Kregg had hardly come to when Ak-Gar and his men dragged him into the hazy white light of the city. His eyes crawled their way open, wanting to snap back shut like rubber bands. His knees bumped against the ground as they carried him slipshod, just barely propping him up.
"I can walk, you bastards," he said with a voice still groggy and hoarse from sleep. He still felt the burn of the rum against the back of his throat. The bottle had knocked him out cold.
The two Nikto dropped him and exchanged chortles. Ak-Gar shot them a glare, furrowing all of his leather face into a single swirl of malice, and they stopped at once. Kregg got to his feet, made a show of dusting himself off, and then carried on with them.
They made their way through the streets of Nar Shaddaa, past the path to the Fat Minister's palace and further into the bowels of the Upper City. They passed a Rodian beating together two metal batons. A corpulent Neimoidian stood atop an overturned plasteel crate, clad in a purple toga. He lifted a wobbly arm and began to shout.
"Hear ye, hear ye all!" He modulated his voice with every word, forcing out each syllable in an exaggerated staccato. "The Exalted Fat Minister, Durgulla the Hutt, speak in the forum upon the hour to present the newest of his consorts. Come one, come all! Attendance is never compulsory, but always encouraged." He cleared his throat, the bulging wattle of his neck wobbling, as he eyed a screamsheet tablet. He ditched the staccato and his expression sullied. "Today's appearance is sponsored by the Trandoshan Fur Traders Guild: true furs for true hunters."
Kregg leaned over to Ak-Gar. "You heard the bastard," he said. "Attendance ain't compulsory. Let a man get some shuteye." He scowled and shook his head when the Weequay ignored him. A Nikto shoved him forward.
Colors danced around from every direction in a cascading rainbow of neon light as they entered the entertainment district. Giant holograms advertised mammoth projections of foodstuffs, dancers, and wares from starships to landspeeders. Flat, plasteel-framed digiscreens covered the facades of all the buildings, broadcasting what the holograms could not do justice. It seemed so long ago when Kregg had stared at each of them in awe. Now, they didn't move him. Pretty colors to ensnare the ones who don't know any better. What good is junk to the indebted man, anyhow?
Hawkers hounded Ak-Gar and his troupe at every step. The Weequay and his men kept stone-faced, even before the whores who whistled and hollered as the troupe passed their brothel. One caught Kregg's eye with a whistle. He kept pace with the henchmen, but looked back at her over his shoulder. Her hair was gold, eyes brown as bantha dung, with turgid lips black as night. Not even close.
His mind drifted back to that Jedi. Lysara... if that even is your name. Where have I seen you before?She was off to Malastare by now though. Off to die against Mandalore hisself. Kregg bit his lip. My hopes have been false before, but they were placed in lesser men than a Jedi.
Kregg had been adrift a second too long. One of the Nikto shoved him forward with the butt of their rifle. Kregg stumbled, almost losing his footing. He chided the guard and picked up his pace.
The colorful sea of the entertainment district lingered behind them in a prismatic blaze as they headed down the ramp towards the forum. Long ago, in an age before the Republic had even discovered the Outer Rim, this had been Nar Shaddaa's center. Shops, entertainment, booze, food, and governance had all been provided here in this sprawling square. Now, it was empty. The Hutts had abandoned it for palaces, great statements of their munificence. But the Fat Minister was fond of having his chuba and eating it too. While the other Hutts never left their palaces except by pleasure barge, with only their courts in tow, the Fat Minister made the effort to appear before his leal subjects in all his rotund glory.
Those loyal were the peasants, of course. They love him. They were a dirty sort, though not bad to look upon. Most were spacers and vagrants, fallen on a spell of bad luck due to circumstances well out of their control, with no way to claw back up. However, they were not the source of the stench that accosted Kregg's nose like a Gamorrean's rump. The smallfolk love him more. They had crawled in droves from the sewer pipes and derelict hulks they called their homes in the shanty undercity that lurked below, spattered with dirt and blood and other messes Kregg didn't want to examine any closer. These are the ones he loves back, Kregg thought as he crinkled his nose. The ones who have less than nothing are the ones who'll serve readily when he calls for 'em. They see his excess and think it's the only alternative to having nothing at all.
Ak-Gar stopped and slammed the shaft of his long poleaxe against the ground. People looked up from their conversations at the sound, but paid them no mind. His men halted, Kregg with them. "We join Hutt King when he comes." The Weequay turned to Kregg, his face contorted into one large wrinkle. "You stay. We bring you to reception after speech."
Kregg chuckled. "Oh, joyous day, a party."
As the guards left one by one, he wished he still had his blaster. I could probably sneak out through the crowd, but how much farther would I get? His ship had been impounded years ago, and more than likely turned to scrap. Besides, I cut a deal. If there was one thing Marcus Kregg prided himself upon, it was keeping his word. As well as a smuggler can, at least.
The great brass blaring of horns far off in the distance snapped him back. A whip cracked through the air, cutting a long sliver in the smoke hurtling up from the braziers that loomed at the edge of the horizon. Peasants shouted and hooted as they scrambled out of the way. Kregg rubbed at his eyes and looked towards the source. First, he saw one portly man, clad in only a loincloth lifting his arms as if he was carrying something. Kregg could not make out exactly what it was over the smoke sagging down in front of him.
"Make way, make way," a raucous voice bounced over the cracking of the whip, forming a twisted rhythm. "Make way for The Fat Minister!"
Kregg stumbled about and found a spot free of smoke. He stood upright as tall as he could. There. They were coming over the hill, scores of fat men and fat women of all manner of species, straining and grunting as they held their arms high to carry a massive slab of a palanquin overhead. Atop it, he loomed like a mountain of pure lard. The Fat Minister reclined as much as his body would allow, a hookah pipe nestled in the crook of his lipless mouth. He waved his arms about, taking in the splendor of the event and bidding welcome to his guests. With one hand, he reached down and began to toss slime-drenched foodstuffs out into the crowd. There was a commotion, and Kregg looked on with morbid curiosity as a group of smallfolk tore themselves apart over the morsels.
The Hutt was surrounded at all sides by his attendants. Kregg knew all of them well: Ooba Vyr, the Sullustan majordomo in his rich burgundy velvets and silks; the purple-clad Pantoran "concierge" Arvis Xiu, who earned his title from his slave trading in the Undercity; the ever-shirtless Besalisk only called "Bes", the chief of the guards; the Baragwin Ulag Shmardl, the stout, empty-headed armorer in only name; and the lone woman among them, Shana, a teal-skinned Nautolan with her headtails bound together in an immense ponytail, her form rippling with muscle. She was the only one of his court to not yet have given herself to vice and indulgence.
Serving droids flitted between them with platters of delicacies and great flagons of heavy wine. The Fat Minister's favored concubines sat beside their master, pushing up against him. Some of them Kregg had met before they had been captured by Arvis Xiu. Though the one I hoped to see ain't here with them. Seems even in bondage, she still scares him half-to-death. Others were unfamiliar, and the most striking among them was a Lethan Twi'lek standing tall and proud before her master. Kregg watched her make a show for the crowd, dancing as if she were still in the employ of some bathhouse here in the city proper. She was new, Kregg could tell from her petite frame. This one's odd.
His eyes darted around the gibbering mass of people. Then, all went silent as a great horn moaned deep and low. The throng fled away from the center, leaving a large circle for the palanquin to enter. The slaves marched forward. Kregg could see them more clearly now, though he did not like what he saw. All of them were dripping with sweat. Some bore the weight of their master worse than others, their meaty arms wobbling like pudding. Others swooned from exhaustion; their bodies were dragged away by the guards marching lockstep at the palanquin's sides. That regiment of guards gave way to a marching band at the procession's rear. The music was rancid as the smallfolk. Surely a man can hope for easier listening at the afterparty.
When the lumbering march stopped, the Fat Minister looked up and dropped a whole gorg down his gullet. As the Twi'lek slave waltzed over and embraced him, he stuffed another down her throat. Kregg gagged. Ooba Vyr stepped forward to address the forum, as was custom.
"You stand in audience to our Exalted Lord, The Fat Minister of Nar Shaddaa." He was much fatter than Kregg recalled, his puffy jowls bouncing with every word. "You shall listen to his words and then-" he cut himself off with a boisterous laugh, slapping his gut - "we shall revel!"
Cheers erupted throughout the crowd. Kregg kept silent. I've long lost any appetite for revelry.He turned his eyes back to the slave, the lone fiery opal in a sea of grotesque stones. Now she clung to the Hutt's side as he rattled her chain. Durgulla's idea of romance was not one he could ever hope to understand.
"And now," Ooba Vyr continued, his long gilded chain rattling as he raised a meaty arm to bid them silence, "I present to you, the Fat Minister!"
The Hutt let out a slow, robust laugh as he was introduced. The whole of him roiled and wobbled as he was pushed forward on a rolling dais by two straining manservants, built like nerfs and battened just the same. Kregg could see the slaves underneath change their expressions in accord. Those in the back let out sighs of relief; those in front groaned and heaved to support the new weight that bounded on them from overhead.
The Fat Minister let his eyes trace over the crowd. "Loyal subjects," he said at last, "I will keep things brief." He took a puff from his hookah pipe, then spewed a geyser of purple smoke into the night air. "As many of you know, tonight we celebrate the sixth year of my glorious reign."
The crowd erupted in a bombastic shower of enthusiasm. Kregg joined a few others who jeered instead, easily drowned out. The Fat Minister raised a massive arm, and all fell silent again.
"And what would a celebration be without a gift?" He tugged on one of the chains that ran on the floor beneath him, gentle as his meaty fingers would allow, and the red-skinned Twi'lek danced back into view. The crowd cheered and she seemed to absorb all their mirth, rewarding them with a bow. The Fat Minister pulled her chain again, though not as gentle this time. She lost her footing, stumbling backwards into the Hutt's fleshy body. The arm he used to hold her in place covered her entire torso.
"Chosen from among you, smallfolk: my newest concubine, called Twyla." As his words boomed, he let her go. Twyla moved to the edge of the palanquin where she twirled and teased the crowd.
All that flexibility is running on borrowed time, Kregg thought. The others in the crowd did not share his reservations. They cheered, shouting their congratulations like mewling sycophants. To enter into The Fat Minister's ranks alone was the envy of all peasants, from the lowest of the low to the highest among them. To become his concubine was the highest honor, a lofty aspiration for even the lowliest of the smallfolk girls. Much as things change, they remain the same. It had been the same when the other Hutts still ruled here. To be claimed by one of the Hutts meant that they would no longer starve in squalor.
The horns blared once again, and The Fat Minister, in between drags from his pipe, adjourned the meeting in the forum. His twin manservants rolled him back to the center of the palanquin, and the slaves underneath groaned as they began to turn around.
Once they started moving over the hill, Ooba Vyr waddled to the edge of the palanquin. "For all in attendance, there will be a small reception to celebrate the sixth year of The Exalted One's reign." The cheers that followed threatened to rupture Kregg's eardrums. Several peasants chose to revel in the here and now, singing and dancing. Others trampled over one another in a chaotic stampede to follow the Hutt and his retinue.
Before Kregg had as much as a heartbeat to stop and think, Ak-Gar grabbed him by the arm. "Hutt King needs me in attendance to keep peace." They started walking toward the palanquin. "He says you need a good party. Good for your face." Ak-Gar smacked Kregg with a leathery hand.
Kregg grumbled and felt the sting across his cheek. When they made it to the palanquin's side, he bid the Weequay to release him. He obeyed reluctantly.
Kregg got a better look at the slaves that carried the Hutt overhead. They were clad in rags that had perhaps once been white, but had turned a crusty yellow from untold hours of toil and sweat. Each one panted low and heavy. They were a strong and sturdy stock, though whatever muscularity they had was buried far beneath several layers of fat. The largest among them were positioned in the corners of the palanquin to better support its weight. These are Evocii, Kregg realized. They had become so swollen and bloated that he did not even notice at first. He turned away to keep from retching.
The retinue kept a meandering pace, walking for what felt like hours until reaching a spartan landing pad. It was guarded by a lone sentry in a rundown guard shack, a metal bar hanging down from it to block passage. It swayed in the wind, as if ready to snap off at any moment. There was the sound of a cord being pulled, and the metal bar swung up into the shack as the Hutt's horde approached. A massive yacht landed in the center of the pad, swollen and squat like its owner. Its bow ended in a drooping spearhead nose that hooked down into the abyss below. The whole of the yacht was plated in garish gold, brass, and silver, each metal panel polished until it shone. The reflection of the approaching Hutt on his palanquin tarnished the view.
The loading bay doors hissed open, sliding apart like metal lips. The massive ramp that spewed forth like a Hutt's tongue. The plating here was mismatched, having been modified over the years to accommodate the size of the Fat Minister's hosts... and the growing size of the Hutt himself.
"Beautiful, isn't it, Kregg?" asked an icy voice from above.
He craned his head up to the palanquin. Arvis Xiu was looking down at him, hands on his hips, his lips curled up in some inscrutable smile.
"Aye." Kregg struggled not to roll his eyes. The ship appeared more and more gaudy to him as they drew closer. The plates of precious metal, shiny as they were, were also etched with symbols in Huttese. Colorful images plastered this side of the ship's hooked nose. Some were tasteful, like the pinups that ran like filigree across the bottom. Each was an idealized depiction of the Fat Minister's concubines. An orgy in vivid detail was painted across the bow, from the gap in the panels all the way to the edge of the drooping nose.
"Her name is Gourmand," Arvis said. His voice crackled like frost as it eked out from his puffy blue lips.
"Clever," Kregg said. He looked over to the Fat Minister, who snatching a fistful of bugs from a platter. "I'm sure he named it himself."
Arvis let out a chortle. "Why, smuggler, he has servants for that kind of nonsense." The smile left him as he turned to rejoin his master. "We'll speak later."
One-by-one, the troupe made their way into the Gourmand's belly. The palanquin was loaded first, though not without difficulty. Kregg cringed as he watched the legion of slaves struggle to maneuver up the ramp. Bes shouted something before he jumped from the palanquin, hurled, and started corralling the slaves up the ramp himself. He barked orders in his native tongue; though Kregg couldn't understand them, he could tell from the intonation that they were choice words.
As the last of the crowd entered the Gourmand, the ramp raised. Kregg felt the ship lurch for a moment. He saw a waitress droid stumble and slam a tray of wine glasses into a guest. Though red and sticky, he laughed it off and slung both arms around the droid in a drunken embrace. Then there was the sound of repulsor lifts firing, maneuvering rods unfurling. The ship shook again as the thrusters fired, and Kregg felt the all-too-familiar pang of unease as the barge careered through the night sky.
Ships are supposed to be home. This ain't a home.