STAR WARS

AN ALLIANCE AT NAR SHADDAA

3

Rotta the Hutt sat on his balcony, wistfully staring out over the edge at the swampy oceans of Nal Hutta. His villa sat atop a steep cliffside overlooking a bay, which allowed him to bask in the constant mists that bombarded the planet. The breeze today was lovely as well, but none of this was putting a dent in his creeping anxiety.

He turned right and glared at the portable holoscreen atop the cart his assistant has brought out. It was humming silently, showing nothing at all anymore. Rotta felt as if he should have been deeply furious after the transmission, yet somehow, he felt relief. Calm.

But, why wouldn't he be angry? These people…these Rebels, had killed his father. Six months ago, above the Tatooine hellscape. It should be his duty to put every ship in the Hutta Defense Force in orbit near the Republic's transmitted exit-vector, and burn their fleet to cinders the moment they come out of hyperspace.

The truth was, they had made his life easier that day on Tatooine. What they had done for him was free him from the need to maintain his role in life as a high-ranking official within the Hutt system. His Highest Excellency of Nar Shaddaa, His Most Distinguished of Nal Hutta. A wordy title that allowed him a luxurious existence.

"Mika, have they jumped?" Rotta asked, not bothering to turn his enormous slug-like body around.

"Yes, your Excellence, our relays have confirmed it," the Twi'lek woman behind him replied. "We will have to wait until they drop out of hyperspace before we send them any sort of response."

"I expected as such, you needn't about it," he replied in a mock dejectedness, "I do suppose we will be seeing them soon enough." The Hutt turned finally from where he had been for hours and began sliding back indoors under his own power. He was far from old enough to require a hover-sled like his elders. As he passed through the door frame, the Twi'lek disconnected a drive from the rooms console.

"For your records, your excellency," she said, holding it out in her hand.

He grabbed it and scoffed, "I told you when you started here to stop calling me that."

"I am sorry, your-…Rotta," she stuttered in response.

"I also told you to stop apologizing," he said, more warmly this time, so as not to imply he was upset.

She nodded, staring at him, unsure what to say or do.

"You may go for the night, I have my own matters to attend to tonight that are not of your concern," he said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Thank you Rotta, I shall return at dawn tomorrow. Have a good evening," she spun about and made for the doorway. As she walked off, Rotta couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty.

Jabba's reputation was that of an extraordinarily perverse, increasingly violent nature. Some feared his son would also start dropping unruly workers into rancor pits, or into the Pit of Carcoon, his father's favorite toy. In reality, Rotta had not only come to rule with a softer hand, he secretly didn't want to rule at all. This created a rather convenient backdrop to the message from the Republic.

He slid over to his large, U-shaped desk and inserted a new drive. It was prudent to get started on a response before the other clans went into a frenzy. Some were bound to feel threatened, and he needed a head start on quelching these fears.

Twiddling his stubby fingers on his desk, he reached over and flipped the switch on the comm.

"Orbit Control, put the fleets in geosynchronous orbits, but keep shields and weapons offline. I want us to look powerful on their scanners, but not threatening. I also want it known that I am not letting them take anyone's paycheck away when all this is said and done…is that clear?"

"Yes sir, is that all?" the voice at the other end responded. He had developed a good repertoire with the smugglers that called themselves the Shaddaa Defense Force, formed a decade ago after the empire made an attempt to completely raze the moon. He suspected he was the first Hutt they had known who wouldn't throw someone out an airlock at a moment's notice.

"No, I also want you to ignore any other orders from the lower clan heads. Acknowledge their orders, but do not enact them. I don't need the system plunging into a panic, I need vigilance from everyone," Rotta replied. "In thirty minutes, send the clan heads the message I am forwarding to you now. Signing off."

He inserted the flimsy drive and hit send. The content contained instruction to the heads. They were to convene at his villa two hours before the Republics arrival. That would give them almost no time to counteract the orders he had just sent to Control. A battle of egos spreading into a battle of starships was not Rotta's goal.

He backed off from the station and closed the lid, slithering back outside to his balcony, the early inklings of his response to this Crix Madine forming in his mind. The mist had subsided, and Nar Shaddaa was beginning to peek through the clouds. He looked up and marveled at the Smuggler Moon. It was cleaner from a distance. He would never let the Republic clean the world to their liking, but an alliance, and some semblance of hope among his people; this seemed favorable.

. . .

Anzam awoke unable to breathe. He frantically reached towards his neck and found a smooth, elongated something draped across his throat. He came close to shouting and throwing it to the side before realizing it was attached to the woman lying beside him.

He lifted Sor'el's montral off gently and draped it over her own shoulder, which caused her to stir and wake up.

The sun was cutting through the window blinds, leaving an intriguing, even pattern across her body. He smiled at her once he noticed her eyes coming to focus, then turned to look out the window while throwing the covers off. A repulsortrain hummed by, rattling his window-frame, as it did every few moments.

"What tiiiime is it," Sor'el said through a yawn, "I assume we haven't joined the new order overnight?" She fell towards him and draped her arm over his pillow.

Anzam looked at the clock and chuckled, "Not even close. Few more hours until they arrive. Bet the Hutt's are all riled up by now."

"Oh, screw them" she whined out. Sor'el rolled over to her left and swung her legs out, then got up and made for the bathroom.

Anzam leaned forward and picked up his pad. The screen was still active, and he started to read the message he was preparing to send to this General Madine. He managed to scrawl out most of it at the bar with Sor'el in their drunken stupors. Not bad under the circumstances, he thought to himself.

He heard his shower come on, and stood to make some coffee, the pad still in his outstretched hand while he read.

General Crix Madine, it would be a tremendous honor to be considered for a role in the New Republic. It has been my greatest dream since I was a young boy in the Orbit of Duros to join the…

It was his first time reading it sober, but he felt confident in his content, and in his character. Maybe one more proofread from Sor'el, a couple more embellishments here and there, and he would send it off into the void with thousands of others.

. . .

After Sor'el and Anzam finished getting ready, they sent the message and left in search of breakfast. There were still a couple hours to kill, so they made their way to a diner down the street. They got a cozy booth by the door and ordered a couple porg-egg omlettes, along with their third round of coffee.

She had already begun to stuff her mouth when Sor'el asked "So…you never really told me what you wanted to…you know…do. In the Republic, that is." She chewed and swallowed, taking a large gulp of juice followed by a larger gulp of coffee. Her head remained tilted up enough to maintain eye contact with him.

Anzam looked down, poking the egg around his place, feigning disinterest.

"I guess I never really thought I'd have the opportunity thrown at me, to make it my job rather than this potentially affiliation losing me a job," he said. "You know I've always wanted to fly. I'd kill to get behind something faster than a garbage lift."

You may be in luck, those are probably their terms to fly, you know" she joked.

He smiled and took another bite, but realized she was entirely correct, and it wasn't really something he grappled with directly before. The Emperor was defeated, but the war was very far from over. There was indeed an expectation to kill if he joined their forces, and a possibility that he himself would be killed. The latter he could deal with, but the former, that somehow slipped his mind until now.

Anzam raised his hand in the air and managed to get the waitresses attention, then eventually replied, "I guess that's a bridge I'll cross when I reach it."

. . .

The Second Fleet dropped out of hyperspace at the furthest reaches of Nal Hutta's orbit.

"Status report," Crix Madine requested aloud. He could see the planet in the distance, looking like a swirling mess of greenish mud. Closer, and smaller, was the much brighter Smugglers Moon, Nar Shaddaa, the entire surface covered in one massive city. He thought it resembled Coruscant, somewhere he hoped he could return some day, but as a liberator. The last time he stepped foot there, he still wore his Imperial pips on his collar.

They intended to park their orbit on the near side of the moon in relation to the fleet. As the fleet made its adjustments, he realized he could just barely make out the light glistening off vessels in evenly spaced orbits, their orbits roughly halfway between their own fleet and the Nal Hutta.

A three-eyed Gran officer replied to his initial inquiry after checking a console, "All our ships are still in formation. The Cala Pearl is reporting a minor aft shield malfunction, but, they say they're going to have it resolved in a few minutes. "

He continued, "We are also picking up four fleets in equal orbits. Their weapons are cold, as are their shields."

Crix nodded, "Good to hear, Lieutenant Dandu. Let's be sure to match their status."

The bridge officer nodded and spun his chair back to his console. He turned two round, bulbous dials to the left. With a whir, the energy in motion was audible as it reallocated back towards other systems, such as life support and engines.

A human comm officer on the bridge chimed up suddenly, pulling his headset off and hooking it on its stand, "The Corvette serving as our relay just got the flood of messages we were expecting. We have isolated one from a Rotta the Hutt, shall I have it sent to your station, sir?"

"Hold off for a moment…lets see who we are dealing with here" Madine replied.

He turned to his station and tapped through to run a query via the New Republic database.

R-O-T-T-A. Enter.

Full name: Rotta Desilijic Tiur

Occupation/Role: His Highest Excellency of Nar Shaddaa, His Most Distinguished of Nal Hutta, Head of Desilijic kajidic

"Not a bad first contact," Madine thought to himself. He glanced back down at the console and continued reading. The next line made his stomach flip over, his nearly falling out of his head.

Parentage: Jabba Desilijic Tiur

Jabba.

Jabba the Hutt.

Who some of the Republics most prominent members killed six months ago.

Crix Madine sat down with a thump and leaned back into the command chair. How did we miss this, he thought to himself. All our planning, all our intel, nothing could explain this oversight.

"It's his damn son!" he shouted out. The officers on deck turned around staring at him nervously.

"Contact Councilor Fey'lya and get him here now, and send that transmission from Rotta to my quarters. The fleet holds position here, high alert, but keep defenses offline for now," he turned about and strode fiercely off the command deck.

. . .

"Do you think this is a trick?" Fey'lya asked plainly, completely missing the quietly fuming general seated across from him.

"No, because we should have known going in, this is on us. Why didn't your spynet pick this up? This should have been completely obvious," Madine's arms gesturing widely in utter frustration.

"Really, General, you can't put this all on us. You could have looked at their roster of leaders at any point yourself, after all."

Madine wanted to send the hairy bastard through the window, but he realized Fey'lya was unfortunately correct. He never bothered to check. He figured one way or another, he would be talking to any number of highly suspicious, moderately angry Hutts. None of his plans factored in this, somehow. This variable was an absolute wildcard.

Fey'lya was tapping his fingers on the desk anxiously, staring off into empty space. After a moments silence, he finally asked, "So, what does it say?"

Crix leaned back, his eyebrows up and mouth frowned in a display of amusement while nodding his head, "That's the thing, really. Its pleasant, overtly so. It makes no mention of Jabba, merely an invitation to what I assume is his villa on Nal Hutta, and a strong bend towards cooperation." He slid the pad across the table to the Bothan and watched his eyes scan the screen.

Eventually, Fey'lya put it back down and said "I say we do it, but cautiously. On our own terms. I expect he will understand our hesitation." He rubbed his hands and pushed himself back from the table excitedly. "I will coordinate the time and location, and pass that along once we have it."

Madine nodded, "I am going to take a preliminary look at the citizen requests. I understand several potential pilots have had their information sent to Bothan Intelligence already, that's where my focus is right now."

Fey'lya clapped his hands together, "And that is where it should be. I will worry about the politics. We should expect to be planet-side within the next day if not the next few hours, we will speak soon, General." He rose to stride out of the room, but Madine remained seated, his eyes glancing back to the pad.

Nearly all squadrons were at a third of their strength, something they tried to keep privately under wraps through the recruitment. Green Squadron was most heavily hit right now…especially after the Battle of Taloraan two months prior. They had been able to recoup A-Wings, a newer model in fact, which had a spot for an Astromech droid with enhanced shielding. However, there was almost no one to fill the cockpits.

Weeks later came the rescue of those commandos on Fest. That had been an utter debacle, high risk and almost no reward. In both cases, Crix remembered the dejected faces of Skywalker and Wedge themselves, walking back from the flight deck with a mere couple of pilots in tow. Each mission had taken a fully staffed Red Squadron. No matter where you were in the galaxy, if you were with the Republic, you knew loss.

The first few names had begun to clear and were being sent directly to him by Bothan Intel. Casually, he began to browse them…

Viojo Flinrou…

Deveroc Ealac

Anzam Doulek…

Finally, pilots. May the force have mercy on their souls.