Star Wars: Tales from Jabba's Palace by Kevin J. Anderson Page B

Then she tugged her skimpy net costume, straightening flimsy fabric to cover her body as well as it could. Narrow leather strips belted it at her waist, hips, knees, and ankles.
    She’d hoped for dancing veils.
    Her eyes adjusted slowly. To her surprise, two othercreatures shared her refuge. Her fellow dancer—Yarna, a heavy-bodied Askajian with room at her breasts for a large litter of children—had spoken “comforting” words after this morning’s long beating: “Do what you have to. Anything that works. As long as you’re alive, there’s hope.” Oola frowned. Death was the ultimate enemy, but beyond it lay bright, clean eternity and the Great Dance.
    The humanoid-looking droid cowered back here too. Almost as tall as Fortuna, he gleamed gold where Jabba’s slime hadn’t fouled him. She’d seen him earlier when he arrived with his squat, silvery partner, and she hadn’t forgotten the towering human image they projected into foul, murky air …
    Yarna lounged, stretched out as if for a peaceful nap after breakfast. The droid pressed metal-jointed hands over his invisible ears. Oola hunkered closer to him. She racked her memory for words that might comfort him, but she didn’t know enough Huttese to make a start. She might try Basic, although she didn’t speak it well.
    His metal head turned. He straightened—avoiding her, she thought at first—and then made a stiff but courtly bow. “Miss Oola,” he said.
    He spoke Twi’leki. The shock of familiarity hit her again, as when his partner had projected that image.
    â€œI am See-Threepio, human-cyborg relations,” he announced, managing Twi’leki as well as she’d ever heard a creature without lekku speak it. “I am fluent in over six million forms of communication. I apologize for my disreputable condition,” he added, and swiped one metal hand at the green ooze on his body. “If I truly am doomed, I would prefer to face the scrap pile in a more pristine condition.”
    â€œDon’t be cowardly,” she whispered, but she couldn’t put any strength into her voice.
    â€œHe threatened to flush my memory. That would be even worse,” the droid whined.
    â€œNothing is final,” Oola murmured, trying to echo things she’d thought she believed in, before fear nibbled holes in her faith. “Not even death. It only frees your spirit from the confines of gravity, to dance—”
    â€œYou don’t understand.” Threepio lowered himself with a metallic squeak onto the chamber’s sandy floor. “Even a partial memory wipe would be disastrous for a droid of my programming. I might have to start from basic imitative body movements. I’m not even certain I would retain my primary communications function.”
    Whatever that means
, she signed with her lekku. No non-Twi’lek could read lek gestures.
    Surprising her again, he spread his metal hands. “It would mean doom,” he explained. Then he spoke again, almost shyly. “Might I offer condolences for your unhappy position, Miss Oola?”
    Those were the first genteel words she’d heard in two days. Regretting her bravado back at the town, when she could have escaped Master Fortuna, and then her obvious lack of courage in this place, she curled up into a tight little ball and cradled both lekku between her knees. “Thank you, See Pio,” she murmured. “Do you have any idea what’s happening?” She indicated the other side of Jabba’s throne with a quick jerk of her head.
    â€œThreepio,” he corrected, but he tried to be gallant. “As I understand, His High Exaltedness is punishing a Jawa. Someone he caught plotting against him, I suppose. Everyone here hopes to kill everyone else, 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.