Chapter Eight

When Taylor asked HK-47 where Nimas lived, she was unceremoniously told that the Hutts were the farthest thing from modest in that side of the galaxy. She just had to find the biggest, most ostentatious building around and she would find her target.

So it was no surprise that Nimas’ home was more of a fortress. Huge steel walls surrounding a building painted in the off-white that most homes in the area adopted. Domes stuck out of the top, the mid-day sunlight reflecting off glass panels where the sand hadn’t crusted on.

For all that it was a fortress, security was lax. The front gates were wide open and vehicles hovered in and out almost nonstop. A few kiosks were even set up nearby to entice the guard patrols with bottles of water and juice and other things.

Aliens of every sort were moving around the palace, most looking shifty, but a few carrying the regal air of important people on important business.

And there were slaves. Lines of people in chains walking in formation, some tied to walls, more tending to the ground by sweeping with long brooms while the sun beat down on exposed skin. They were never in anyone’s path, not for long anyway.

Taylor moved back into an alleyway, slinking into the shadows as if she wasn’t just casing out a palace. There was a beggar by the entrance, an older human with brittle bones and too gaunt skin that she used to keep an eye on the street. She’d give him a credit chip when she was done.

“What do you know about infiltration?” she asked HK-47.

The droid’s eyes flashed. “Statement: I am versed in a multitude of specialized infiltration methods ranging from covert operations to spontaneous improvised infiltration.”

“Okay,” Taylor said. “We need to get in there, right? I don’t know where the control room for this damned thing is, which means we need to question someone. Or you do, at any rate. I could just walk in, but there are things that look like turrets and some of the guards are droids. I don’t like my chances if I go all out and I don’t want too many casualties. We’re going to have to play this by ear.”

“Repetition: Play this by ear. Query: Is that another of your quaint sayings, Darth Khepri?”

“Those pig looking ones,” she said, ignoring the last. “What are they?”

“Commentary: They are Gamorreans. Literally the galaxy’s least favoured pigs.”

Taylor resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She felt a group of three of the Gamorreans walking not too terribly far away from her location. There were plenty of bugs all over them. And in them. She didn’t need the mental image of one of them scratching a nest of lice around his crotch but she had it now. “I don’t want to be racist... speciest?” she asked.

“Comment: When an organic begins a statement in such a fashion they usually end it in a spectacularly racist way.”

“Oh, shut up,” she shot back. “The Gamorreans, they’re not usually high ranked, right?”

“Statement: They are walking pigs. Sometimes they can be useful by absorbing a blaster bolt meant for you.”

“Right, I got that impression too. I have a plan, but it’s a little rough.”

***

Bween was an excellent seneschal. Oh yes, she knew because the great Nimas said so. Bween had been the Hutt’s perfect chamberlain for nearly a decade now, a decade since she had left the deep waters of Mon Cala, since she had found employment with the great Nimas, since she had first set foot on the disgustingly dry ball that was Tatooine.

It wasn’t all bad. She eyed some of the slaves they had sold that very morning and counted their heads. Jabba needed more workers and the Hutt lord was always exacting. Bween knew that if the count was off, it was her employer that would suffer for it.

The air right outside Nimas’ great palace was dry and crusty and filled with sand, but she had a job to do. There was nothing for it. At least she wasn’t like the poor saps trying so hard to climb into the great Nimas’ good books.

No, Bween was a good seneschal, and she would endure the indignity in silence with a straight back, even if the world was inhospitable to Quarrens. It was only further proof that she was worthy of the great Nimas’ attention.

One of their guests, a Neimoidian with a few pleasure droids and manservants of his own, nodded to her as he entered the shade of the palace. “Greetings, Bween, my old friend,” he said.

“Hello, Sib Nark,” Bween said before giving the guest an elegant bow. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. You are here for your meeting with the great Nimas?”

“Indeed. But I see that you are shipping many slaves away. Perhaps you have made a good bit of business already today?” The Nimoidian’s eyes were narrowed and Bween could feel his shrewd mind at work.

“A little,” Bween admitted. “Things in the galaxy at large are growing excited. That means more work for us, doesn’t it?”

“Oh hoh, yes, yes. I think you will be happy to learn that we have quite a few droids coming in soon. More than we know what to do with, and of good stock too. That, and the Trade Federation have increased production of war droids by an order of magnitude. My clan has quite a few older models around now. Surplus, but no worse for it.”

“You say that as if it’s a good thing,” Bween said coyly. She gestured deeper into the palace. “Make your plea to the great Nimas, she will give you an open ear and a fair trade, yes?”

“Ah hah, yes,” Sib Nark said. With a genial smile that Bween knew was false, the Nimoidian moved in, his retinue right behind him.

Bween smiled a small, private smile, made a note in her datapad, then looked up at the next group approaching. She blinked. Three Gamorreans, all of them covered in thick beige cloth, the same sort used in awnings, were moving towards her. In the middle of their little triangle was a human female, eyes hidden behind blue goggles and her form shrouded by a thick black jacket. She walked with easy grace, entirely unlike the clanking protocol droid at her side.

One thing was immediately obvious, the young woman was important. She had that bearing to her, the walk of someone who got things done, of the best mercenaries and bounty hunters that prawled through the great Nimas’ palace. Bween gave the female a shallow bow. “Greetings, and welcome to--”

Her mouth stopped, her body locked itself in place, and were they able to her eyes would have widened. Her breathing came in slowly, then left just as slowly, her heart didn’t beat any faster even as her mind tried, tried so hard to move.

She straightened, finding the girl and her droid just a few steps closer. The girl looked up to her companion and said something in a harsh, guttural tongue.

“Translation: This is official business. Move, filth,” the droid said.

The girl repeated it word for word, her accent atrocious and with emphasis in all the wrong places.

The droid shook its head, then repeated itself, slower this time. It made a few more comments, some words in Huttese, others in the strange language. Bween wasn’t paying attention, she was moving against the bond, the thing holding her back. Or she tried. It was like moving a limb that she had never had. No response, no motion, nothing. She wanted to cry, but even that was denied her.

Her mouth opened suddenly. “Translation: This is official business. Move, filth,” she said.

The droid made some more commentary, this time repeating ‘translation’ a few times.

The girl nodded, then gestured with a robotic hand that had been hidden by the sleeves of her too-large jacket. Bween spun around, took a step back, and was suddenly by the girl’s side. With casual ease, the group moved into the palace.

Bween watched with mounting horror as the Gamorreans at the front squealed and brandished their axes at anyone who grew near, and felt sick when her own voice joined them. “This is official business. Move, filth,” she said to a few slaves moving towards them.

They moved deeper into the halls, then at the first intersection took the path that was least travelled, a corridor leading off into the administrative section and the quarters of the staff that worked at the palace.

Bween was made to walk over to a door, opening it with a press of the scanner. The room’s lights came on, revealing an office that was empty save for a single protocol droid in the corner working over a few datapads.

The group moved in, the Gamorreans standing near the door.

“Greetings, miss Bween, how can I assist you?” the protocol droid asked.

The girl asked something to her droid, then with a careless shrug the droid pulled out a blaster and shot the protocol droid twice in the chest.

She gestured to the corner of the room and Bween walked over. Bween felt her own hands running over her robes, searching into her pockets and patting herself down. Everything she had was unceremoniously tossed onto a nearby desk. Then, with only the girl’s stepping back to to warn Bween, she was suddenly released.

Bween gasped, hand going to her chest to still a heart that wasn’t beating hard. “What did you do? I, I... the great Nimas won’t allow this kind of thing in her domain!” she yelled.

The droid turned to its master and said a few things, got a reply, and turned back to her. “Salutations: My master, Darth Khepri, greets you, snivelling walking sack of wasted fish meat. She wishes to inquire about the no doubt poor state of your health after such a...” the Droid paused. “Sarcastic Commentary: Difficult ordeal.”

“You, you can’t do this!” Bween said. She started to walk off only for her body to lock up again. She would have fallen, only for her hand to shoot out, grab the edge of a table and straighten her back up. She moved back into the corner and was free once more. “No, you can’t,” Bween repeated, though this time she didn’t try to escape.

The girl asked her protocol droid something.

“Translation: Where is the control centre for the slave collars. Assertion: You do not need to answer. Commentary: I would enjoy hearing your screams while I discover just how much your insides resemble that of a fish.”

“Oh Force,” Bween squeaked.

“Commentary: The Force will not help you here.” The droid reached down to its side and pulled out a blaster that looked tiny in its fist. “Suggestion: Start speaking.”

“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you,” Bween said.

The droid almost looked disappointed as he turned to his master and translated what Bween was saying. With eyes colder even than the droid’s the young human female looked at Bween and asked some questions.

The droid dutifully translated. “Query: Where is the control centre for the slave collars. Query: Who has the command codes to disable a specific collar. Query: Where does Nimas keep her credits?”

Bween’s hands balled into fists. She didn’t want to. She never wanted to betray the great Nimas. But she wanted to die even less. “The control room is near the slave pens in the wing opposite this one,” she said. The first words out of her mouth were like pulling teeth, but it became easier with each passing word to speak. “Only one of Nimas’ lieutenants can undo the locks. They’re biometrically locked in the command room. I... I could do it.”

“Commentary: Oh my, does the Hutt flesh bag trust you, a dirty fish lost in the desert? Assessment: The Hutt truly is a creature after my own heart.”

The girl, Darth Khepri, said something that sounded dismissive. Bween watched as the girl interacted with her droid, mounting horror coiling in her chest. This situation was entirely unfair. No one should have been able to control her that way, it was unjust. The great Nimas would do something about it, surely.

Droid turned back to her and started asking questions, Bween couldn’t help but wonder where she had heard the title Darth before.

***