5/13/23: Edited and chapter order swapped

Chapter 14
To Corrupt Good Character

Hex squared his shoulders and resisted the temptation to stretch. He and Dash had spent the day conducting the first stage of the audit, chaperoned by a security droid charged with reporting their every move. Now, his eyes gritty from the parched air and his back sore from hours on his feet, he would infinitely prefer a quiet evening in their room. He regretted that meeting with Jabba was more important. At least the party was not yet in session, though guards were stationed around the throne room and a couple of guests were already imbibing from the hookahs.

"Good news, Jabba. We've just about finished the audit on your landing bay. The bad news is we haven't even started on the barge or your ships. Everything else will have to wait."

"The majestic Jabba says that the ships are immaterial." Hex struggled to keep a straight face at the prim droid's ridiculously formal diction as it translated for the crime lord. "Only the barge is important. His Grandness wishes to inquire how many droidekas you ordered."

"Five. You may eventually want a couple more, but five should do the job tomorrow. Anyway that's what we had in the warehouse, so…" He shrugged, then scratched his cheek, feigning discomfort. "I'm a little surprised by how—old your security measures are. I'd think a being in your position would invest in regular upgrades to your security equipment. Your newest tech is fifty years old!" Over the years he had perfected a moderately outraged attitude that conveyed irritation at other people's poor decisions without giving offense to his audience. In about eighty percent of the cases, his incredulous, slightly disguised accusations convinced clients to order new equipment, usually directly through GAR/IMP.

Jabba was, apparently, in the other twenty percent. "The illustrious Jabba will decide how frequently to update his security." When the droid fell silent, Jabba flung out an arm as though to backhand it. Fortunately, it was standing out of reach. The Hutt rumbled something. If the droid had been an organic, Hex thought it would have gulped before it said slowly, "Do not forget your place, Master Clone."

"Sure, sure. No offense intended. It's just a mystery why you haven't been robbed blind yet."

Jabba laughed. This time the droid translated with more assurance. "It takes a bold thief to break into the fortress of Jabba the Hutt. Many have tried. Few have escaped."

"Yeah? That's not the rumor going through Mos Eisley right now. Didn't someone make off with two vats of water in the last few weeks? And I heard your favorite slave da—"

"The revered Jabba concedes that you are well informed, Master Clone, but rumors are often exaggerated. He advises that you not listen to them."

Hex inclined his head. "True. Well, that's not really any of our business. To get back to what is—we took a quick look at the most important parts of this fortress, just to give you an estimate. It's a bigger job than we anticipated. Probably two, three weeks. Your comm equipment is pretty secure in terms of encryption. The physical plant needs some upgrades, especially considering it's detached from your main building."

He blathered on about his observations gathered during their tour that morning, though he omitted the two most important points—that Dash had inserted a signal diverter amongst the comms equipment and applied skiffers to the vault and records room keypads. Just before he judged Jabba was becoming irritated at the long-winded report, he drew to a close. "We'll take a look at it while you're at the race day after tomorrow and give you a more detailed report when you get back."

"The munificent Jabba allows no work on Boonta Eve. He invites you instead to attend the race as his personal guests."

Hex shook his head. "We couldn't do that. It's a reward for your associates—think how jealous they'd be. If you're pleased with our work, invite us back next year. We'd be happy to accept."

"His Magnificence insists you must be his guests. It is a great honor."

Hex gestured helplessly. "We are grateful, but we can't take advantage of your hospitality. You hired us for a job. We've barely begun—You haven't got your money's worth."

Jabba laughed and spoke again. "The supreme Jabba approves of an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, but he also insists you honor the great Boonta's splendid victory. If you continue to resist, he will become suspicious. No one remains in the palace while he is away. It will be a working trip. You will monitor the droidekas. And if your work pleases him, the formidable Jabba will give you a holo of all of you in his box, just as they do in the Core. You may display it in your office to impress other clients."

Was Jabba's laugh derisive? It didn't matter. Hex laughed along and spread his hands wide. "All right, all right. You've convinced me. I just don't want you to think we don't take our job seriously."

As Jabba's guests began to fill the room, Dash stepped closer to the dais. "Don't mind Hex. He's a workaholic who doesn't care much for podracing. But I'm looking forward to seeing Pugwis race in person."

"His Eloquence says he's nothing compared to his grandfather. You should have seen him race."

"If only…" Dash's head shake was regretful. "I hear Sebulba was the best 'racer of his generation. Won the Boonta Cup five times in a row."

"That he did. He lost only once in eight years."

"Too bad podracing isn't what it used to be. Still—I've never seen a Mos Espa circuit race live—It'll be amazing to watch the Boonta Eve from your box!"

"At least one of you will appreciate it, then. Though it remains to be seen if Pugwis can avoid disqualification this year."

"Yeah," Dash sighed. "But I can hope…"

Boba approached the dais. "I'm off. Until next time, Jabba."

Jabba said something and waved towards Dash and Hex.

"They mean nothing to me—Though they may be up to mischief. But you already know that. I can't stay for the race. I have a contract with Joosa. When you have more work, you know how to contact me." Without further farewell to the Hutt or so much as a glance at the clones, Boba left.

Hex was tempted to look at Dash, but after that veiled accusation, he didn't dare risk confirming they had something to hide. Jabba called out jovially, and a group of four dancers ran into the middle of the room.

Mindful of Boba's hint the evening before and trying to counter any suspicions the slug might cherish, the two men meandered around the perimeter of the room until they reached the alcove with the food.

"I didn't know you're a fan of podracing," Hex commented idly.

"I'm not. It's called research."

"I see. Well—good research then."

They fell silent. Two hours crawled past.

At 2200 Hex judged they could legitimately excuse themselves. Rather than attempt to slip away as they had done the evening before, he sought out Fortuna, who summoned a guard to lead them to their quarters.

Once again, they refrained from discussing anything of import while they prepared for bed. A quarter hour after they had returned to their room, a buzzer sounded. Hex, halfway through pulling a shirt over his head, exchanged a puzzled glance with Dash, who rose to open the door.

Outside was a fat human in a loincloth, with a chain in his hand and a lascivious expression in his eyes. He leered at Dash, saying in heavily accented Standard, "You share tonight. Gift from mighty Jabba. Speaks Standard."

He held the chain out. Dash looked horrified. When he didn't take the chain, the man tugged on it and stepped to one side. On the other end of the chain was the scantily-dressed Pantoran girl who had danced before Jabba the previous day. Her eyes were lowered. The man shoved her roughly forward until she stumbled into Dash.

"She yours. But share. No others." He leered again and closed the door.

Dash staggered away from her. Hex rose from the bed and they stared at each other in dismay, then at the blue-skinned girl whose chain dangled to the floor. After a long, frozen moment, Dash walked jerkily to the bed. He held a blanket out to the girl, but she made no indication she had so much as seen it. Dash approached her hesitantly. "Would you like this?"

She glanced up at last, dark eyes huge in her thin, expressionless face. "If you wish," she said softly in moderately accented Standard. "What do you want me to do with it?"

"Do you want to cover yourself?"

She shrugged. "If you want. Sometimes people want strange things."

Dash frowned. "It's not about what I want. I just thought you might be chilly. And—er—maybe you would like to be less…exposed…in front of strangers."

Slowly she reached for the blanket. "I am a slave dancer in the court of Jabba the Hutt. I am exposed in front of strangers every day."

Dash bowed his head. "I know. But tonight, you don't have to be. If you don't want to."

She frowned, bewildered. "I have been ordered to do what you wish. What I want does not matter."

Hex and Dash regarded each other helplessly. Hex said, "Tonight it does. We don't want you. We're going to let you go back to your room." He turned toward the door, but she lunged, dropping the blanket and throwing herself against him.

"You don't—want me? I…" she bit her lip until it drew blood. "Please, my lords, give me another chance. You are human—you may not like nonhumans. But I will do whatever you want. Only please do not send me back."

"It's not that." Hex drew away from her, skin crawling. "We won't take advantage of you."

"I am a slave," she said simply.

"Yes. We know."

"You like free women?" She fell to the floor, arms wrapped around Hex's knees. "Not slaves? Not me? Sirs, please—don't send me back. Please."

Dash said, "But we can't—we won't do this to you."

The girl began to shake her head violently. "Please. I beg you. Don't send me back. Even if you don't want me." A torrent of incomprehensible Huttese flooded out.

Dash reached toward her shoulder, but jerked his hand back before touching her. "I—" he swallowed hard— "We don't understand."

"I'll be killed. Please—even if you don't like me—even if I'm ugly—don't send me back." Her whole body was trembling now and she continued shaking her head.

"Killed!" Hex said. "No, no, no. We don't want you killed. We just—" He grabbed her hand. "Look—stand up. Sit over here." Dash handed him the blanket and he gently wrapped it around her, careful not to touch her skin. Once she was covered, he pressed her shoulder until she sank onto the edge of the bed. He crouched on his haunches in order not to loom over her. "We don't understand what you mean. Could you explain?"

She gnawed at her lip and grasped the blanket so tightly the skin around her knuckles went gray. "The dancers are for Jabba's pleasure and to reward his guests," she said softly, staring at her lap. "They are valuable only so long as they please him. If a dancer fights him or refuses an order…" she shrugged. "Dancers are cheap. I am a little more valuable because I speak Standard. I am useful when Jabba wishes to make a deal with a client who does not speak Huttese. But if I do not please the clients, then I am useless. A waste of water and food. So I will be killed."

Hex stared at her stony expression, the horror he felt all the worse for the matter of fact manner in which she had spoken. He and the rest of the clones had been created to be useful. They had been expendable both to those who created them and to those who used them. But when they had served their purpose, they had been allowed to retire. Even granted pensions and benefits and medical care for the health problems they developed as a side effect of their accelerated aging. If they had never been treated as equals, neither had they been killed once their usefulness ended.

He rubbed his left bicep where the phrase Better Than a Droid defied the justification the Kaminoans had used to sell them to the Republic. Many clones had allowed themselves to be limited by that phrase. Had thought of themselves as nothing more than flesh and blood droids.

Hex, though—he had always thought that allowed the longnecks and the politicians to win. He had rebelliously tattooed the legend on his body and set out to use his training and experience to build a life and a valuable legacy for himself. Reconditioning and selling Seppie droids felt like the most poetic justice he could devise. In spite of everything—Republic, Empire, Jedi, Sith—they had survived, where the Seppie armies had not. He could now buy and sell the very thing he had been made to fight against—and make a fortune along the way—even as he created jobs and a sense of community and purpose for other clones. The fortune he was amassing would provide security for his brothers in a galaxy that had never cared for them. Had made them and used them and spit them out. He refused to be defined by what had been done to him.

This poor girl, though—she had never had a chance at that sort of dignity. She didn't even seem to dream it was a possibility. Hex narrowed his eyes. He hadn't known when he agreed to this job that Jabba did things like this. Did Kraytrider know? Because all at once, it wasn't enough to kill the villainous slug and destroy his records. This girl, and the others like her who must be here, deserved to discover life beyond slavery. Whatever had been done to him and his brothers, at least they hadn't been slaves. Though they had never been citizens, they had been sapient beings, treated with dignity and purpose by their commanders. Even Lord Vader, tough as he had been on his subordinates, had always treated the clones the same way he treated the natborn vols.

Hex said in Mando'a, "We need to talk. But—" He pointed his chin toward the speaker in the wall. "You have anything for that?"

Dash rummaged in his case for a small device. A flick of a switch and intermittent static issued from the machine, which he clipped to a wire that dangled near the speaker. He knelt beside Hex.

"Kraytrider needs to know about this," Hex said as quietly and indistinctly as he could, still in Mando'a. "I vaguely recall that he mentioned not destroying the slave quarters…"

"I know," Dash whispered. "I had no idea it was like this. We've gotta get them out."

"Yeah. It's probably better to handle that after…" Hex jerked his head significantly. Best not to articulate anything, even in Mando'a.

Dash nodded his comprehension. "I'm happy to stick around to help with that if he wants."

"Me too. For now—what do we do about her?"

The two men looked up at the girl. She was staring ahead without expression.

"We've got tonight's project—" even in Mando'a Dash wouldn't risk naming it— "but we can't send her back."

Hex gnawed on his mustache. It was a risk, yet they couldn't condemn her to death merely to protect their mission. "We keep her here. We'll just have to get in and out silently." Switching back to Standard, he said to the girl, "What's your name?"

"Yenzon, my lord."

"I'm not a lord." He shook his head. "My name is Hex. This is Dash."

She blinked but said nothing.

"We won't hurt you," Dash repeated. "We're gonna help you. Um—you'll be killed if we send you back? I assume that means if we send you back tonight?"

She nodded slightly.

"Then we won't do that. Ahh…we aren't really sure how this works. Do you go back—um—wherever you live—tomorrow?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Pligu will come in the morning to take me back."

"All right." Hex heaved a sigh. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"I can't take your food and water."

"Right. That means yes." Dash dug through their supplies for a bulb of water and a ration bar. "Sorry it's not something tastier."

She took the items hesitantly. Dash gestured for her to go ahead. At last she tore the wrapper off slowly and took a small bite. There was silence while she ate.

When she had finished, Dash tucked the wrapper back in his pack and smiled at her. "You can sleep there. We're going to help you. I promise."

It was clear she didn't believe them, but Hex merely pulled a poncho out of his gear to serve as a blanket. The two men flipped a credit for who would sleep on the floor and turned out the lights.