and slowly stepped within arm’s reach of the monk’s proffered palm. Seizing the tiny thing, he backed away once more.

“Squeeze it to activate the sound,” the monk said.

Bib did. The door slid shut again, and he could see the monks no more.

Returning to his quarters, Bib could not shake a bone-deep confusion and wariness. He lay down on his bed to think. It was, of course, impossible that the monks could be in earnest. Mystics and logicians, they took no notice of anything occurring around them unless it smacked of fodder for meditation. No, Bib was sure that this must be a trap, some sort of snare set for him. But who could be behind it? Jabba was as blind to the world as they were, in his own way—totally enmeshed in the petty pleasures of his court and in the administration of his various businesses. Bib doubted whether Jabba even knew the monks existed.

Presumably, then, some rival member of Jabba’s organization was trying to bait him into overreaching. Honestly, the idea was not a bad one, assuming the schemer could cover his tracks—if Bib accepted the bait and destroyed himself, the unknown plotter could take a step up in the Hutt’s ranks. If Bib ignored the trap, no harm done at all. And if Bib accepted the offer and somehow managed to make it succeed… Well, then, that would be interesting. Jabba’s death—stinking Jabba, wretched Jabba—would leave quite an impression on the galactic underworld. Perhaps enough to let a man with the right contacts and the right talents set himself up in true style.

Bib shook his head slightly. In all likelihood, this was the exact train of thought he was meant to be having. Someone had reached out to touch him with the monks, hoping greed and vengeance would be strong enough inducements to take a fatal misstep. But who? Ree-Yees was vicious enough, but really rather stupid. Even if he had a contact among the B’omarr, he would almost certainly go about this more bluntly and directly. A clumsy approach face to face, believing himself to be sly all the while—that was more in keeping with the Gran’s character. He was fool enough to believe that Jabba remained unaware that he was trying to kill him. In fact, the Hutt had put an explosive in his innards, waiting only for the right words from Jabba—boom. Tessek was brighter, and just as much a schemer, but he had little reason to angle for advancement. Running the Hutt’s finances gave him ample opportunity to embezzle from them, and Bib knew he had no love at all for Jabba. He would be happy to see the Hutt die.

That left only one likely candidate, and Bib had to admit it had always been the most logical conclusion. Ephant Mon, Jabba’s guard dog. Ephant was perhaps the only being in the universe who felt any genuine loyalty to the Hutt, and it was to all appearances unshakeable. That made him a dangerous man already, alone as he was in a whole crowd of cutthroat opportunists. Those sorts could be handled—just prove that something could be profitable (or make it seem that way) and they would fall in line. But loyalty was single-minded. Ephant was more than just loyal, though. Appearances aside, he was sharp and cunning, ruthless and efficient in the execution of his operations, but patient and subtle in preparation. If Ephant was the one behind all this—and Bib could hardly envision another scenario—it meant that he had been watching Bib closely for a long time. It also meant that the B’omarr were probably only the bright and shiny hook waved in front of Bib’s face, meant for him to notice and feel clever by avoiding it. And all the while, Ephant would have been digging pits and setting snares, or creeping up behind Bib, ready to slit his throat… Bib closed his eyes. Ephant Mon. A dangerous enemy.

But so was Bib.

Bib woke at the light of the first sun, creeping furtively over the still desert. Dressing for the day, he turned the problem over and over in his mind: how to deal with Ephant Mon. It was certain that he was being watched. Almost certain. Not in the mood to eat, he sent away a pair of attendants when they came bearing trays. Fundamentally, he decided, he had three choices. The first—returning to the monks to accept their offer—was patently absurd. The second: continue to go about his business as usual. If there were a larger game behind the initial trap, this would minimize his chances of committing a blunder. The third: go to Ephant Mon directly, informing him that the monks had approached him and present himself as concerned for the Hutt’s safety. If the entire thing were a plot of Ephant’s designed to expose Bib as a traitor, this might well disarm it entirely. Or it might only be the next step in the plot. Then again, Ephant might have been counting on his failure to report the threat, using his inaction as proof to Jabba of his disloyalty. Or it might not have anything to do with Ephant at all, in which case— But, no. It had to be him. There could be no one else.

The second sun rose while Bib stewed, mind racing feverishly. There were no safe choices. There were no certain rewards. What should he do?

With a sudden surge of resolve, Bib decided that the thing to do was to gain the initiative. He would act, decisively, not allowing his opponent to keep him on the back foot. It was possible that he might be plunging into danger (and perhaps not), but he might manage to spring the traps before they were in full readiness. He would go to Ephant Mon with a warning against the monks. He would force Ephant to react, and he would move forward from the fallout. He pulled on his boots, buckled his gun-belt around his waist, and set out to track down the Chevin. He paced quickly down the halls of the palace, found Ephant’s door, and knocked.

The door slid open, revealing a pair of Gamorrean guards in full combat harness, with heavy axes slung over their shoulders. Snuffling at the air, they squinted their beady eyes at Bib, looking him over with an air of bravado, as if to say we are not impressed. Bib returned the gaze coolly, looking one in the eye and then the other. I’m not impressed, either.

“Let him in,” called a voice from deeper in the chamber, and Bib recognized it as the low rumble of Ephant Mon.

The Gamorreans took a slow, swaggering step aside, keeping their eyes on Bib all the while. He rolled his eyes. Stupid, thuggish behavior. He stepped past them.

Ephant Mon stood before him, a grotesque colossus. His massive head stretched nearly to the floor, terminating in a gaping maw dotted with sparse, blunt teeth. A characteristic outline beneath his robes testified to a short pole-arm, and Bib was sure a blaster was concealed somewhere on the Chevin’s massive person. Moreover, Ephant was most likely capable of throttling him to death with his huge, powerful hands alone. Possibly quicker than Bib could draw, pick out a deadly shot, and fire. But then again, possibly not.

“What is it that you want?” Ephant said, those heavy teeth seeming almost to chew on the words coming slowly out of his elongated face. Bib suspected the Chevin exaggerated the heavy ponderousness characteristic of his species, hoping to bait others into thinking of him as dull-witted. Bib would not make that mistake.

“I have some distressing news, Ephant Mon,” Bib said.

He paused. Ephant Mon looked on impassively.

            “I was approached in secret by a group of the B’omarr monks,” Bib went on, somewhat flatly. “They informed me that they were seeking to kill our master, Jabba. They requested my help with the operation.”

            Ephant Mon blinked a heavy blink.

            “This happened yesterday,” Bib said. “I thought it best to inform you.”

            Ephant Mon raised one broad, heavy hand to his face and gave a desultory scratch.

            “Very well, Bib Fortuna. You may go.”

            Bib stood before the Chevin for a moment before turning stiffly and marching through the door. He pivoted to look back into Ephant’s chambers, but the Gamorreans were already closing the door again, what passed for smirks hanging on their porcine faces. A wave of angry heat washed over Bib, and he stalked quickly back to his own quarters. Ephant Mon had given him nothing—not a hint of a reaction, no quick flinch of surprise, no glimmer of anger in his eyes. Ephant had taken the news as though Bib were telling him he had seen a cloud that morning.

            Bib flung himself down on his bed. Resentment, frustration, and confusion rolled through his head like thunderclouds on a rising wind. He muttered curses against Ephant Mon, against the Gamorrean thugs that guarded his door, against the damned B’omarr who got him into this whole circumstance, against his own blasted foolishness for following the droid to begin with. And finally, inevitably, against Jabba. Fat Jabba. Greedy Jabba. Jabba whose death would be sweeter than life… Hours went by, with Bib cursing and thinking and glowering at the ceiling, until the suns were crawling toward their noon. Bib realized with dull surprise that he was ravenous, his stomach an aching hollow within him. He cursed his stomach, too, for good measure, but he stood and set out into the halls to scavenge up some remnants of breakfast from the kitchens. He walked quickly and intently. The few passersby who tried to catch his eye were treated to deep scowls.

Bib pressed open the door to the kitchens. Seeing the Twi’lek, a servant boy rushed to him with an air of servile eagerness, but Bib waved him away with a snarl. He cast about for a tray, and loaded it with fruits and left-over hunks of bread. Bib tore into the food, gulping it down in a matter of moments. Sated, he dropped his tray where he stood. He seized the servant roughly and pulled him to the discarded dishes.

“Pick it up,” he said, gruffly. The servant nodded swiftly and repeatedly.

As Bib walked back through the door, a sharp, dry sound caught his ear, like something tapping on the floor—tick. He stopped, and inclined his head. He heard it again from within the kitchen, this time in a rapid series. Tick-tick-tick-tick. He turned to look, and there it was. A spider-droid. The servant cleaning Bib’s mess was nowhere to be seen.

            The droid stood motionless. A sinking feeling made itself known in Bib’s chest. In a burst of animal instinct, he threw the door closed and whirled, fleeing in a walk that verged on running. Was he being framed? Had Ephant Mon simply continued on with some strategy of implicating Bib? Or were the monks themselves in fact involved in some plot against him? He felt that whatever fragile grasp he had had on this happening had been torn from him. He was in free fall now, with not one thing to seize on and slow the drop. In desperate panic, Bib sped from the palace into the Dune Sea.

            Ignoring the ferocity of the suns as they climbed toward their noon and the stinging lash of the sand on a sudden breeze, Bib forged on, further and further into the vast desert, the palace receding behind him. Some hours later, exhausted by the heat and the effort of walking through the shifting sand, Bib sought shelter under the shadow of a high cliff. Laying himself down on a patch of packed earth, Bib closed his eyes against the insistent light. He needed some time. Time to regroup. Time to prepare. Time to rest… A warm, slow darkness overtook him, and he slept.

            A sudden burst of static on his comlink woke Bib. He opened his eyes and blinked groggily, some half-articulate noise drifting into his ears.

            “Repeat?” he said, raising the communicator to his lips.

            “Bib Fortuna: Ephant Mon, here. Report to my quarters post-haste. Urgent. Imperative.”

            A chill wormed its way down Bib’s spine, a slow thrill of raw intensity without coherent form. He was absolutely adrift, now, completely unsure of his own footing. Taking as much time as he dared, he weighed his choices, fingers drumming a quick tattoo on the cylinder of the comlink. He raised it once more.

            “Ephant Mon: heard and acknowledged. En route. Over.”

            Blind fear worked to slow his pace while anxiety worked to raise it, and he picked his way through the sand in fitful bursts of speed and dread-filled spells of trudging. Bib could have sworn his brain was whirling in his skull like a stripped gear, desperate for purchase, but finding none. To return to Ephant Mon might be to walk, literally, into his own execution yard. To ignore Ephant Mon was little different than slow suicide. To believe the B’omarr monks were actually plotting an underworld coup was beyond absurd. To believe they were doing nothing at all was to ignore the evidence before him. Neither the right nor the left offered shelter; neither north nor south promised shade. Bib was alone in the oceanic sands, and the wind that erased his footprints left the desert trackless and void. The suns overhead were setting, and Bib could no longer see clearly, but the squat spires of Jabba’s palace loomed ahead, dark and indistinct but massive, unavoidable.

            Bib began to breathe in huge, ragged waves. The ache in his muscles and the sheer fatigue of his nerves left him in a strangely peaceful sort of mood. He had no cards left to play. Whatever plots and counter-plots he could dream up were hollow, unreal. He would simply follow the tide. He would be honest and plain, and would let the consequence follow. If Ephant Mon wanted to kill him, let him try. If not—well, Bib would just answer whatever was asked. His breathing settled, deep but steady. He was prepared. By the time Bib reached the palace rotunda, the suns had already set, and he was navigating his way largely by feel and memory. He was challenged at the gate, and impatiently demanded entry. He could hear the guards grumbling half-aloud as they let him in, and on another day he might have reminded them of their place. But today he had larger concerns.

            Bib climbed the stairs to Ephant’s quarters, forcing his feet to maintain a steady pace despite the protest of his sore muscles. He let his fingers lightly graze over the butt of his blaster. He took the last steps down the corridor slowly, but at last he reached the door and knocked. When the door slid open this time, there were no guards: Ephant Mon himself stood before him.

            “Come in,” the Chevin said, and Bib did so.

            “What do you want from me?” Bib said, turning to face him.

            “I want your help,” Ephant said.

            There was a long silence.

            “Help with what?” Bib said.

            Ephant Mon gave a deliberate tug on one sleeve of his garment, then the other. He brushed away some imaginary dirt from his shoulder.

            “With the conspiracy, of course. The monks.”

            Bib narrowed his eyes.

            “Your concern seems… sudden,” he said. “This morning you did not look so interested.”

            “A fool wears a reaction on his face,” Ephant said, sharply. “A wise man—a careful man—considers before he acts.”

            “And you are a wise man,” Bib said, a hard edge in his voice.

            “I am paid to be so.”

            “Yes, you are, aren’t you,” the Twi’lek answered. Jabba’s protector. Fat Jabba. Stupid Jabba. Lazy Jabba.

            “I am,” said Ephant. “And since I am, I want to know what the B’omarr monks are doing, what they are thinking, what they are planning to do. And I would like your help.”

            “Doing what?” Bib said.

            “Return to the monks. Say you have reconsidered. Gather what you can. Then tell me. It is not so very complicated.”

            “And why should I do this? Why should I take on risk?”

            “Because you are in the employ of Jabba the Hutt, and his life is under threat,” Ephant said. “But no, of course. That will not be sufficient for you.”

            Bib fought the urge to bare his teeth at the Chevin.

            “I can offer you credits. Information. Contacts. Goods, perhaps. We can negotiate your price. That is unimportant. What matters is the task,” Ephant said.

            “I will—consider it,” Bib said.

            “Good. I will require your response by this time tomorrow.”

            Ephant made a gesture of dismissal. Bib took two strides toward the door, then stopped.

            “I will do it,” he said, not turning around.

            “Good,” said Ephant.