A/N (5/13/23): Due to changes in the story structure, I am rearranging chapters 10 through 20. No plot points have changed, although I have adjusted the beginnings and endings of the chapters for comprehensibility and flow. A few events have moved chapters, but I have made no other changes.
Chapter 10
Of a Good Beginning…
Dash, simply dressed in a spacer's shirt and trousers with a full utility belt at his waist and plain black leather gloves on his hands, pulled his shoulders back and nodded in response to Hex's questioning glance. The other man pressed the bell beside the imposing main gate to Jabba's fortress. He cut an arresting figure in a black civilian bodysuit with pauldrons, vambraces, and gauntlets from his GAR armor, blasters holstered at his hips. He kept his salt and pepper hair military regulation length and looked like exactly what he was—a retired veteran accustomed to walking through any situation with competence and aplomb.
Zero hour. Time to see if Kraytrider's rumor campaign had softened up the target adequately.
An eyeball droid popped out of an aperture and chattered in Huttese.
"I'm here to see Jabba," Hex said loudly in Standard. "I can help with his little security problem."
The eyeball droid withdrew and there was a nerve-wracking pause. The rumors had been swirling for weeks that something big would go down on Boonta Eve. Something to do with Jabba. Exactly what the threat was remained unclear. Maybe a slave uprising. Maybe a kidnapping attempt on Jabba's son. Maybe an assassination by a rival crime lord.
Kraytrider had a source inside Jabba's organization that had reported he was increasingly paranoid, sending his son off-world, restricting the purchase of new slaves, and tightening security at the entrances to his fortress. Dash and Chatter had even overheard a pair of Dresselians discussing a rumor that no slaves would serve aboard his sail barge on the voyage to Mos Espa for the Boonta Eve podrace. Reportedly, Jabba was in a rage at the necessity of relying on droids for service during the annual bacchanalia.
To add to the Hutt's fury, two vats of water—a resource guarded even more closely than credits at Jabba's palace—had been stolen last week from his storehouse. A notable feat for whoever had pulled it off. Kraytrider and his gang probably knew something about the theft, but it was none of Dash's business. The most recent incursion two days ago must have added insult to injury. According to Kraytrider's source, Jabba had been apoplectic when his major domo reported that his favorite slave dancer had escaped.
The gate began to rise with a clang. A pink-skinned Twi'lek stood in the shadows within. Bowing, he beckoned to them to follow him. As they traversed the massive, dim hallway lined with Gamorrean guards, Dash couldn't shake the impression that they were a pair of idiotic insects willingly entering the web of some bloated, rapacious arachnid. He pushed the uneasy thought to the back of his mind.
They followed the Twi'lek into a large room that stank of clouds of spice, stale perspiration from a dozen species, and some other repellent damp musk. Dash nearly gagged. The din of the band was almost drowned out by the raucous crowd. Alcoves on the far side of the room housed various refreshments, including openly displayed spice hookahs. Guards stood watch at the various doors, but Jabba was evidently a tolerant host as everyone was carrying a weapon or three. With an effort, Dash restrained himself from brushing his own blaster in its holster. Better not to give any appearance of being a threat right now.
The Twi'lek said something in Huttese to the bulbous, slug-like figure on the dais to the right of the stairs. Jabba laughed and replied. Dash, whose attention had been caught by the dancers in appallingly scanty attire gyrating in the middle of the room, wrenched his eyes back to Jabba. He had to fight to keep his expression from displaying his fury and horror.
"The great Jabba will hear you now," the Twi'lek said in heavily accented Standard.
Hex stepped forward boldly. "I hear you have some security concerns, Jabba, and I have a solution for you."
Jabba rumbled something and a battered silver protocol droid shuffled up to translate. "The mighty Jabba has no security concerns he cannot handle himself. He hardly needs a pair of mere clones to advise him."
Hex nodded. "Maybe so. But if you'll allow me to explain what my company offers, I think you'll agree that we can plug the holes in your security arrangements more efficiently and thoroughly than you can yourself. This palace is old. You've been here a long time. You're comfortable. The dangers are familiar. But no one can be vigilant all the time. Maybe your staff has gotten a little complacent. The galaxy has changed. New threats have emerged. Everyone needs to reevaluate their security situation every now and then, whether they have a small family dwelling or a sprawling palace."
He gestured to Dash. "We are GAR/IMP Security. You recognized us for what we are—clones who served both the Republic and the Empire. We can bring all that expertise to identify your security risks and design solutions to address them. We've got hundreds of satisfied clients from the past twelve years, and you won't find a more qualified consultant group to conduct an audit for you." Hex winked. "And it's all perfectly legal. While we understand that isn't your top concern, who wants to risk attracting Imperial attention unnecessarily? All of our solutions are guaranteed to comply with Imperial laws and regulations while also conforming to the highest industry standards."
Kraytrider had initially intended for the clones to infiltrate the palace by stealth but had adjusted his plans without complaint when Hex and Scratch proposed using a security audit as a cover. The plan they had come up with was audacious but might succeed exactly because it was so outrageous.
Jabba's laugh boomed out. The sand-scoured translator said in its absurdly prissy voice, "His Excellency says you are bold, Master Clone. And saucy. He invites you to convince him he should hire you for this security audit."
"I shouldn't need to convince you. Mos Eisley and Mos Espa ring with reports that you've suffered a number of thefts recently—with no trace of the thieves." He shrugged. "Rumors are rumors, but scuttlebutt has it that something big is coming down Boonta Eve. You want to be prepared no matter what it is. If it's an attack on the palace, we can plug your security holes and provide patrol droids. If it's a kidnapping, we can keep the kidnappers out. If it's an assassination, we've got droidekas to serve as bodyguards."
"You have told the invincible Hutt that your solutions are legal," the droid translated. "Droidekas have been illegal for over fifteen years."
"Wrong." Hex's voice rang with triumph. "Droideka programming is illegal. But the chassis is just a chassis. We've created software that leverages the unique features of droidekas—the weaponry, the shields, the mobility—and joined it to the extra failsafes provided by a central control brain. They're modified so their primary mode of locomotion is walking rather than rolling to turn them into top-of-the-line bodyguards. They can run patrols, stand sentry, guard prisoners. We even have a hybrid model that can do double duty in service and security when space is limited. Naturally our droids lack the bits of programming that made them particularly deadly to Jedi during the war—the Empire outlawed countermeasures for lightsabers once the Jedi were exterminated—but that's hardly a concern for you, is it?"
Jabba tried to interrupt, but Hex began to stride back and forth, sales pitch in full swing. "If our droideka models are too expensive, we also sell squads of B-1 and B-2 battle droids which we customize to suit each client's particular requirements. Even a palace as large as this won't need more than a hundred droids at most.
"I guarantee that when we're finished, your fortress will be impregnable and unassailable by anything less than the Imperial navy. The only safer location in the galaxy will be the Emperor's palace."
He held out a datapad to the Twi'lek. "Our credentials. Including GAR/IMP Security's legal documents, properly witnessed and filed according to Lantillian law. Also, testimonials from satisfied clients, some of whose names you may recognize. We've provided personal security audits for nobles, celebrities, even a few moffs, as well as for corporations throughout the Mid-Rim and Inner Rim."
Jabba laughed. "The powerful Jabba says you really are brazen, Master Clone. You are just his kind of inventive rascal. It is true that the palace has had some trouble with thieves lately. While his Splendor is entirely capable of tightening his own security, you have made a reasonable case that outsiders might do a better job. Jabba wishes to inform you that you are hired. But—" Jabba lifted an absurdly small arm as they droid spoke "—if you should fail to deliver satisfactory service or if you should take advantage of the access you will have—you will be dealt with permanently."
Hex smiled and nodded. "We understand. We've never had a breach in confidentiality or ethics in the history of our company. We guarantee your satisfaction."
Upon Jabba's dismissal, the Twi'lek escorted them back to their speeder at the palace entrance, where he gave them directions to the landing bay. The portcullis dropped with an ominously final clang.
Dash slumped in the passenger seat. "Wayii! That was nerve-wracking. I gotta admit I didn't have much faith in your plan."
Hex chuffed something between a laugh and a groan. "Want to know something? I had my doubts too, in spite of Kraytrider's rumor campaign." He straightened and started the engine. "One thing I've learned in my business, though—confidence is half the game. The other half is scaring the clients. I'm not sure how scared Jabba is, but he's letting us in, which is the important thing."
"At least we won't have to make everything up as we go now." Dash tugged at the unaccustomed gloves. "So—your plan. Have you ever actually rigged a droideka's shields to blow?—or is it just theoretical?"
"Oh, I've done it. Only as a trial, though. I experimented some with droideka remnants during the war but didn't get to really test the idea until I started buying decommissioned droids after I retired. Clients don't want their droids to explode, of course—I've kept that information under my bucket—but I've always wanted to try it." He grinned. "Scratch hates the idea—thinks it's ridiculously showy and wasteful—but in this case it's exactly what we need. All I have to do is convince Jabba he needs a few modified droidekas on his barge."
"You think he'll really buy some?"
"I'll do whatever it takes—give a steep discount, a five year warranty, a money-back guarantee. Even offer a free trial. It's better than trying to smuggle in bombs."
"But you've got bombs in your cases."
Hex shrugged. "They're not a big deal. Most standard scanners can't pick them up through the lead lining. It's the big ones that are hard to smuggle."
They had reached the ledge of rock that functioned as a landing pad outside the palace's landing bay. A pair of guards inspected their vehicle and supplies. Dash held his breath as they examined Hex's case, but the scanners didn't so much as twitch. Gigantic doors slid slowly open and the bay's energy shield was deactivated as they were waved through.
The Khetanna lay ahead of them, suspended in the center of the bay. Hex drove as slowly as he dared so they could study the layout. The barge was currently inaccessible, suspended by heavy cables in the center of the bay. There must be a loading ramp that granted access, but neither man could spot it.
Per Kraytrider's original plan, Theec, who had apparently worked at the palace at some time in the past, had led Dash into the complex two weeks earlier to gather intelligence for planning this operation. It had been a strange collaboration through the language barrier, but Theec had proven a competent guide. Unfortunately, the landing bay had been too well-secured for them to risk accessing it. Studying their target now, Dash was grateful that Hex's modifications to the plan meant they would probably have authorized access to the barge. Although all systems had weaknesses, the combination of the physical security of the bay itself and the inaccessibility of the barge would make a covert effort challenging.
In the planning meetings, Dash had questioned whether destroying the barge was the best way to assassinate Jabba. After all, he and Hex could have chucked a thermal detonator at him an hour ago. Kraytrider had been adamant, however, that the objective was not only Jabba but also his lieutenants. Since the one time each year they all gathered in the same place was the voyage to the race, that presented the most logical opportunity to destroy them all with minimal collateral damage.
In the end, the clones had agreed to Kraytrider's demands. He was, after all, paying their commissions. The man himself puzzled Dash, who still hadn't figured out what united Kraytrider—a man with a commanding presence despite his severely scarred face and occasionally awkward movements—and the unassuming shopkeeper Kitster Banai. Banai and his wife had an air of assurance—most of the time—but nothing like the effortless, unspoken authority that rested on Kraytrider's shoulders.
Dash was Intel. The longnecks had selected him for undercover work in part because of his natural observational skills. His life and those of his squad had not infrequently rested on his awareness of subtle incongruities. Something about Kraytrider didn't fit. Dash couldn't judge the quality of his Huttese, but his Standard was oddly formal and stilted for a junkshop owner. His Outer Rim twang mixed strangely with the clipped cadence of the Core. His business appeared to be prosperous—but it was only a junk shop. Hardly the sort of establishment to generate the financial resources the man had at his fingertips. In addition to the sum he had promised each clone for their services, he had funded all the equipment they requested without objection.
The most obvious answer was that Kraytrider's funds were obtained outside the law, but somehow that explanation didn't seem to fit either. He gave no sign of conducting illegal activity, nor did he have the air of the smugglers and pirates Dash had encountered during the war.
In an absolute sense, Kraytrider's contradictions were none of Dash's business—thus far none of the irregularities in his employer's character indicated he was a danger to the clones. Yet Dash could not release his curiosity.
Hex pulled the speeder into an empty space, and with the experience of years of Intelligence work, Dash set aside his thoughts. Right now it was time to focus on the job. It was only three days until Boonta Eve and this operation would require all his concentration.
Hex shouldered his equipment cases and slammed the speeder's trunk. Trailing Dash by a step, he followed the guard that had been assigned to them. Time to create a pretext to prod Jabba into ordering some droids. He made no attempt to conceal his examination of the landing bay—he had all the warrant he needed to poke his nose into every nook and cranny. He spotted a console installed near the bay's interior exit. Perfect! He wanted to grin in satisfaction, but instead he turned to Dash. "Oh, this is a problem."
A flash of panic crossed the other man's clean-shaven face, though it was gone almost before it fully registered.
Hex pointed toward the console. "It's just out in the middle of the floor—no security whatsoever. Hey," he said peremptorily to the guard, "what kind of login procedure is there to access that console?"
The guard looked blank and said something in Huttese.
Hex waved dismissively, set his cases on the floor, and began poking at the screen. He pasted an absorbed expression on his face while ignoring the guard's broken protests.
"No. No—this for guards. Guards only."
Hex made a show of bending down to look under the console and walked around it, shaking his head in dismay. The guard followed him, nudging him with his spear's shaft. Hex ignored him for several seconds, then finally turned with an urgent expression. "I've gotta talk to Jabba about this. Right away."
The guard said something in Huttese and pointed toward the door.
"Jabba," Hex repeated. "You take me to Jabba."
The guard's response was incomprehensible, but Hex thought he might have said Jabba. He nodded and picked up his cases. Dash looked confused. Hex caught his eye and winked slowly. I have a plan, he signed with the old GAR signal. Dash blinked, then nodded infinitesimally.
The guard led them up through a labyrinth of passages. Some were natural, others had been cut through the cliff so long ago they almost looked natural. Studying them with an eye to demolition, Hex better understood Kraytrider's concern that an attack on Jabba at the complex would lead to a bloodbath. With all the intersecting corridors, the guerrilla warfare would be drawn out, vicious, and bloody.
They reached a corridor lined with doors in varying states of dilapidation. The guard pressed a panel on one in slightly better repair, and it jerked open with a mild groan. Inside, a pair of lumpy beds stood on opposite walls. Other than a battered chair and table, there was no furniture. The guard did not attempt to say anything, but it was clear this was their quarters. The clones set their equipment down, then Hex said to the guard, "Jabba. I need to see Jabba." He pointed back into the hallway and stepped beyond the guard. "Jabba?"
The guard merely shook his head, so Hex turned left. The guard protested. When Hex did not return to the room, the guard pursued him. "Jabba!" Hex said. The guard waved his spear in the other direction. It was astounding. What kept Jabba's goons in line when his guards were only armed with spears and axes? Hex followed him past their room, gesturing to Dash to join them.
The journey back to the throne room took almost ten minutes, and when they arrived, the party was even more raucous than it had been earlier. The guard signaled to the Twi'lek. Hex started insisting loudly, "I need to speak with Jabba. It's urgent."
After several minutes of unfruitful arguing back and forth, the Twi'lek led them toward Jabba's throne. Hex jumped in before the Hutt could say anything. "You've got a big problem in the landing bay. I didn't realize it would be so lax." He waved a hand. "Sure, it's pretty secure from your slaves. Probably. But those terminals are open to anyone. What were your tech people thinking? And the tech. How old is it? It looks positively ancient. Listen—I was planning to start with your comms—they're usually an overlooked weakness—but I'm gonna have to start with your landing bay. Boonta Eve's in what?—three days?" Hex shook his head mournfully. "Judging from the physical security I could see, you're gonna need a lotta work before you go to that race. If you insist on going. Really, your wisest option is to stay here."
Jabba rumbled something unhappy, but before the droid could translate, Hex interrupted, "I get it—it's your thing. But how important is it for you to be there really? Couldn't you—I dunno—send somebody to represent you? I mean—everybody on the planet's heard something's going down that day. Nobody'd blame you for keeping away."
Hex finally paused and Jabba seized the opportunity. This time Hex waited for the droid to translate. "The fearless Jabba says he is not a coward. He will go to the race and prove he is not afraid."
Hex shrugged. "All right; I can't stop you. But if you're gonna do it, you'd better let me deal with the ship and the landing bay security tomorrow." He added as an afterthought, "And I'd give some serious thought to our hybrid droidekas if I was in your shoes. I wouldn't take any chances with either slaves or guards. The more people you've got on that barge, the higher the chances a saboteur or assassin will slip past. We'll go get some rest, but think about it. Your butler here can tell us your answer in the morning."
Hex didn't wait to be dismissed; he turned toward the exit and their guide. Jabba's voice arrested him, though he again had to wait for the translation. When it came, it was as satisfactory as Hex could have hoped. "Great Jabba says you must see to the security arrangements tomorrow. Determine how many droidekas are needed to staff the barge and order them."
Hex half-bowed to conceal the smile that twitched the corner of his lips. "We'll take care of it first thing. The timing's tight, but I've got a warehouse on Herdessa. If I get that order sent in by noon tomorrow, the droids should be here in time. Good night."
Jabba rumbled something, waving his hands. "His Eminence says it's early. He tells his people, 'never miss a party.'"
Hex glanced around tolerantly. "It's not really our venue. We're here in a professional capacity. If you'll excuse us…"
"The genial Jabba insists. His generosity is galaxy-renowned. He wishes to provide you with any entertainment you wish—spice, food, slaves…"
Hex shook his head. "It's not necessary. We wouldn't want to—er—deprive someone else."
"His Eminence demands your indulgence of his abundant liberality. He wishes to seal your bargain through his bountiful hospitality."
Hex glanced surreptitiously to the side. Three Gamorreans blocked the staircase they had entered by. Their escort was standing directly behind them. Bowing to necessity, he nodded slightly in Jabba's direction. "Okay. Thanks. We'll, uh, take some food."
The Twi'lek, grinning, appeared at his elbow again. The man's pointed teeth were disconcerting and rendered his expression predatory rather than welcoming. Dash caught Hex's eye and tipped his head fractionally. Hex nodded in reply. The Twi'lek led them to an alcove and pointed to one of the tables. "For humans." He flashed his rapacious grin once again and left them to their own devices.
"Do you think it's safe?" Dash asked under cover of the noise.
Hex shrugged. Given the prevalence of spice and alcohol, it wasn't out of the question that the food could be spiked. Though he was hungry, he decided not to risk it. They leaned against the wall outside the alcove and watched the throng.
The crowd gyrated to an upbeat dance number as a Twi'lek, a Pantoran, and a Togruta performed before Jabba. The collars and chains left no doubt as to their status. Hex caught himself staring as the Togruta and the Twi'lek tossed the blue-skinned Pantoran in a series of acrobatic flips that were both astounding and suggestive. He tore his eyes away, but despite his best efforts, he repeatedly found them straying toward the dancers. The dance was provocative in all the worst ways, and Hex cursed his eyes for their seeming inability to refrain from looking.
He angled away from the center of the room, forcing his attention to a survey of the rest of the crowd. Out of the tail of his eye, he saw Dash jerk his head down to stare at his feet. Hex counted guards doggedly, tracking weapons as well. Jabba seemed to have a preference for old-fashioned weaponry. Not a single guard was carrying an energy weapon of any kind. With an effort, he made himself consider the room from a professional standpoint, logging exits, weak points, and potential threats, all the while striving not to catch even a glimpse of the simultaneously riveting and repellent display in the center of the room.
Time dragged. How long until Jabba would release them?
Hex's knees were beginning to complain when a voice, familiar even through a helmet's distortion, said, "It is unwise to refuse the Hutt's hospitality so openly."
They looked to their right to see a man in battered gray and green armor.
Hex had never met their template's "son," though he knew him by reputation, of course. The price Jango had demanded—and received—for providing the genetic template for an entire army had been an open—and envied—secret among the GAR. Not that anyone admitted to wishing for parents. The longnecks quashed all such talk among the verd'ika early. They were a product. A genetically manipulated commodity. Someone needed an army and an army had been created. Human longings had no bearing on the matter.
Every resource necessary to bring them to maturity had been provided. Food. Clothing. Training. It was well-established fact that human emotional development depended upon social integration, but batch groups could meet the need adequately. Parents were not essential, so parents had not been provided. Yet every clone had known that there was one of their number that had not been manipulated. That was being raised as a son.
Nonetheless, Hex felt an unexpected surge of kinship when Boba accosted them. If there were one being in the galaxy who could understand something of what the clones' lives were like, it was Boba.
"Thanks, vod," Dash said with asperity. "We'll keep it in mind."
"You're no vod of mine," sneered Boba. "He was my buir; he was just your donor."
In spite of himself, Hex flinched.
"Maybe so," said Dash, "but then, that leaves you dar'aliit."
"No need to be rude." This was why Hex was reluctant to work with people—even brothers—he didn't know. Scratch wouldn't have provoked Boba like that.
"I don't know what your game is, clones, but don't think the Hutt is fooled. Whatever your scheme, it will fail if you give him such obvious reason for suspicion. You've stuck your heads in the rancor's mouth, and you'll have to be careful if you don't want them bitten off. Your purposes would be better served if you accepted some piece of Jabba's hospitality graciously—and were seen to do so."
"I don't trust anything in this pit," Dash said. "And if we aren't vod'e, why bother to offer us advice?"
"Think of it as a memorial to my buir, since you carry his genes—a one-time gesture of good will. Make no mistake, a misstep here will fatal. Jabba isn't nearly as taken in as he appears. He hasn't survived so many centuries by being anything less than shrewd and ruthless. If he's going along with your little charade, it's to find out what you're up to and who else is in on it."
"I'll keep it in mind," said Dash. "You've done your riye for the day. Feel free to get on with whatever it is you do here."
"You would do better to watch your tongue and not insult those who offer you a good turn." Boba's voice was cold.
"Thanks, but I don't feel obliged to a gene-brother who denies family ties."
Hex elbowed Dash sharply. "I think it's best if we drop this subject. We'll take your suggestion under advisement."
Boba turned away, then paused. "You needn't fear the food, as long as you stick to the items intended for human consumption. Drugs are too easily available here for anyone to bother spiking the victuals." He stalked away to take up a station next to the main stairs.
Hex shrugged. "Do you think we can trust what he said?"
"Aliit ori'shya tal'din," Dash muttered. "And he's refused any family relationship. You ask me, he's dar'manda."
"But he did offer good will. Come on—let's eat something. It won't hurt our cause to look like we're agreeable guests." He led the way to the tables laid out in one of the central alcoves.
They lingered at the party for more than two hours before slipping out the side stairs. They had reached the corridor that ran beneath the throne room when the Twi'lek hurried up to them, speaking rapidly but mostly incomprehensibly.
Hex gambled on the substance of his query. "We're tired and we've got work tomorrow. We've been traveling all day and want to rest."
The Twi'lek nodded and summoned a guard, who led them through the warren back to their quarters. Hex was a little disappointed they had been prevented from exploring the palace on their own, but set it aside. They didn't speak until after the guard had left.
Dash said, "You're very demanding to Jabba."
Hex glanced at a speaker on the wall. He couldn't see any sign of bugs in the room, but it would be easy to disguise one in the intercom system. He shook his head and signaled, Not here. He made as much noise as he could opening his gear and double-checking his tools. Under cover of the clatter he said softly in Mando'a, "Bullies respect people who aren't cowed by them. Jabba's the biggest bully I've ever met. So—there you go." He switched to Standard and raised his voice. "Hmmm. I think I have what I'll need for the bay. I wasn't expecting to have to check the tech, too, though. I thought someone as rich as Jabba would have top-of-the-line tech. Your equipment all set?"
He gestured at Dash to answer in the affirmative and they staged a brief discussion about the next day's work before retiring. As he settled down for sleep, Hex was pleased to have met the day's objectives. His last thought was to wonder whether Jabba had really bought their charade.
Mando'a vocabulary:
verd'ika [vair-DEE-kah] – little warriors (literally the littlest clones)
riye [ree-YAY] – favor, good turn
vod [vohd] – brother, comrade, mate
buir [boo-EER] – father
dar'aliit [dar-ah-LEET] – no longer family
Aliit ori'shya tal'din [ah-LEET or-EESH-yah tahl-DEEN] – Family is more than blood (saying)
dar'manda [dar-MAHN-dah] – no longer Mandalorian