Trouble on Cloud City

12

Surrounded by the bayou sounds of hoots and hums and squawks that seeped from the dense marsh through the ragged walls of the shack, Jaina sat back to listen to the band’s tale.

The fame of Figrin D’an and his crew had risen and fallen over the years, and “Fiery Figrin” himself never understood what they were doing right or wrong. All through old Imperial days, the time of Rebellion, and then the formation of the New Republic, the Modal Nodes had played their own music, sometimes to great fanfare, sometimes to few—if any—appreciative ears.

But they played and they traveled. That’s what the Bith did. They were members in good standing of the Intergalactic Musicians’ Guild and generally made a good living, although Figrin had a long-standing tradition of losing their earnings at the sabacc table. He never could resist a good high-stakes game, and more than once had lost his own instruments and those of his fellow band members, only to win them back again in his next all-too-brief streak of luck.

For a time they had been Jabba the Hutt’s favorite band. Then they had reluctantly agreed to play at the disastrous wedding of the Lady Valarian in Mos Eisley, at which point they had been stuck performing as a mere bar band in the cantina, lucky to emerge with their lives.

Since then, they had moved on from planet to planet, playing in any paying venue, from prestigious resorts to drained-dry farming communities. They had gone to Borgo Prime, where they’d been the hit of Shanko’s Hive for five months running before a bad gambling debt had forced Figrin and his band members to leave discreetly in the night on the first cargo ship they could stow away on.

They’d also done a stint in the floating casinos on Mon Calamari, but the gambling tables proved too tempting for Figrin, and his own musicians had finally dragged him away and taken a booking on Cloud City. Lando’s business partner, Cojahn, had promised them that their new gig to publicize SkyCenter Galleria would be a renaissance for them, a real comeback tour.

Now, though, that had fallen to pieces as well.

“But that doesn’t explain it, Figrin,” Lando said. “Cojahn was my friend. You’ve got to tell me what really went down.”

Behind him, the band members continued their accompaniment on the Fizzz, the fanfar, and the ommni box. The eerie music added depth to the story, making Figrin’s words richer, more ominous.

“It’s all about Black Sun,” Figrin said. “They’ve gone underground for many years, but they’ve got a cover story now. Black Sun lieutenants act respectable, but when nobody’s looking, they set up their old criminal connections, just like Prince Xizor used to do, and Durga the Hutt, and all the other deposed kingpins. Black Sun has its clutches on weapons runners, illegal spice trade, and now the gambling and entertainment industries.”

Figrin swiped a hand across his high, smooth cranium, knocking away tiny droplets of sweat that had collected there. “That’s why they were trying to get their toehold on Cloud City—especially your new establishment, Lando. Black Sun wanted a cut of SkyCenter Galleria…. In fact, they wanted to run the place. In absentia, of course.”

Lando just shook his head. “Cojahn would never have allowed that to happen to our entertainment center—which is a perfectly legitimate place, I might add. A real family amusement center with no shady dealings whatsoever, despite what you may have heard about me in the past.”

“Believe me, Lando, compared to Black Sun, you’re just an Ewok that got happy on juri juice.”

“Thanks … I think,” Lando said.

“But you’re right,” Figrin said. “Cojahn wasn’t easily pushed around.” The musicians kept playing from the corners of the hut as if they had practiced this number over and over again and knew exactly what to do. Jaina wondered if they had considered writing a song about their ordeal on Bespin. Maybe it would even be a hit.

Zekk nodded and rested his chin in his hands. “If you’re running a business like Cojahn was, you’d have to be ready to stand up to hoodlums and all sorts of people trying to push you around.”

“Yeah, you get that a lot,” Lando said. “But most of them are cowards anyway.”

“Cojahn did his best, man, but Black Sun infiltrators popped up everywhere. You never knew who they were, or when they might come after you in a dark corridor down in Port Town. Got so you had to have a Wing Guard escort to take you to the gambling tables and back again. Those bullies could stick your head in a carbon-freezing tube, or drop you out an exhaust shaft. They meant business.”

Lando nodded grimly. “But Cojahn didn’t give in to them?”

“He should have,” Figrin said. “He reported Black Sun’s threats to a couple high-level Exex on Cloud City, but they lost the complaint or it was misfiled. He tried again, but nothing was ever done. Finally, Cojahn fired his Ugnaught crew boss when he figured out the guy was in thick with Black Sun.”

Figrin shook his domed head. “Not long after that, Cojahn took his little dive off a high balcony. Man, that guy’s probably still falling.” One of the musicians made a high, thin, squawking note on his instrument. “You know, there’s no end to the clouds on Bespin.”

“So why’d you run, Figrin?” Lando asked. “Were they after you, too?”

“Black Sun’s trying to get its hands into the Intergalactic Musicians’ Guild. They wanted us to pay triple membership dues just so they could take their cut—and man, Cojahn hadn’t paid us much. We’d only done a few gigs for him. I mean, SkyCenter Galleria isn’t even open yet! We got a few tips when we played the bars in the Yerith Bespin, but not enough for that kind of extortion.” He shook his huge smooth head. “I hate gangsters that don’t have budget payment plans!”

He continued. “Once Cojahn died, we knew Black Sun would tighten its hold on us, apply more pressure. One time they put stinger eels inside the mouthpieces of all our instruments.”

Zekk made a grimace of distaste.

“Oh, we caught the critters soon enough. Fed ’em to one of the bar’s customers, and even got a big tip—but we didn’t dare stick around Cloud City. Too dangerous there.”

“Yeah,” Zekk said, rolling his eyes. “You needed to come back to a nice safe, pleasant place like this war-ravaged wasteland of Clak’dor VII.”

“Hey, home is home,” Figrin said with a shrug.

Jaina felt sickened. “So Cojahn stood up for his morals and ethics … and paid for it with his life.”

“That about sums it up, young lady,” Figrin agreed.

“At least now we know what happened,” Zekk said. Sweat stained his clothing beneath the transparalon suit.

Lando stared grimly across the dim hut, gazing through the propped-open window. “Yeah, but we don’t know who killed him or who ordered his death.” He swallowed hard. “And believe me, someone’s going to pay for my friend’s death. Someone in Black Sun will have to answer for it.”

“Guess it’s time to get back to Cloud City, then,” Jaina said. Perspiration trickled down her neck and her back.

The band members stood up, bustled around the hut, and propped the rest of the windows, letting a heavy sluggish breeze drift in. The hazy light on Clak’dor VII grew richer in color as the sun set toward the swamp trees in the west. Outside they could hear the burring sounds of millions of insects stirring in the twilight.

“At least sit outside with us for a few minutes before you go,” Figrin said. “This is our nightly jam session. It’d be nice to have people listening for a change.”

The band members dropped through trapdoors to emerge outside the stilted hut. They tuned up on ramshackle stoops, ladders, and balconies, tossing off riffs and snatches of melody.

Outside, sitting on a rock, a violet puffer turtle swelled its bladders, straining the limits of its shell’s flexibility, and then exhaled on a low bassoon note. Heavy beetles crawled up trees and clicked their rear legs together in a rattling rhythm.

“It’s the music of the swamp,” Figrin said. “The symphony of Clak’dor VII. The Bith evolved with music like this! Since my people hide under their domes all the time, they don’t get to hear the natural music. Come on, join in.” He picked up his battered old long-reed jizz, thrust it into his mouth folds, and began to play.

The other band members added their own inspirations and embellishments, joining in with the mood synthesizer and humming clak beepbox. As they slid into tune with the natural sounds and music, a hoot-bat flapped overhead, emitting short blasts of sound that the musicians incorporated as a counterpoint to their piece.

Jaina listened, enjoying the exotic tune. She had never heard music like this in her life, and she knew it was an experience she wouldn’t forget. She winked at Zekk. “This is almost better than dry clothes,” she said.

Zekk flashed a grin back at her. “Not quite,” he said. “But it’s interesting.”

When it was finally time to go, Lando and the two young Jedi took their leave of the forlorn Biths sitting in their run-down huts, hiding out in the middle of the swamp.

“You’ll have an audience soon enough, Figrin,” Lando said softly. “Once we take care of Black Sun, you can come back and play to your heart’s content. I’ll even double your wages for the first week.”

Figrin raised a big-knuckled hand. “Just make sure you have an open sabacc table for me, Calrissian.” The band kept playing as their unexpected visitors turned to leave.

“What, you want to lose all your wages again?” Lando said over his shoulder.

“I always win ’em back,” Figrin answered, waving goodbye.

The band’s melody turned sour and skeptical at these words, and Jaina sensed that Figrin’s companions didn’t have much confidence in their leader’s gambling prowess.