Legacy IV
Chapter 5
The 'throne room' was, ironically, located in what had once been the B'Omarr monastery's central chapel, judging by the beautifully carved sanctuary screens partitioning the main nave from the adjoining aisles. Even more amusing – from a certain, and admittedly rather jaded point of view – was the fact that the "throne room" resembled nothing so much as a cheap Rugosan bordello, what with the scantily clad dancing girls writhing here and there, the heavy and choking miasma of hashaa weed clotting the already musky air, and the assorted scum and villainy lounging in the corners.
Obi-Wan's lip curled upon entering, but he swiftly composed himself into proper diplomatic neutrality. It would never do to offend his host, who was sprawling – or slouching, or… oozing- upon his throne, which was nothing more than a raised platform great enough to accommodate the Hutt's vast mountains of puckered and pimpled flesh.
The hashaa weed actually masked some of the Hutt's fetid stench, which was a small mercy. Coughing politely into a corner of his duster, the young Jedi followed his droid escort to the center of the floor, noting that the grill beneath his boots was likely a trap door opening to some subterranean monster pit.
The Hutts were predictable in their tastes, which ran to the ostentatious, the violent, and the crass.
"Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, here by the grace and mercy of the Inestimably Munificent Jabba," the protocol unit introduced the newcomer. In Basic. Meaning that the Hutt understood every word but merely kept the translator on as a show of prestige. Obi-Wan could almost hear Dooku's dismissive perjorative: nouveau riche.
The shapeless bulk upon its dais proved to have a vast and slippery slit-mouth, and two alarming gimlet eyes that opened out of its skull-less blob of a head. A blotchy purple tongue slid over the lipless curve and then retreated like a serpent tasting the air and finding it unsavory; a moment later the giant slug's booming voice rang out over the assembly, bringing all desultory conversation to a halt and riveting every attention upon the potential drama unfolding between trespasser and lord of the realm.
"Cheewanga, paka ch'upeemee Publikaner!" the Hutt roared, spreading two stunted arms wide in a dubiously sincere gesture of hospitality.
"You are most welcome, honored ambassador from the Core," the droid stuttered.
Its owner chuckled wetly, a disgusting gurgle sounding up from its gelatinous viscera. The Force shimmered with edged humor – confirming the young Knight's suspicion that paka ch'upeemee did in fact mean 'bantha's arsehole.'
Two could play at that game. He folded his arms and dipped his head modestly. "I am undeserving of such fulsome praise when compared to the thrice-worthy Jabba, who is surely the most renowned exemplar of all such qualities."
The poor droid struggled over that for a moment, but dutifully translated into halting Huttese.
Jabba was not stupid; and now he knew that his visitor was not stupid, either. His eyes slatted, and he heaved his body into a more comfortable position, terraced fat-folds squelching as he shifted. "Hmmmmmmm!" he grumbled. Then, "A'kkutta!"
The protocol unit rendered this into : "Please tell us, oh respected guest, what favor the Surpassingly Illustrious Jabba may bestow upon you as a mark of esteem."
Obi-Wan's mouth quirked at one corner. I'll bet that's what he said. Subliminally aware of the half-dozen blasters surreptitiously trained on his back, he allowed one hand to drop beneath the folds of his duster, fingers tracing the curve of his 'saber's hilt. "I am here to conduct private business on behalf of the Galactic Republic. A wanted man, guilty of many crimes, is presently at liberty within your precincts. I request diplomatic courtesy; your gracious non-interference will be most appreciated."
The corpulent Hutt snorted, flat nostrils flaring in vexation. "E mana kobo ruche," he snapped.
Servos creaking in agitation, the droid spoke up again. "And what is the name of this person?"
"He is a smuggler and pirate known by the title Uticus."
"A namma Uticee a wanga shoshanee mupasa," the translator nervously relayed to its owner.
Jabba chortled, quadruple chins waggling as his mirth spilled over into booming sound. "Ahhhhh," he remarked, waving one pudgy hand. "Nopasa go heemee, tibi ma bukisi yoro. Gah pama!"
Positively wringing its own hands in distress, the droid cleared its vocabulator and risked performing its primary function. "The Pre-eminently Admirable Jabba knows this person well, and considers him a valuable and devoted colleague."
"Flies love their dung-heap," Obi-Wan quipped, sotto voce.
The droid's expressionless silver face blanched, if that were possible. Compassionate to a fault, the young Jedi came to its rescue. "No, don't translate that," he hastily added, "Say instead that I hope the… Peerlessly Expansive Jabba will consent to arrange a meeting with his colleague. I am anxious to make his acquaintance."
The Peerlessly Expansive Jabba erupted into a prolonged retort without waiting for the translator. Flecks of spittle showered down in all directions, obliging the young Jedi to ward them off with a discreet use of the Force. Still, the Order's formidable reputation did weigh something even out here; when the droid tremblingly rendered the irate discourse into Basic, it came out as a polite invitation to spend the evening as Jabba's guest, with the purpose of meeting Uticus the following morning, at which time he had a scheduled business appointment with the Hutt overlord himself.
Obi-Wan had weathered a night in less civilized environs. Most of them detention cells and one of them a septic pit, but that was an inconsequential detail.
"I accept your generous offer," he told the slimy villain, bowing obsequiously low.
"Whoa-ho, Buki! I thought I told you to scram…go home, eh? I'm closing the shop myself tonight."
Watto was always grumpy on money-counting night, and worse than usual this last six-month. Anakin was risking his own skin by disobeying.. but this was important.
He pitched his voice low, the way he did when he wanted to make somebody listen, when he needed to make them see. "Mr. Watto sir, I really need to talk to you. About business."
The Toydarina fluttered nearer, curiosity and pique mingling in his bloodshot eyes. He'd been drinking a lot lately, too. You could smell the zoor on his breath. "Bees-ness, eh? What about it?" came the suspicious reply.
Anakin turned a slow circle in place as his owner executed a hovering circuit above him, like a scavenger bird waiting for a desert bantha to expire. "It's about that farmer guy- the one that wants to buy my Mom from you."
Watto's bulging eyes bugged out further. "Eh, how do you know about that? Never mind, freak…. Tell me what you know, eh?"
"Well…" Here was the tricky bit – figuring out what the other person wanted to hear, what would give him leverage. Most people he could read like a book – he just got this tingly feeling in his gut, and he knew what they wanted or were gonna do. But Watto was hard to read. He was sort of smoky, like a burned out motivator circuit relay. And Hutts were really hard, too – more like muddy, oily water . The most opaque person Anakin had ever met was that kinda strange guy that had stopped by a few months back, the one that was friends with Mr. Qui-Gon sir. What was his name? Okinobi or something. He was like … a mirror. You tried to get a feel for him and all of a sudden he was all polished and reflective and you bounced off him, like he did it on purpose. That was weird. But also sorta wizard.
Maybe his Jedi friends taught him how to do that. Maybe his Jedi friend could teach Anakin how to do that.
This arresting thought was driven from his head by a loud and impatient snort. "Well?" Watto shouted. "You got something to tell me or not?"
Sometimes it was hard to keep his mind from racing ahead. The rest of the world just moved so slow. "I do, I do! That farmer guy wanted to buy me, too, huh? He just wants me to work for him to fix stuff like I do for you. He doesn't even care about Mom, he just wants to buy her so maybe I'll try to run away to his farm or something and –"
"E'chuta!" the Toydarian exclaimed, snarling. He thrust a warning finger in his slave boy's face. "Don't try it, buki! I'm not a cruel being, but you shouldn't forget that slave implant -One false move and I can blow your brains out, eh?"
Anakin was far too wise to take this threat seriously; but he lived in secret and paralyzing dread that Watto would someday choose to punish his infractions by blowing SHmi's brains out in the exact manner described. The very thought sent a lightning bolt of ice down his spine, ignited a pool of liquid tibanna beneath his ribs.
The junk dealer mistook his distress for fear on his own account. "Never mind, buki," he assured his underling. "You're too valuable, eh? But don't get any ideas… I can still rip you a new one without blowing you away completely, heh heh heh."
Deliberately unclenching both fists, Anakin somehow unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "I think you should gat that farmer guy back for plotting to steal me."
Watto liked petty revenge, especially if its terms and conditions were amenable to his cowardice. The suggestion of thievery was, for him, tantamount to both evidence and conviction. Already Lars had been categorized as another swindler out to ruin the Toydarian. "You're right," he agreed, slamming one balled fist into the opposite hand. "Teach him a lesson, eh?"
"Yeah. If you ask him for more money for Mom and me, like you're really willing to sell both of us, then he'll have to find a way, right? And then if you kinda accidentally on purpose give him a bad tip on the Boonta Eve Race…."
Watto cackled in glee. "Then he bets all his moolasa on the wrong pod and he goes broke!" A rapturous flight about the shop's ceiling ensued. "That'll teach him to try pulling a fast one on old Watto, ha! We'll see who's bankrupt now, eh?"
The world was out to get Watto, and so Watto was out to get the world. Anakin grinned, feeling victory gathering on the horizon like the legendary rain-clouds of far away worlds. Everything would be okay. Lars would go away, and Shmi would be free, and Anakin would be a hero.
"But…. I don't know.. .he's sure to ask around town, you know? Who should I tell him to bet on?'
"Sebulba," Anakin confidently replied.
"But he's the favorite! I'm putting my money on Sebulba too, you know. He's going to win. He always does."
"No he's not. Not this year. He's gonna lose this time, and if you bet against him you could get all your money back, too, Mr. Watto sir."
"What are you talking about, freak-o? Sebulba always wins."
"Yeah," Anakin said, a fierce song rising inside his chest, a war cry like krayt dragon screaming in the desert waste, proclaiming its supremacy over rock and wind. "But that's 'cause he's never raced against me."
Watto goggled, fat nasal appendage dangling comically to one side.
And then Anakin took the junk-shop dealer – the sleazy, conniving, slave-owning, money-grubbing sleemo - into his confidence. Desperate times made for strange allies, after all.
Tatooine sunsets were slow and leisurely affairs, light bleeding in bright rivulets of crimson and scarlet across the pain-wracked sky. No swift extinction of day into night here – no, the cruel heavens of this planet lingered over their task, like a skilled tormentor drawing out his victim's pain into exquisite degrees.
The Hunter savored every moment of the long descent, nostrils flaring as he scented the invisible wind, the subtle currents pulsing beneath the mere hot overn-blast of the baked earth. High on a stone column frozen in twisted agony, he surveyed the desert dunes in all directions, waited for his emissaries to return. They came in due time, black specks on the horizon growing to the silhouettes of sleek probe units. They carried news of his quarry, of the feeble and futile struggles of his foes.
There was no escape, not from this grim and lifeless arena. He had but to wait, and choose his path carefully, as he had been trained.
And meanwhile, the suns melted into liquid fire, a rim of angry luminance sizzling between rock and sky at the border of night. Stars peeped out one at a time, aligned themselves in foreign constellations, took up places like spectators in a grim colosseum, eager for blood and victory.
Their chosen gladiator would not disappoint. He had the power of Darkness on his side.