The Ostrander building was a boxy, squat structure as wide as it was tall. Angular protrusions jutted out from the building at irregular intervals; a visual history of ad-hoc expansions and construction. Shafts of pale orange light shot up the building from below, bathing it in a ghostly luminescence that cast long shadows up the structure to meet the streaks of grime and decay that trailed down every face. Hundreds, maybe thousands of windows pocketed the sides. Some were lit, others were dark voids that seemed as sepulchral as looking through the decayed carcass of some great angular beast. There were no two ways about it: even by Nar Shaddaa standards, it was ugly.
About a third of the way down the structure's western facade, nestled in an indented section that met with the vine-like maze of walkways and paths that connected and encircled every building on the planet, was Jool's bar. A relatively spacious open area in front left plenty of room for speeders to park. Landing pads were marked out, if you could call it that; they were haphazardly painted onto the duracrete, crooked and faded in equal measure. It was amazing that anyone paid attention to them.
The skies opened up and rain hammered down on the windscreen of my airspeeder as I set it down on the landing pad. The second I opened the door, I was assaulted by a wave of oppressive heat that the rain did nothing to mitigate. Like other ecumenopolises, such as Coruscant, Trantor or Metellos, the weather on Nar Shaddaa was artificially controlled by a vast network of orbital weather-satellites. Unlike those other worlds, however, the environment here was tailored to Hutt preferences, and that meant the air was always humid, thick, and hot to emulate the swamps and bayous of Nal Hutta, the planet the city moon orbited. The weather control system probably didn't need to do much to maintain the environment. Billions of beings living densely on a cramped moon, combined with hovervehicles, starships, and factories constantly churning out emissions into the skies most likely kept the temperature warm enough as it was.
I stepped over a colorful puddle on the ground. It was a thick, bilious substance, too viscous to be washed away by the rain. Probably the aftermath of some poor beings overzealous revelry. The smell assaulted my nostrils, all the more putrid in the wet heat.
It was less than twenty meters from my speeder to the bar, and sweat was already starting to drip down my brow, mixing with the rain to matte my hair against my forehead. Damn this humidity.
As I approached the entrance I nodded at the bouncer, a tall and thickset Herglic with oily skin and beady eyes. At first glance one might have taken him to just be large like every member of his species, but all that weight was pure muscle. His wet skin shimmered in the rain: looking at the headlights of passing traffic bouncing off it was like looking out into the star-speckled void of space. At his hip was a nasty-looking blaster, a Ngant-Zarvel 9118 heavy carbine with the barrel cut short and the trigger guard removed to fit his bulky fingers. Most beings would need to hold such a weapon with both hands, but the Herglic would make it look like a tiny hold-out blaster with just one. He nodded back at me as I passed, and I stepped through the threshold.
The door closed behind me and I ran my fingers through my sodden hair, getting it out of my face. I'd let my hair grow out in recent years. In times like these, I wished I'd kept it short as standard.
Jool's bar was nothing fancy as bars go. A dimly lit room scattered with tables all marked with stains older than half the clientele. The aroma of yesterday's booze hung in the air. Small holos flickered a pale blue on the walls, their subjects long forgotten boxers mid-swing, holonet starlets caught in a sultry glance, and even a prize racing nuna. Behind the bar, a rusted 'No Tabs sign' hung from a set of antlers. A lone spotlight shone down on the five-pocket table, and the balls on it rolled lazy and slow. Old Jizz played from a battered jukebox in the corner, the mournful wail of a kloo-horn half drowned out by the gently undulating murmur of conversation. I made my way through a haze of tabac smoke and sidled up to the bar.
Like the rest of the place, the droid serving drinks had seen better days. It was an old J9 worker drone, with spindly limbs and an insectoid face. It held an old rag in one hand and was using it to clean a glass, more smearing the glass than polishing it.
"Greetingzzz," it buzzed cordially. "What beverage can I zzzerve you?"
"Just a fizzyglug. I'm on the clock." I dropped some credits on the bartop, and the droid scooped them up as it turned to get my drink.
"Thank you for your cuzztom". The droid wasn't much of a conversationalist.
As it started to go back to its futile attempt at polishing glasses I called to it. "Droid, is Jool about? I need to talk to her."
"I will check and zzzee."
The droid shuffled away through a wide red curtain, disappearing into a back room. I could hear two weequay sat in a nearby booth.
"I'm telling you, Grand Moff Tarkin's alive!" said one.
"That's absurd." said the other.
"It's true! He's alive and living on Portug!"
Weequay number two simply shook his head.
"Think about it," Weequay one continued, oblivious to his friend's disinterest, "A space station blows up with what, a million beings on it and there's only one survivor?"
"You're being ridiculous."
"Besides, Tarkin was a tactical genius. There's no way he wouldn't have gotten to an escape pod. Plus, the never found his body."
"The kriffing thing was vaporised! There were no bodies!"
"That's what they want you to think."
I smiled into my drink. That particular conspiracy was one of my own creations, back in my old life. In the immediate aftermath of what was referred to internally as the 'Yavin Incident', the entire Ubiqtoriate went into panic mode. I suggested a disinformation campaign to unsettle the rebels. We strategically placed body doubles and look-alikes on a handful of Outer Rim worlds, and got the rebels on a wild yunax chase for months. One of my colleagues, a Corellian man with reddish-blond hair, had loved the idea. I wondered what happened to him.
The two weequay continued their conspiracy-filled ramblings. Across the room, a rodian and a human were playing five pocket. There was a sharp crack as the balls connected then fell into the pockets with muted thuds. It looked like the rodian was winning.
A voice called my name across the bar, and I turned my head to look.
"Drydenn Maarloch, twice in one night! Needed some more of that Corellian whiskey to help you sleep?" asked Jool as she slid into the bar.
Joola Vaziri Tabar, or Jool to her friends, was a one-of-a-kind as far as Hutts go. Her heavy-lidded orange eyes were rimmed thickly with color, and her sickly green skin shined with the kind of sweat that came from power rather than exertion. She wore striped silks around her engorged body, and gaudy bracelets weighted down her stubby arms. Her wide mouth curled at its edges, always wry and knowing, like she had just thought of a joke and you were the punchline.
She'd taken over this joint a few years back; and in the years since then she'd made it her little fiefdom, nestled amongst the towering forest of duracrete buildings. She was rich as rich can be here, and information was her currency.
"I ain't here for pleasure this time pateesa. I'm here strictly on business." I gestured to my uncharacteristically non-alcoholic drink.
"You know I love a straight-talking man." She batted her large eyelids at me. "Let's talk in my office."