by Jeff Grubb
“Not a good one,” said Mander. “I saw a thin, narrow head. I think our attacker was a Cerean, but other than that, nothing.”
“So why take a shot at Mika?” asked Reen. “You think that someone is worried about what he found out on Endregaad?”
“Possible,” said Mander. “Or someone wants to send a message to Mika—or perhaps even to Popara.”
“A high-energy message.”
“A message nonetheless,” Mander continued, realizing as he did that he was scanning the surrounding arcades as well, expecting another attack. “Why else hire a bad assassin on the Smugglers’ Moon?”
Reen thought about it. “You’re right—you wouldn’t. Hire a bad assassin, that is. This place is overflowing with capable opportunists who would not hesitate to take a contract.”
“Exactly,” said Mander. “Yet we were fired upon by a sniper who literally missed the broad side of a Hutt. A small Hutt, but a Hutt nonetheless.”
Reen thought for a moment, then added, “But said sniper then nails a protocol droid in the temple. Heck of a bad shot. Unless Mika wasn’t the target.”
“I think someone wants us to think he was,” said Mander, “but I don’t think he was one they were paid to shoot. Like I said, they are sending a message.”
The trio was brought up several more turbolifts into one of the larger nearby towers. As they rose higher into Popara’s home territory, the surroundings became more opulent. The rugs took on a deeper plush, the fittings became gaudier, and the light fixtures changed from simple domes to crystalline forms that cast Hutt-shaped shadows on the walls. Finally they reach the last doors, huge vault-like monstrosities of heavy wood and metal, emblazoned with Popara’s beneficent face. Only then did Mika turn to address them.
“I must meet with my father,” he said. “I had forwarded a report earlier, but he may have further questions. And he will want to know about the most recent incident. We will meet again, at the fete. We will be serving in the penthouse, at sunset.” And with that, the Hutt took his leave, swallowed by the opulent doors to his father’s chambers.
The three travelers were shown to a small suite of rooms to freshen up. A tailor droid was made available, and both Reen and Eddey availed themselves of its services. Mander had brought his formal robes with him, and while the other two were talking about fabrics and color swatches, he stepped out onto a wide balcony.
The best parts of Nar Shaddaa were dingier than the worst parts of Coruscant. Despite himself, Mander tried to find some order among the madness of the towers, each one equipped with balconies, galleries, bridges, overlooks, awnings, verandas, and decks of various levels of functionality and form. Some seemed to be landing pads, while others looked like they had no other purpose than to cast the floors beneath them in shadow. Mander looked down but wasn’t sure he could even see the ground—rather, the towers themselves expanded out until they became a second skin to the moon. Welling up from those depths and dancing around the towers were a plethora of vehicles, again ranging from the nondescript repulsor vans to gaudy signblimps offering every vice and service known to sentient life.
And above it all, hanging corpulent and visible even in the late-afternoon sun was Nal Hutta itself, a rotten fruit that was now home to the Hutts. Few outworlders were welcome to the steaming swamp estates of the Hutt overlords, though Mander did not doubt that the Anjiliac clan had their own dacha somewhere on the planet above him.
A day on Nar Shaddaa was eighty-seven standard hours long, so they planned on a nap and a light meal, though the meal was light only in terms that a Hutt could appreciate. It was in effect a portable buffet consisting of a large platter of sliced bantha rump roasted with tigmary, stewed kebroot, flatbread, spiceloaf of various intensities, and inert piles of mounder potato rice. For Eddey, a bland-looking fish called salar was presented, and the Bothan declared it better prepared than most. At the center of the display was a spice-jelly cast in a mold that resembled Popara’s beneficent form. The effrikim worms were served with both heads still attached and went untouched by all.
Over the meal Mander said, “I understand that the lieutenant commander offered you a job.”
Reen looked up from the bowl of thick soup she had been eating and shot a glance at Eddey. “See,” she said, “he did think we were talking about him.”
To Mander she said, “She seemed interested in the trade in Tempest spice, particularly after she talked with the Huttling.”
“Had she spent a lot of time speaking with Mika?” asked Mander.
“Don’t be jealous,” said Reen. “The lieutenant commander spent a lot of time talking to you and you didn’t see me get all offended.”
“You told me you didn’t want to talk …” Mander bit the inside of his cheek to keep from sounding foolish. “So,” he started again, “I understand that the lieutenant commander offered you a job.”
Reen nodded. “Mika apparently got her very interested in the Tempest. She wanted to know if we were interested in helping investigate.”
“Are you?” asked Mander.
Reen help up a finger and swallowed a particularly large lump of something in the soup. “Absolutely. We find the source of the Tempest, and we find Toro’s killer. Not that I don’t want to help you as well. But two approaches maybe are better than one. And the CSA has greater resources. But …”
“Here it comes,” said Eddey, eyeing another piece of salar.
“I don’t know if I trust her,” said Reen.
“And you trust me,” noted Mander.
“Enough to accept the coordinates of the Indrexu Spiral in exchange for a little risking of one’s life?” she asked. “Of course. Besides, people are supposed to trust you. You’re a Jedi.”
“So people keep telling me,” said Mander. “Though I’m not the Jedi they apparently expect.”
“True but beside the point,” said Reen. “The point is that Krin laid out her offer in very precise terms. It all felt very cut and dried. Very calculated. Very …”
“Bloodless was the word you used,” said Eddey, tucking into another piece of the fish.
“I know I don’t trust her much,” said Reen. “But not trusting her wouldn’t keep me from accepting a job.”
Mander nodded. It seemed clear to him that Reen was leaving, but had not fully realized it herself. And she was right about one thing: there would be more resources available with the CSA than with a single Jedi. Still, he could not see her fitting in neatly with the by-the-book, “bloodless” nature of the Corporate Sector.
“You’d work for them even if it didn’t get you closer to your goal,” said Mander.
Reen shrugged. “Look at how I feel about the Hutts. It doesn’t stop me from eating their food.” And with that conversation drifted off to other matters, and left the ultimate decision, like the effrikim worms, unfinished.
Deep in the bowels of Nar Shaddaa, a beeper chimed at Koax’s belt. The one-eyed Klatooinian moved back to her sleeping pod and activated the privacy filters—standard-issue models, but easily modded to actually provide the privacy they claimed. The small room secure, she pulled out the portable holoreceiver from beneath her bunk and toggled it on.
Her lord’s image appeared on the central display. As always, the Spice Lord’s hulking form was lit from behind, facial features invisible. Any who might observe their conversation would only be able to tell that Koax was speaking with a Hutt, its pointed triangular head rising from a heavy, neckless body.
“Ma Lorda,” said Koax, nodding her head slightly and closing her one organic eye in respect. “It has been too long.”
“Your work has been sufficient,” said the Hutt in a voice filtered to a tinny hum by the device. “And you have not needed any correction. Tell me of our most recent matters.”
“Market penetration of the Corporate Sector Authority proceeds apace,” said Koax. “The Tempest is extremely popular, and there is sufficient corruption in the bureaucracy to allow us to establish a foothold. Severa
l small-time dealers have tried to sell lesser spices dyed to look like Tempest, but those same corrupt authorities have cracked down on them.”
“Good.” The shadowed form nodded and for a moment Koax felt reassured. She had pleased the Spice Lord. “How is the expanded spice production proceeding?” the Hutt said.
“Recovering nicely after the loss of the ship on Endregaad,” said the Klatooinian. “With the Corellians vulnerable, we subcontracted out to several smaller, lighter firms. And we are breaking up the supply chain, such that the same ships that bring in the raw spice are not the ones that take out the finished product.”
“More ships, more chances of mischance,” said the darkened Hutt, and it sounded as if the Spice Lord was quoting older wisdom.
“The ships that are carrying the spice out are highly vetted before we give them the coordinates for our secret path,” said Koax. “And those coming in system are running empty cargo bays, and as such are not breaking any laws.”
“Our secret path is secret no longer,” said the Spice Lord, “but unless they know where to look, we should be secure enough. And our security in the manufacturer’s system?”
“The requisite bribes have been issued,” said Koax, toggling a small chip along the side of the receiver. A blue-white spreadsheet appeared in the air between her and the Hutt’s image. “As you can see, they are well within our budgetary expectations, with marginal impact on our bottom line.”
“Do not teach your superiors how to suck geejaw eggs,” said the Hutt churlishly. “I was determining the profit-and-loss statements before you made your first kill.”
“Of course, Ma Lorda,” said the Klatooinian, regretting almost instantaneously the implication that the Hutt did not understand economics. Seeking to put herself back into the Spice Lord’s good graces, she added, “The weapons that were discovered near the manufacturing ship …”
“Yes?”
“We cannibalized about half the parts to get the other half operational,” said the Klatooinian. “They were in amazing condition for being so old.”
“Excellent,” said the silhouetted form. The Spice Lord was pleased again, and that brought a warmth to the Klatooinian’s heart. “On to other matters, then. What of the Nuiri sector?”
“There was a split in the organization we were dealing with—our longtime distributor and one of her daughters. I evaluated the offers from both sides and found the daughter’s offer to be better for us. Her mother and her mother’s supporters have been eliminated and operations consolidated under the daughter, and I have rerouted the drug owed to Makem Te to our new ally as a reward.”
“I would expect no less,” said the Spice Lord. “And speaking of that unpleasant planet, what of Makem Te?”
“They are on subsistence drops for the moment,” said Koax. “Their bungling brought the attention of the Jeedai down upon us.”
“A minor inconvenience, which we can handle,” said the backlit image. “You are here on Nar Shaddaa?”
“As per your orders. I have also made contacts with the Bomu matriarch, and she has sent support as well.”
“Excellent,” said the Hutt. “Gather them, then, and wait for me to contact you. And you have the … item?”
Despite herself, Koax’s hand went to the oversized hip pouch on her belt. The lightsaber weighed heavy against her side. Even in the shadowed profile, she was sure the Hutt caught her motion, and was amused by it. “Shall I bring it to you?” she asked.
“No,” said the Spice Lord quickly. “Things are going to become extremely unsettled very quickly. Be ready, and keep a strong watch on the doings of the Anjiliac clan. They are hosting the Jeedai and his allies. The Jeedai is about to learn the dangers of meddling in Hutt politics. Be prepared to move—and move quickly—when my call comes.”
Again Koax bowed. “As you wish.”
“As I wish,” said the Hutt, and broke the link.
Koax collapsed on the bunk of the sleeping pod. She could have said that the Bomu were getting particularly hard to deal with, that their matriarch proposed increasingly direct and dangerous methods of vengeance, but that was something her lord did not need to know. All the Spice Lord needed to be informed of was that the requested support was in position. The control of that support was her problem.
Koax had riled up the Bomu clan and now, upon the Spice Lord’s command, was going to unleash them on the Jeedai. Maybe it would be enough to end this particular threat. And who knew, perhaps each would wipe out the other and solve all of their problems. If the Bomu happened to be particularly enthusiastic in their work, who was she to fault them?
The one-eyed Klatooinian reached into her hip pouch and pulled out the Spice Lord’s prize. The metal hilt of the dead Jeedai’s lightsaber glittered in the weak light of the sleeping pod. She thought about turning it on, feeling the power that radiated through it, but demurred. There was little enough room in the sleeping pod for herself and the hololink, and she would likely achieve nothing more than shredding the surrounding walls.
And that might attract undue attention.
She had met the Spice Lord but once in the flesh, and when they met, the Hutt had said simply, “Protect me.” Since that day she labored to keep her master’s empire intact—despite long periods without contact—and to be ready, at a moment’s notice, to carry out the Spice Lord’s will.
And if the Spice Lord desired a Jedi lightsaber, who was she to argue?
She replaced the Spice Lord’s trophy, packed up the holoreceiver, returned the security screens to their factory-issued insufficiency, and left the pod. She had to rally the Spice Lord’s hounds in the hope that they would remove one more problem from her list.
The dream returned to Mander, but this time with a difference. He was in the great library on Coruscant again, and this time he was not alone. There were voices around him now, unseen among the dimly lit records on the shelves. He looked down one corridor of the stacks, then another, but there was nothing there. The voices sounded like a celebration. The voices sounded like a discussion. The voices sounded like a heated argument.
In the distance, a low bell pealed, as always, and turning around he could see the lights go out, a darkness claiming the shelves, one at a time. Yet this time he could see in the distance a single light shining in the darkness. It was the blaze of a lightsaber, blue-white in the darkness.
Mander started for the light, moving in that dream speed where his mind was running but the world around him moved slowly. The darkened shelves were now mere ghosts, reflecting their own pale illumination, and Mander noticed they were empty.
The light receded and bobbed, and he could hear footsteps ahead, retreating, fleeing him. He was closing now, and nearing that moment of recognition when he knew this was a dream—and a familiar one. But that did not stop him from pursuing the bobbing light.
This is a dream, thought Mander. This is a dream and I can affect it. I can catch up with my opponent. I can make him slow down.
The thin line of the lightsaber’s blade paused up ahead, and for just a second Mander could see that it reflected a blue face, looking at him, frustrated and angry. Then his prey moved off to one side, down one of the long rows of the now-darkened stacks. Mander realized the voices were gone, along with the tolling bell and the sound of footsteps.
Mander reached for his own blade, and it came up in his hand—not a serpent this time, but a hard, cold hilt that chilled him as he ran a thumb over the raised switch and ignited it. He spun around the corner, and there was a crate in the middle of the aisle, a typical crate like the ones found in the Bomu warehouse. The top was open, and there, swaddled in a blanket, was a small Hutt child, its flesh a pale blue.
The Hutt opened its eyes, and Mander had a moment of disorientation.
“Hello,” said Mika Anjiliac in flawless Basic.
Mander bolted awake, startled from the dream. Despite the drawn shades, the light of the westering sun still carved thin lines on the opposing wall, and eve
n with the supposed soundproofing, the dull rumble of the air traffic outside seeped through the permacrete and into his bones.
He rolled out of the bed, shook his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying both to shake the fogginess from his brain while at the same time retaining what had happened in the dream.
Part of it was obvious—Toro had been running away from him. Despite his teachings, he had rejected him. Once he had attained his own Knighthood, Toro had sought to carve his own path, a path that led to his own destruction. But Mander had put the details of his former student’s death aside to finish Toro’s assigned task for the Order. He had hoped that gaining the coordinates would give him some sense of closure, and that by completing his student’s task he could lay Toro’s spirit to rest.
But it was not to be. Too many loose ends strayed out of this particular tangle, not the least of them being that Tempest was more widespread than the Jedi had first thought. This was no failing of a single Jedi, or a single Jedi’s training, but a plague in its own right, sprawling out in the galactic arm unnoticed until now.
Then there was a matter of Mika. The strange Hutt was a part of his unease. There was more to Mika than he’d first thought. And the fact that there was Tempest on the plague ship where he was found … another mystery, tempting him. The Hutt’s involvement could be part of the greater picture, or just another distraction.
He wondered how the discussion would go between Mika and his father about the Tempest. Would Popara see the rise in Tempest use as a threat, or as an opportunity? Reen’s words about not trusting Hutts came back to him. Would Popara be willing to help the Jedi track down and eradicate this scourge?
Then there was the matter of the CSA and Angela Krin. They seemed very interested in the Tempest as well. Again, Mika seemed invaluable in having spurred that interest. Mander wondered if he should encourage Reen to work with them. It would free up the Jedi to conduct his own work. Or allow him to simply return to the Archives, if matters were truly in capable hands.
Mander Zuma shook his head again and padded out to join the others for a light—for Hutts—snack before the main meal.
