Permanent Interests

[Gorba the Hutt]

Nar Shaddaa, Dead Town

Inside a warehouse of coffins, a dozen bodies lay in two neat rows. Discarded coffins lay scattered about, lids unhinged. Brutus stood, his back to the bodies, a holoprojector in one hand. An image of the great and mighty Gorba’s face floated just in front of Brutus.

<Great Gorba, I have poor news from Nar Shaddaa. It is as you, in your ancient wisdom, have surmised. The Vermilic are using the warehouses of Dead Town to hide the bodies.> Brutus paused, mouth hanging slightly open.

Gorba waited for him to say something more, then remembered that that was just how the Klatooinian looked. He supposed Brutus expected him to be slightly outraged. <Abominable. See that their bodies are transported back to their families for proper funerals. You have done well, Brutus.>

Say what you would about Hutts and selfishness, but Gorba had always been one to reward loyalty where he saw it. Besides, Brutus was staring at him with such sad eyes.

<Lord Gorba, is someone drowning?”

<Hmph?>

Oh right, the screaming from poor Ganish. Fool Evocii, ambition paired with incompetence made for useless slaves. It looked like the krayt had chomped off one of his legs. Ah well, it would finish playing with its food eventually and just eat him. In the meanwhile, Gorba would watch. Sometimes things had to be sacrificed to make the whole better.

<There is a vacancy. You are now the new majordomo. Return to Nal Hutta. We are taking a trip.>

 

[Gorba the Hutt]

En Route to Circumtore


<Great Gorba, I am honored to serve you. My gratitude is boundless.>

Gorba slurped down another frog. A bit of juice dribbled down the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with a hand. <Hm? Yes. Good.> Obviously not listening.

The Klatooinian’s shoulders drooped slightly, but he berated himself for the display. Of course the Great Gorba did not listen, his mighty mind was occupied with thoughts too immense for Brutus’ to comprehend. Brutus needed only serve and serve well. This would bring honor to his family, just as his father and brothers brought honor when they sacrificed themselves in battle against Vermilic. Perhaps one day, Brutus would have the chance to give his life for the kajidic. The thought made him quiet down, fingers curling around the hilt of his dagger, eyes staring off into the distance. What could be more noble than such a glorious death?

<We are nearing the approach, your Eminence,” announced the pilot.

Brutus felt a thrill of anticipation run through him. Soon, they would arrive at Circumtore, stronghold of the Shell Hutts. Ancient warriors, many of whom had survived the Gulag Plague. They preferred to keep to themselves, but when enraged their wrath could level whole armies, or so the legends said. The opportunity to meet one of them was both a great honor and immensely terrifying. The more Brutus thought about it, the more excitable he became.

The Klatooinian started walking toward the nearest hatch.

<Where are you going?> Rumbled Gorba.

<To defecate, Mighty Gorba.>

<Hm.> Gorba waved him away with a dismissive hand.

 

[Gorba the Hutt]

Circumtore

Moving sluggishly down the ramp, Gorba licked his fingers clean. Some Hutt connoisseurs described orlanthi dragon tongue shrouded in spider silk as one of the most divine platters for the palate ever to be conceived. Gorba found them acceptable.
The sound of clanking metal feet drew his attention and he glowered as a cadre of battle droids came into view, each bearing the crest of the tortoise. He did not find this acceptable.

The foremost droid stepped forward, while the rest leveled their blasters. “The Lords of Circumtore bid you welcome, Gorba Bareesh,” it said in a synthesized monotone. “We will escort you to your meeting.”

Brutus had his knife out and was looking at Gorba with those round, hopeful eyes. He supposed the Klatooinian would throw himself at the platoon of battle droids if he gave the word. The unswerving loyalty was sickening. Still, better than an idiot like Ganish. Gorba rolled his massive eye and tossed up a pudgy hand.

<Lead.>

The droids escorted him through the hustle and bustle of the spaceport and into a building with a blazing blue neon sign displaying crossed blasters. Judging from the array of illegal rifles and pistols in the window cases it appeared to be an arms dealer. Gorba lurched inside and spotted an enormous suit of Hutt-shaped armor as big as a small tank afloating on a raised dais. A robot arm hung from the ceiling, its three pronged hand busily installing what was presumably the latest addition to the suit: a shoulder mounted weapon. Gorba recognized the model with a pang of jealous appreciation.

Inside the armor was one of the most corpulent Hutts Gorba had ever met.

<Nagoon, I hope I am not interrupting your modification.>

Of course they were not. He had called them here on purpose, to display his strength with veiled threats.

The Shell Hutt had to be almost seven hundred years old by now. The luscious yellow-green skin of his face bore red tattoos chronicling those he had slain in single combat. He had made a name for himself as a warrior, like their Varl ancestors, and not one to be crossed lightly. A force to be reckoned with among the kajidics. Cunning yellow eyes as large as dinner plates swiveled toward Gorba.

Brutus whimpered.

<Gooorbaaa, you were just a huttlet when last we met.>

The Bareesh kajidii grimaced inwardly. It was not a meeting he remembered fondly.

<Yes, Nagoon. And now I rule the Bareesh.>

<Or what is left of them.>

Toxic anger bubbled in Gorba’s belly. He should not have to stand for such debasing insults, but he needed this alliance. <Is that a Tenloss L70?”

<Ah. You young ones have good eyes. It is, though I am thinking about replacing it with a TaggeCo.>

<They say Tenloss is doing well under Popo.>

A Shell Hutt of disrepute within their kajidic. Nagoon’s eyes bulged.

<We do not speak his name. Why are you here?>

Gorba tried to clasp his hands together. They barely met over his girth. <To offer an alliance. Vermilic is encroaching on both of our territories. They openly kill my vassals and thwart your tariffs, not content to sit on Carnovia and spit out their synthetic foodstuffs.>

The older Hutt paused and contemplated Gorba’s words for a moment while the installation of his new weapon was completed. The robot hand drew away and Nagoon eyed the L70.

<What you say is true. The Vermilic have no respect for tradition.> The Bareesh kajidii had to restrain a snort at the irony. <An alliance against them could be useful. You have ambition, Gorba, but you are young. We were not your first choice for allies. The other kajidics doubt your abilities. Prove them to me. Some time ago a group of shadow killers made an attempt on my life.> Nearly 50 years ago, as Gorba remembered, but to Nagoon it probably seemed like yesterday. <Most are dead, but one escaped me.>

The barrel of the L70 turned toward the far wall of the dealership and ejected a string of lime green acid at the dummy standing there. The viscous substance clung to the humanoid shape, quickly melting away the face and upper torso.

<Kill the Dashade known as Xhon and you will have proven your worth to me.>

Gorba smiled. <I will see to it, Nagoon. Thank you for this audience.>

 

[Gorba the Hutt]

Point Nadir

Azalus sat in a darkened corner booth of the Frisky Zisian in some trash heap shadow port . The Yevethan couldn’t believe he had to serve that corpulent oaf Gorba. If there were any unworthy of the services of a master Malkite Poisoner it was the blasted Hutts. Truly, Azalus could not say that he had ever come across a more repugnant species. Except maybe the Ugnaughts. He hated Ugnaughts. Nasty little goblins.

Unfortunately, Azalus didn’t have much of a choice of who he served these days. After the Bareesh Hutts bought his debt from the Golan Financial Group it was either do their bidding or see a bounty on his head so big that every bounty hunter in the galaxy would be itching to drag him in, at which point he would probably be fed alive to whatever beast Gorba happened to have in the palace at the time.

And so, here he sat, piloting a tiny mosquito drone from a murky booth through the cigarra haze, in search of the target. Ah, and there he was, hard to miss really. A tall brute of a being in a hooded black cape, with gray skin, a jutting forehead, beady red eyes, and a mouth that was all teeth and no lip. A really odd mouth, now that Azalus thought about it. If the rumors were true, this was Xhon, but he had to be sure.

“Caramel frappacaf for Xhon,” called the bartender.
The Dashade slid forward and accepted the drink wordlessly.

What?

Well alright then, that certainly made things easier. Azalus fiddled with his datapad and moved the mosquito drone closer. He’d thought long and hard about the various ways he could try and kill the Dashade. A blowgun when Xhon stepped out of the cantina? Too risky, what if he missed? A poisoned knife in a dark alley seemed like a timeless classic, but Azalus had the feeling anything resembling close combat with a Shadow Killer would end poorly. Briefly, he had thought about planting a detonator in every corner and blowing the building when Xhon walked in, but that just seemed horribly messy. No, what he wanted was a clean kill without having to get personally involved.

The mosquito drone proved just the thing. Purchased for an arm and a leg from an expert in microrobotics, the infinitesimal robot looked like a mosquito to the naked eye, but its tiny nose was actually a sturdy injector. The drone’s detachable sac could be filled with poison. On this occasion, Azalus had filled the reservoir with the powerful dendriton neurotoxin. A crowd favorite.

The Yevethan’s deft fingers piloted the drone in until he managed to land it on the back of the Dashade’s neck. He flicked a button and the mosquito drove its nose into the gray flesh and pumped in the toxin. The Dashade didn’t even notice. Azalus snickered quietly to himself, flew the drone back over to his table, and started to put it away back into a special case.

After a few moments, Xhon clutched his head and started to sway. He looked down at the drink he’d been sipping, then over to the bartender.

“You.”

The bartender blinked. “Me?”

“You poisoned my drink.”

“I what?”
He leaped over the bar, surprisingly agile for someone in the throes of a deadly poison, and grabbed a fistful of the bartender’s shirt.

*What was it? Charon venom? Sennari?”

The bartender paled. In the corner of the room, Azalus raised a hairless brow appreciatively. The man knew his poisons.

“Answer me!” He bellowed, lamprey-mouth opening wide to show rows and rows of teeth.

“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the bartender whimpered, tears starting to roll down his face.

Xhon let out a roar of helplessness, then drew out a dagger as long as Azalus’ forearm and rammed it into the bartender’s chest. The Yevethan watched in stunned horror with the rest of the cantina clientele as the bartender died bloodily. Xhon took a step backward, then fell to the floor beside the bartender, body spasming.

The Malkite Poisoner congratulated himself on going with the plan that put the most distance between himself and the psychotic killer. Could’ve been him with a giant knife through the chest. He sighed happily, watching the beauty of a flawless poisoning, then figured he should probably clean up his mess to bring proof to Gorba.

Standing up, the Yevethan walked over to the no-longer twitching corpse, grabbed him by the ankle, and started to haul. Azalus cursed. The fellow was exceedingly heavy. Thankfully, his ship was just outside.

 

[Gorba the Hutt]

Point Nadir

The body fell onto the deck of a ship with a thunk. Azalus breathed a sigh of relief, kicked the corpse, then walked to the cockpit and sat in the pilot’s seat.

“Time to go make some money,” he muttered bitterly to himself as he lifted the ship off the ground. Gorba promised to pay him. Unfortunately, somehow the payments always seemed to be just enough to meet the monthly accrual of debt. So what he got was, in the end, a pittance fee. Gorba had said something about milestone rewards but, truthfully, Azalus had been too busy contemplating the various ways to kill the Hutt to listen.

He leaned back as the blue whorl of hyperspace enveloped the viewport, and closed his eyes for a nap.

Azalus woke up hours later when something cold and sharp pressed against his throat. His eyes flared open.

There, mere inches away from his face, were Xhon’s gray features and his horrifying lamprey mouth.

“You’re dead!” He managed to squeak out.

The Dashade’s beady red eyes narrowed. “No. What did you give me, Dendriton?” Azalus stared. The Dashade shrugged a shoulder. “I built up an immunity.”

“Wh-what?” Azalus could scarcely decide which was more outraging, that the victim had survived and now held a knife to his throat, or that the victim had survived because he was immune. The knife pressed closer, causing Azalus’ words to gargle in his throat and drawing a seeping line of blood.

“Listen to me, you craven poisoner. We’re both assassins, but when I kill my enemies they know it’s me that did it. I could slit your throat right now and leave you to bleed out on the ground.”

The Yevethan felt the urge to pee.

“But I won’t. I’m tired of running. I’m tired of getting poisoned in backwater cantinas and shot in dark alleys. Take me to your employer.”

“What?” The Yevethan couldn’t believe his ears. The incredibly satisfying image of the Dashade arriving at Gorba’s palace and plunging a knife into the belly of the Hutt was quickly replaced by the one where Azalus was thrown to hungry massiffs and ripped to pieces for his failure.

“Take me to your employer or I’ll gut you right here and now, yeah?”

“Ok,” Azalus squeaked. This was all horribly unfair.

 

[Gorba the Hutt]

Nal Hutta, Gorba's Palace

Brutus hoped the Yevethan could feel his glare. Judging by the way he cowered Brutus thought he could. Good. How dare he bring his quarry back to Gorba’s palace on Nal Hutta, when Gorba had shown him benevolence for his debts. Only a fool bites the hand that feeds.

“You are a disgrace,” he growled, “You should be ashamed to even look in the mighty Gorba’s direction. Bow. Bow before the great Gorba and pray you find him merciful.”

Brutus nodded to a pair of vibroax wielding retainers. They came up behind Azalus and drove the butt of their pole axes into the back of his knees. He collapsed to the floor with a panicked cry. In a darkened alcove, the Headsman waited, his lekkus wrapped around his neck, his own massive vibroax in hand. Silently watching. Brutus spared him a glance, then looked to Gorba, who sat upon the dais.

<Mighty Gorba, what is your will?>

<The Dashade,> Gorba rumbled, <Let him speak.>

Xhon sat on his knees, wrists and ankles manacled. “I am Xhon, one of the last Shadow Killers of the Dashade. And I have grown tired of this pointless running. I offer you my services to use me as you see fit. I could hunt again, for you. I could kill again at your bidding. This I offer.”

The Klatooinian glowered at the Dashade, trying to figure out if there was some trap, but finding a hard time getting past the honor in Xhon’s words that had struck a chord of approval within him. He looked up to Gorba, whose narrowed eyes seemed to be weighing the options.

<I accept your bargon,> rumbled the Hutt, then gestured with a stubby hand, <Throw him in the dungeon for now.>

Three Vodran retainers stepped forward, seized the Dashade, and dragged him away, which left only Azalus’ fate in the balance.

<You failed me, Yevethan. There will be no payment for you, but I still require your skills. Your timetables for repayment will be accelerated. If you cannot acquire the money in time, then I will find a use for you in my spice mines.>

Brutus kicked the cowering Azalus. <Thank the Great Gorba for his mercy!>

<Th-thank you, your Eminence,> the Yevethan managed to say through bruised lips before he too was hauled out of the audience room by a pair of retainers.

Brutus marvelled at the mercy of the kajidii. Truly boundless. But what would he tell Nagoon?

 

[Gorba the Hutt]

Nal Hutta, Gorba's Palace

<As you can see, Xhon was eaten by my Krayt.>

Nagoon’s eyes peered over the datapad footage hungrily. He licked his lips appreciatively when the dragon bit down and the crunch of bones came through the audio.

Gorba smiled. It wasn’t faked, not entirely. He’d just altered the footage of poor Ganish’s execution to suit his purposes. The Evocii had proved himself more useful in death than he had been in life. A shame, Gorba had enjoyed laughing at his sycophantic jokes.

<Good.> Nagoon looked back up at the holograph of Gorba. <You proved yourself capable. You will have your alliance.>

The holograph shut off. Gorba found he had developed an acute appetite. <Brutus! Have the chefs prepare a feast. We celebrate our alliance with the Shell Hutts today.>

<It will be done, mighty Gorba.>

Gorba slid out onto the balcony. Kazbog was there, wearing that ridiculous headdress and staring up into the night sky.

<See anything interesting?>

<Mmmm. Three upon three upon three. Fifth from the right,> he said in his persistent whispering tone, <I see an ill-omen in the Godsheart’s tonight.>

<Bah, enough of your omens. We are having a feast.>

<I must watch the stars.>

<Oh? I brought up those Zeltronian girls from the Orange Lady.>

<Mmmm. Maybe I will join you, just for a bit.>

A slow smile spread across Gorba’s face from earhole-to-earhole. A victory for kajidic Bareesh. The pair of them turned and squirmed back into the palace to partake in a feast fit for gods.

Roll Credits.

​

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUQiUFZ5RDw​