touch on her costume.
Metal knobs on the headpiece protruded through leather into her delicate ears, blocking all but the loudest noises—such as Max Rebo’s contemptible singer Sy Snootles, and Jabba’s abhorrent invitations.
She raised her head to stare toward the entry. All around the throne, in dark recesses and corners of Jabba’s sand-strewn floor, courtiers roused from their daily business. Bib Fortuna turned toward mid-floor, then rose and glided forward.
Once she’d admired him. Now she despised his obsequious shuffling and the touch of his claw-fingered hands.
Two tusked Gamorrean guards dragged in a struggling creature. Although half the size of either guard, the prisoner jumped left and right, desperately kicking the thick hide of their knees. Whenever a kick landed, the Gamorrean whuffled. She guessed that was their laughter.
Jabba yanked Oola’s chain. Choked, she fell back against gooey flesh. A warty, vestigial hand grasped her sensitive left lek from behind and stroked it.
Jabba rumbled at his luckless new captive. One Gamorrean seized its roughly woven brown robe by the collar and yanked it off, revealing a scrawny creature with a shrunken face and glowing yellow eyes. He babbled at Jabba in a quick, high voice. Jabba belchedsomething that sounded like a command. From behind the hideous guards scuttled a squatty crustacean with four green-shelled legs. Several courtiers recoiled from it; others edged forward. Even Master Fortuna kept a respectful distance.
The crustacean brandished a forefoot. Two pairs of pincers snapped open. A straight, slim talon protruded between each pair of claws. One talon glistened wetly. The prisoner shrank down and screamed.
Jabba’s rumbling laugh vibrated his belly. Oola trembled. She hadn’t slept in two nights; if this went on much longer, she’d be too tired to escape if she got the chance. Jabba’s exclusively chained dancing girls must live short, miserable lives. The ancient song haunted her: “lose your best reason for living …”
As the captive cowered, the crustacean’s twin claw seized his upper arm. Pincers clamped. The captive shrieked again, a long, thin screech that arched Oola’s neck. She spun around, pushed her face into fetid hide, and then scrambled up Jabba’s hideous midsection. Momentarily she forgot the rotten flesh under her bare arms and legs. Jabba chuckled but loosened her chain, possibly the better to concentrate on his victim’s last agony.
Oola slithered down Jabba’s other side, cautiously testing the slack he was giving her. She managed to slide off the back of his dais before snapping her neck tether tight. Jabba didn’t seem to mind having its links dragged over him. He’d find her when he wanted lighter entertainment.
She slid her hated headpiece’s strap up her chin and flung it off. 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
Metal knobs on the headpiece protruded through leather into her delicate ears, blocking all but the loudest noises—such as Max Rebo’s contemptible singer Sy Snootles, and Jabba’s abhorrent invitations.
She raised her head to stare toward the entry. All around the throne, in dark recesses and corners of Jabba’s sand-strewn floor, courtiers roused from their daily business. Bib Fortuna turned toward mid-floor, then rose and glided forward.
Once she’d admired him. Now she despised his obsequious shuffling and the touch of his claw-fingered hands.
Two tusked Gamorrean guards dragged in a struggling creature. Although half the size of either guard, the prisoner jumped left and right, desperately kicking the thick hide of their knees. Whenever a kick landed, the Gamorrean whuffled. She guessed that was their laughter.
Jabba yanked Oola’s chain. Choked, she fell back against gooey flesh. A warty, vestigial hand grasped her sensitive left lek from behind and stroked it.
Jabba rumbled at his luckless new captive. One Gamorrean seized its roughly woven brown robe by the collar and yanked it off, revealing a scrawny creature with a shrunken face and glowing yellow eyes. He babbled at Jabba in a quick, high voice. Jabba belchedsomething that sounded like a command. From behind the hideous guards scuttled a squatty crustacean with four green-shelled legs. Several courtiers recoiled from it; others edged forward. Even Master Fortuna kept a respectful distance.
The crustacean brandished a forefoot. Two pairs of pincers snapped open. A straight, slim talon protruded between each pair of claws. One talon glistened wetly. The prisoner shrank down and screamed.
Jabba’s rumbling laugh vibrated his belly. Oola trembled. She hadn’t slept in two nights; if this went on much longer, she’d be too tired to escape if she got the chance. Jabba’s exclusively chained dancing girls must live short, miserable lives. The ancient song haunted her: “lose your best reason for living …”
As the captive cowered, the crustacean’s twin claw seized his upper arm. Pincers clamped. The captive shrieked again, a long, thin screech that arched Oola’s neck. She spun around, pushed her face into fetid hide, and then scrambled up Jabba’s hideous midsection. Momentarily she forgot the rotten flesh under her bare arms and legs. Jabba chuckled but loosened her chain, possibly the better to concentrate on his victim’s last agony.
Oola slithered down Jabba’s other side, cautiously testing the slack he was giving her. She managed to slide off the back of his dais before snapping her neck tether tight. Jabba didn’t seem to mind having its links dragged over him. He’d find her when he wanted lighter entertainment.
She slid her hated headpiece’s strap up her chin and flung it off. 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
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