4.01

Nar Shaddaa. The Smuggler's Moon. Coruscant's dark sister. Crime capital of the Galaxy. Those and many other names have been given to Nal Hutta's famous moon, but all fail to describe the reality. A tidally locked satellite with one third the diameter of Earth and about half its surface gravity thanks to a high content of heavy metals, it was not the best place to live. Nine times less surface area coupled with twelve times my old home-world's population did not a pretty picture paint. Add to that far more extensive industrialization and the absence of a natural ecosystem for thousands of years, and the place should have been a hellhole and a ghost town. It wasn't.

Oh it still was a horribly overbuilt techno-slum with a heavy post-apocalyptic theme, but the moon was very much alive. It sang in the Force with the beat of ninety billion hearts, formed torrential currents in it through the frantic survival efforts of ninety billion souls, a symphony of both terrible violence yet lasting peace. If what statistics existed about it could be trusted, it had roughly four times the crime rate of Acapulco, Mexico back on Earth, more than one murder per two hundred and fifty people per year. It burned in the Force like the sun, a bonfire of a million corpses every day illuminating the firmament. And yet unlike Korriban or Ziost it had not been reduced into a dark side tomb-world of ashes, undead spirits, and silence, for there was also order. One might hardly imagine the Hutts as beings of Light... until one noticed they lived for centuries, protected their territory and belongings with an iron fist, and held clan and blood relations in such high esteem that they almost exclusively used diplomacy and economics to resolve disputes among themselves rather than violence. There had been no large-scale wars on the Smuggle's Moon for longer than Earth had written history. All in all, it was not entirely inaccurate to see Nar Shaddaa as a reflection of the corrupt Republic, with the Hutts as its version of Jedi.

That particular image was further enforced by the massive, pyramidal edifice of stone and permacrete that lay before us. The suspiciously Jedi-Temple-shaped building towered over its dilapidated surroundings, surrounded by four guard towers at the main complex's corners, projecting an image of awe-inspiring, unassailable might, while its material, simple construction, and apparent lack of machinery spoke of an ancient mysticism that set it apart from the city it presided over - exactly like the Jedi Temple itself, and not by coincidence.

"Just as I remember it..." Aurra Sing whispered, tone distant and face devoid of expression. The assassin and bounty hunter had only become harder to read over the months, the cloak of obscurity she could wrap around herself in the Force becoming as practiced and habitual as breathing. Yet she was not the only one to grow; a tap into the flow of the Force around us, a minute redirection of the tremendous currents of energy produced by both life and death, and I could suddenly feel Sing's tension as if it were my own. She was wary of a confrontation, not afraid but almost eager, coiled tight at the expectation that this endeavor would result in violence soon. It wasn't visible under her armored black suit, the overlapping scales of Cortosis-Beskar alloy with the laser-reflective finish attached to the insulating nanofiber mesh concealing how taut her muscles were and how light her stance, ready for explosive motion... but even the street urchins here had lived their whole lives in danger; they could subconsciously feel the imminent outburst and gave us a wide berth.

"We are here for a transaction, not a battle," I whispered back as we walked up to the main gate. "We might need to step on anyone who attacks us, but if we start a fight, our profit margins diminish."

"Once a merchant princess, always a merchant princess," my bodyguard shot back, eyeing me critically. I didn't look like one, what with wearing the same flexible scale armor she did and carrying a blaster and stun stick very openly on hip holsters. Less visible but even more dangerous gear were hidden in my gauntlets, backpack, and boots, but the Cortosis layer would block electromagnetic scans as well as it would blasters. I'd better, given the suit had cost as much as a starfighter - and an expensive one at that. "No worries brat. If anyone starts anything it will be the oversized oaf, not I."

"Negative," the third group member's deep voice said from above and behind us. "In the absence of further directives, mission objectives limit termination of hostiles until after initiation of hostilities." Eight feet tall, the voice's owner looked as human as Angus McAskil must have back in the day, nearly four feet wide at the shoulders, with arms and legs thicker than a wookie's and impressively muscled. Wearing thick-plated Manddalorian-style armor and carrying a rotary cannon too heavy for most humanoids to lug around, he looked exactly like what he was; a troubleshooter. Now if under his synthskin disguise, complete with a face like a certain actor and former governor back on Earth, he packed a ton of cybernetics with the strength of ten wookies and the speed of a Jedi... well, it sucked to be anyone who decided to attack us.

"Whatever. You two trigger-happy maniacs stay calm while I speak to the doorman." Poor T-666 was a really well-behaved droid, but he had been taking up bad habits over the past month; I totally blamed Aurra for that. But with how tense the guards at the pyramid's gate were, we couldn't afford a misunderstanding. The green-skinned Trandoshan doorman especially seemed to suspect we were up to no good, his clawed feet clicking against the ground.

"What do you want, girly?" the serpent-man growled, maw of killer teeth displayed prominently. That he addressed me instead of my more dangerous-looking companions showed either perceptiveness or a total disregard for his own life.

"We'd like an audience with Grakkus the Hutt," I informed him in my best business casual tone, though without the customary smile. Said smile might mean the same thing among criminals as it did among merchants, but only the former would start shooting as soon as they saw it. "We have a business proposition for him."

"Beat it, kid," the doorman growled back. "Grakkus has his own mercenaries and whores, and the only outsiders he deals with don't carry around a small armory."

"You don't need to worry about our weapons," I told him as I let the moon's vast currents of power flow through me. "And Grakkus will be interested in what we have to tell him."

"I... don't need to worry about your weapons..." the Trandoshan agreed with a glazed look in his eyes while the remaining guards lowered their blasters too.

"You will lead us to Grakkus," I added with a satisfied nod, "then go home and take at least nine baths."

"I... will lead you to Grakkus... then go home and take at least nine baths..."

That would teach the slimy, smelly, foul-breathed swine to call me a whore.