"A captain’s ship was his pride, the thing into which he sank all of his time and money. His lifestyle did not allow for the trappings of other vocations; a captain owned what fit on his ship, and likely nothing else, since every other aspect of his life–location, friends, family–was inherently transient. This life was lonely and frustrating–there was always more to be done, more that required maintaining–so the ship became both the cause of all his woes and the only means by which he could prove his worth."
The sled, nearly overburdened with crates, slammed the floor and sent jarring vibrations up his legs. The resulting clang hurt the ears, but there was satisfaction in that sound. That sound meant the job was near finished. The goods delivered, he could collect the payment, then be on his merry way. He’d fly back, get his cut, then wait for another job. The repetition would be mind-numbingly boring if something interesting didn’t happen as often as it did, but if he made it far enough to hear that clang of the crates without any hiccups, that usually meant he was in the clear.
The recipients sauntered up to the crates to finish inspecting their wares. Skepticism marked their mien, or at least, he thought he noticed skepticism; Rodians had a few different facial expressions that he wasn’t so great at always distinguishing. Maybe they were doubting…maybe they were intrigued. Regardless, he tossed a glance beside him at the towering figure on his right, then eyed his friend’s bowcaster. Receptively, his associate tightened his grip on the weapon, and he hovered his hand at his thigh. A strongbox–the payment, out of which would come his cut–dangled in the grip of a none-too-bright Rodian towards the back of the party. If they had to fight to get what was theirs, so be it: he was not leaving here empty handed.
The lid to the crate hissed open and the large dark eyes of the lead Rodian traced the interior. A single suckered-ended digit reached in and plucked out a vial. Inside the transparent tube, small cubes of white tumbled as the Rodian lifted it to be examined under the magnifier of his head gear. Delicately, he turned the vial in the light as he scrutinized. A few seconds of tense silence went by before he threw his arm down violently.
“This is not the same quality as you demonstrated to us!” the Rodian insisted in his native tongue, his proboscis bobbing up and down as he yelled. “We will not be accepting this shipment.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” the man countered, taking a step forward. “That’s the same as what I showed you. Took the vial right out of the case–you saw.” He shrugged, trying to play innocent. “Maybe there’s some quality control issues back on S-Two. Check another one.” And with that, he glanced down at the crate, outwardly appearing cool but internally feeling his heart race: what happened next wholly depended on the contents of the vial chosen.
The Rodian stood still for a moment, clearly conflicted, but gave in to the suggestion with an irritated snort. Turning his attention back to the crate, he scoped the insides again and selected a second vial. Again, he raised it up for inspection.
“Difficult to get a hold of highly refined andris these days,” the man intoned, turning his chin as though to look over the group but keeping the leader in his peripheral vision. “The Empire seems interested in keeping the good stuff out of everyone’s hands ‘cept their soldiers, while the rest of us scamper about for the low grade dregs.”
“Shut up,” one of the other Rodians barked back.
The man held his hands up. “Hey, just tryin’ to make conversation.”
“Your Basic human drolling is unnecessary,” the leader interjected. “We’re all aware of the current galactic status of andris.” He chucked the vial at the man. “Look at this yourself–it’s dingy.”
As instructed, the man turned the vial up to the harsh lights of the docking bay. The white crystals, if they really were high grade refined andris, should have been perfectly snow white and forming tight cubes. What he was staring at, however, retained some of the tan color of the lesser andris and crumbled a bit too easily. The purity of the drug would control just how much it could heighten the senses. Regular andris was allegedly pleasant, but the refined andris could apparently make a simple, half-assed cooked tralandon steak taste like the single best thing you’d ever eaten. Not that he knew firsthand–he’d not been a smuggler for long, but he’d known smugglers for a while, damn near his whole life. They had cardinal rules that the longest lived ones swore by, and the top one was not to get messed up in the goods.
“I dunno, this looks the same to me,” he lied, then chucked the vial back. He pointed up at the ceiling. “Maybe these lights are screwing with you.”
“The only thing screwing with us is you, Captain…Captain…” The Rodian leader paused. “What did you say your name was?”
The thought of lying shot to the forefront of his thoughts, and he quickly weighed his options. This wasn’t guaranteed to go sour yet…that they were still talking was a good sign. If he could walk out of here with everybody decently happy and intact, it’d be good for them to know who he was. A name–a reputation–was everything. “Solo,” he finally answered. “Captain Solo.”
“Captain Solo, this is not the same quality andris as you displayed. Neither vial has proven this stock to be worth the price.” With that, the Rodian returned the vial to the crate, then turned to leave.
“So change the price,” Solo countered. At that, the Rodian halted. “Listen, what I was told to pick up for you was highly refined andris. That’s what I did, that’s what I brought here. I get it if you’re not so happy with the quality–I guess those refineries in Sevarcos II are slipping, and I’ll bring it up with my bosses when I return. But this,” he gestured at the crate, “is still well refined andris, it’s still worth a hard coin, and buyers are rarely sharp enough to catch any difference in quality.” He threw his hands on his hips. “Hell, I’ll take less for it, and you can still tell your buyers it’s top tier.”
The Rodian considered him for a moment. “What will the Hutts say if you show up with less than the agreed upon amount? We want no quarrels with them.”
He smirked, a half-smirk that he knew looked good on him, maybe even to a Rodian. “I’m tight with them. If I explain, they’ll understand.”
The group turned to each other and discussed, their intelligibility decreased as the group squawked and screeched. Solo’s eyes darted from figure to figure, trying to ascertain from body language then whether the tide was turning his way or it was time to pull his blaster. For as animated as they were, they didn’t seem especially agitated; rather, from what little he could gather in the cacophony, he thought he heard enthusiasm. He grinned internally. Money tends to do that to people.
“Okay, Captain Solo, agreed,” the leader finally said. “We’ll cut off a thousand from the top.”
He quickly did the math in his head of what that would mean for him–it was obviously less than he’d been hoping for, but still a win. “Sounds fair to me,” he answered with a grin, then stifled a look of disappointment as the strongbox was opened and the agreed-upon stack of credits removed. His cut of ten percent would mean he just lost out on an extra hundred credits, which wasn’t life changing, but those little wins added up.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” the leader affirmed as he offered up a hand. Solo took it and shook, ignoring the off-putting suckle of the Rodian’s fingertips on his wrist.
“Can’t wait to come back,” he fibbed through clenched teeth. He accepted the strongbox from one of the peons and then forced himself to walk slowly and confidently back up the gangplank of his ship. Behind him came his tall, furry friend, and when they were both secured inside, his fist hit the controls for the plank. It whirled and groaned and let go of a torrent of compressed air, and with it, Solo let out a long sigh. Disturbed, his hand went to his breastbone–had his chest been tight this whole time?
[Why do I have the feeling you did something you didn’t tell me about?] his friend growled and murmured, his deep set blue eyes staring down at Solo with a mix of displeasure and humor.
He straightened and grinned confidently; sometimes it was a good thing that his companion knew only Shyriiwook and Basic. “Nothing I’m not a trained hand at.”
[You need to tell me this kind of thing. If I had known–]
“If you’d known, you would have ruined it,” Solo contradicted. “I have to watch what I tell you, or you let your conscience get in the way of everything.” He lifted up the strongbox, handing it off. “You know where to put this.” At that, Solo pushed past the Wookie, heading further into the ship.
The cockpit to the ship lay only a few more strides down the corridor. The interior glowed in the blinking orange and green lights of an already warmed engine–he learned long ago to always keep her at the ready, just in case. His captain’s chair creaked as he swiveled it to receive him, and immediately, his hands went to the radio to call into the local tower for ground clearance.
As he waited for a response, his hands went into the inside pocket of his vest and pulled out a vial. Grinning, he turned it up to the lights outside his view window. Inside, bright white cubes nearly sparkled in the light as he twisted the container in his fingertips. They didn’t normally come to Rodia, and they didn’t normally smuggle andris. Convenient, then, that he’d happened to overhear at a bar that someone out this way was looking to trade some disappointing stock for something of a higher caliber, and was willing to pay a handsome sum in order to get the good stuff quick. He’d taken the buyer–a Devaronian female–up on the offer, and Chewie, his copilot, hadn’t questioned too closely when he insisted they needed to make a quick stopover on Piroket for a rare part for the ship. The trade had been simple, and the Rodians who received the lower grade crates…that had been close, but he’d squeaked through. That was all he needed sometimes.
[So there was no pickup of a valve for the coaxium regulator.] Chewie’s tone was flat as he entered, and he squeezed himself into the just-too-small seat for the copilot. [Han, you cannot keep putting that off. That regulator blows and–]
“I know,” Han snapped, reflexively tucking the vial back into his jacket. “Soon as we get back, I’ll ask Shug about it.” His shoulders fell. “I mean, I already asked him about it a while ago, but I didn’t have the money on me for the parts he drummed up. Maybe he’ll be able to dig up another set.”
The radio continued to beep as his call awaited a response. The tickle of impatience started in his hands, and he flexed his fingers, trying to divert his attention elsewhere.
[I’m hungry] the Wookie grumbled low in the punctuated silence.
“You’re always hungry,” Han rebuked tiredly, though admittedly, he acknowledged to himself that he felt the same. His appetite always shrank before a stint, like he couldn’t think of anything but, but now that they were in the clear and enough time had passed, he could feel his insides twisting in protest.
He jerked a thumb behind him. “Those crates secured back there? I ain’t interested in spilling Rodian hemolymph all over the cargo bay.”
[That was one time] Chewie retorted [and you were the one who missed that buckle, not me.]
“Can’t believe I’m even carting that shit around,” Han griped, ignoring the rebuttal. “Bunch of bug goop.”
[It’d be a waste if we came back empty handed.]
Han felt his shoulders slump. That was true…it would be a waste–of fuel, time, money–to come back from all this way with nothing in the cargo bay. Still.
Abruptly, the radio beeped and whirled at him, and with it, his frown turned into a grimace. “Great, got a damn astromech droid running the tower. Chewie, let’s get the hell out of here.”
* * *
58...59, he finished counting, then repeated the total back to himself: 2,459.
Han’s brow crossed: that couldn’t be right. Immediately, his hand groped the cavity of the safe, feeling around for some accidentally missed pile of credits. There should be more. As he felt around a second time, however, his chest sank. That was it.
He stared down at the small metal plates at his bedside. He had been sure there were at least 3,500 there. He reclined a little and took in a long breath, recalculating the accounting. Unable to reconcile the amounts, he frowned: where had it all gone?
The frown morphed into a scowl, and his eyes lifted to the bulkhead above his cramped quarters. Running his hand over the algid metal, the fingers tightened into a fist and beat the bulkhead with a dull thud. Damn ship. Worthless ship. For all the work I do, I only barely break even, because of this damn ship.
The valves for the coaxium regulators were unfortunately not the only current item that needed replacing on the little Sorosuub Starmite. In the few months since he'd bought her, he’d also had to completely replace the sublight motivator, haggle repeatedly with a recalcitrant navicomputer that had left him stranded a handful of times without coordinates, and even had to wrestle with the damn gangplank. The Bria had been especially finicky the past few trips, including a handful of times when she wouldn’t transition into hyperspace without considerable cajoling. Nor had her failures been the typical hiccup that added character to a ship. Instead, these were the kinds of errors that made Han sick to his stomach–the types of malfunctions that led to spontaneous explosions and shield generator fails and all sorts of defects that could leave them at a dead-stop in space...or worse.
Part of him was exhausted. He hadn’t thought it was going to be like this…the life of a smuggler, that was supposed to be easy. Carefree. He’d strolled into this already an excellent pilot with enough of a background in watching his own back and making his own way that he assumed it’d take minimum effort to get ahead, let alone stay ahead. Staring down at the miserable pile of credits delicately stacked next to his bunk, he sighed. He hated being wrong.
Cupping the stacks in his hand, he began returning them to the small safe he kept at his bunkside. A year…it had only been a year. Instead, it felt like a century had passed between the life he’d known before and this. Granted, that life itself was already an attempt at a restart, a chance at being able to clear his slate. He’d tried something else–he’d tried to be something else. He’d been eager to put everything behind him and make a fresh start, he’d gone through rigorous training to get there, but it hadn’t…it hadn’t worked out. And so here he was, a smuggler running contraband for the Hutts. Sometimes, as he’d just pulled off on Rodia, running a side con for a little extra coin. This was a far cry from where he wanted to be or at least where he’d thought he’d be, but then, after everything that had happened, he wondered sometimes: maybe it was exactly where he was supposed to end up.
To be fair, this life wasn’t without its perks. He answered to no one else out here–he could always turn down the job or pick up and start over someplace else. He was his own man, making his own decisions, living by his own rules. And, to boot, he was technically a captain–a pilot with his own ship. If the winds ever turned against him, all he needed to do was raise his gangplank and plug in coordinates for literally anywhere else. And the money–for all the headache of some of his assignments, the pay was hard to turn down. There was still a chance for him to get ahead this way if, at least, he could manage to hang on to his earnings.
The Bria was a small vessel, really only fit to handle a max of three passengers, so the sudden alternating chime from the navicomputer that they were nearing their destination filled his little bunkroom. He tiredly dragged his hand down his face and reset his expression, then gathered himself and headed into the cockpit. Chewie was already there, preparing to monitor the ship’s systems and the local vector when they came out of hyperspace. Out the view window, a vortex of blue and white spun before them, an alternate to real time and space twisting in accommodation to the ship’s hyperdrive.
Han found his seat and mumbled a few instructions off to his copilot, to which the Wookie trilled a response. They’d already done this three times this trip, as the return from Rodia required entering and exiting multiple different hyperspace lanes. This current exit, though, would be the last for this trip, and finally: the Bria, with her subpar hyperdrive, took longer than he was used to. Sitting in this cramped space for eight, nine straight hours was enough to make anyone go stir-crazy.
“Exiting hyperspace…now,” Han announced, his hand reaching out to the throttle and pinching it between his extended thumb and pinky. With a shift forward of the throttle, the vortex fell back.
Everything before them was still. Silent. Now out his view window was a familiar sight: the giant blue ball and the mottled brown disk behind it.
He tensely turned to Chewie, eyeing the screens before him. “Anyone else out here?”
[Not picking up anything on the sensors. It’s quiet today.]
It’s never quiet, Han mused to himself, we just rarely come this way. Though his copilot had given him the all-clear, he reflexively scoped the vicinity. Pirates liked to sit out here, just outside hyperspace terminals. They’d sit and wait for their quarry to come into realspace, tired from a long journey and anxious to touch solid ground. When you thought the coast was clear and got comfortable, that’s when the pirates would strike. They’d wreck your ship enough to board you, then take everything they could. Afterwards, maybe they killed you. Maybe they took you hostage for ransom. And there was always, of course, the option of selling you into slavery.
Coming out of hyperspace this close to the gravity well of such a large planet meant he could let the Bria coast her way towards their terminal. Only with a few spurts of the sublight engines did they escape the pull of the larger planet and head on their way to that brown moon behind the waterworld. The closer they came, the more the details of the satellite came into view, though there wasn’t much to take in. The place had no resources, no significant industries, nothing of inherent value for itself or the larger segment of space. It was wholly undesirable on its own merits, sitting in the rocky wing of the galaxy with no shortage of much more habitable worlds. The moon’s only redeeming quality was its proximity to the larger entities of the galaxy. Numerous political organizations existed just beyond the reach of this space, and the immediate area around it was a criss-cross of hyperspace lanes. That meant it had access while also being just far enough away that it could escape domination from any one other locale or power. And thus Nar Shaddaa was perfectly suited to be the headquarters of the Hutts.
Of course, the Hutts were not native to this place–they came from Nal Hutta, the beautiful blue marble around which Nar Shaddaa orbited. orbited But far be it for the Hutts to be content with what they were given, or to be able to share it peacefully amongst themselves. The Hutts had split long ago into a handful of competing kajidic or clans, and one kajidic, the Desilijic, had come to Nar Shaddaa and pushed out the locals to claim a sizable section of the moon as theirs. They were generalists of a sort, organizing illegal trade in all kinds of goods from the mundane to the illicit to the rare. The Desilijic ran the entire region known as Kha’art Hadash and its myriad sectors, calling the ancient palace in the center home. Overall, the area was a swamp wrapped in crumbling infrastructure and shoddily completed development with too many people and too much garbage and too little administration. But even a rancor will defend a worthless scrap of meat if she can call it hers, and thus the Desilijic were unceasing in their attempts to protect their domain and use it to undermine their multitude of cousins and competing clans. Of utmost exigency was the constant clash with the Besadii kajidic, who as of now held the upper hand. Han had actually worked for them as a pilot years ago, though he was averse to freely admitting it to the Desilijic–Hutts were nothing if not temperamental, and his employment was the least of his concerns if he dredged up any reason to be accused of subversion.
The Bria crossed the barrier that divided the exosphere from the rest of space. Han reflexively reached out and radioed into the Spacebarn, still trying to monitor systems as he did so.
“Solo, that you in that beat up ship?” a voice answered on the radio. “She actually made it back?”
Han smirked, ignoring the dig. “Shug! What are you doing working the radio?”
“Somebody’s gotta keep this place in check,” the mechanic answered back, followed by a chuckle. “Actually, just happened to be in the office.”
“How’s she been while we were gone?”
“Ah, skies are busy as always.”
“Anybody interesting?” Keeping tabs on any big names–bounty hunters, in particular–was simply good insurance. He’d had a few on his heels years ago, courtesy of his dramatic exit from the Besadii’s service. He’d disposed of one of them and then the rest had dropped off. Whether he’d made his point or the Besadii simply let it go, he wasn’t sure. As for Shrike…well, who knew what the drunk fuck was up to. Regardless, he'd evaded any notice since returning to Hutt Space; he’d like to keep it that way.
“Nobody who has your number, I don’t think.”
Han grinned ruefully while he fiddled with some of the controls to prep them for descent, pleased to not have garnered any unwelcome interest. “Alrighty, I’m headed down. Bay 7?” he asked, then reflexively gestured over to Chewie to plug in the request to the Nar Shaddese ATC.
There was a pause, then an audible sigh, even over the crackle of the radio. “Sorry, Han,” Shug eventually answered. “I ain’t got room in here.”
Han gaped at the radio. “You gave up my spot?!”
“You didn’t pay to keep it,” the mechanic answered smoothly.
“I was paid up for a month!”
Another pause, then, “You were paid up for a month over a month ago.”
At that, Han froze, trying to make sense of the timeline. Truthfully, he couldn’t even put together how much time had passed since they’d left Nar Shaddaa, not really. Sure, it had only felt like a handful of days to them, but…
“How long we been gone?” Han queried quietly to Chewie.
The Wookie was quick to check. [About three weeks] he answered.
Han’s brow raised in surprise–that was much longer than he would have surmised. Time swirled and disappeared, it seemed, in this life.
“That time dilation’s a bitch,” Shug interjected. “Not a bad idea for you to put feet on the ground for a while. Take some time.”
Han winced at the suggestion, then brushed it aside. “You don’t have any empties?” he continued. “Something I can just drop in for a stretch, until something official opens up?”
“Sorry, Solo…I’m all full down here.”
“Alright,” Han sighed. “Listen, I’ll dock at the Hutt Palace. I’ll get square with them then head over to yours.”
“Works for me,” the mechanic returned, and without further niceties, the line clicked dead.
Their descent onto the moon went smoothly enough. They broke atmosphere then swooped down into a long, mostly graceful curve. Though his instruments could have blindly led him to his destination, Han still peered out the view window, taking in the mottled mix of gray and brown of Kha’art Hadash. Their route took them over the exhaust-laden Industrial Sector, home to what little manufacturing and recycling industries existed, as well as a sizable waste management facility and grounds. The port sat nearby, the area above it buzzing with a slew of short and long range vehicles, with the major shipping docks abutting the warehouse and sales district. To the north he could spot the entertainment district, which offered little besides a beating from some unforgiving bookies and watered down liquor with a side of venereal disease. The Corellian Sector, where he put down his head each night, lay just east, and at the center of these districts sat the Hutt Palace. The sprawling complex was surrounded by a huge square, offering seclusion from the other wretched sectors.
Han spotted the entrance to the Palace hangar and brought them in low, masterfully grazing the craft just above the ground as they floated into the building. He picked out a spot to land just near the entrance. Hands moving methodically across his controls, he eased them down, then felt the landing gear touch ground. The ship would take it the rest of the way, and he let her go. He felt the hydraulics slowly lower them, then they abruptly gave with a sudden lurch and a crunch of metal. Han sat back in his seat and groaned: he’d forgotten…the landing gear was also on his list.
They were up and out of the cockpit quick, Han headed straight to the storage room to fetch the strongbox. He stopped at the doorway, having forgotten that he had the crates of hemolymph tucked in tight, then frowned as he reached up and over them to grab the handle of the bulky metal box. He tugged it closer to him, then paused a moment, reflecting on his next move one last time. He’d spent a fair portion of the trip back debating what exactly to do about his strongbox showing up a little lighter than the Hutts would expect. What seemed smartest at first was to make someone else take the fall, to insist that it was someone else who’d fucked up. The supplier on Sevarcos II being a smidge too sloppy or the middleman on Socorro skimming some off the top or the Rodians being too stingy wouldn’t be hard stories to sell. And yet, he wondered…he’d never shortchanged the Hutts before. He hadn’t heard of anyone who had. Cheekily, he’d finally decided it might be worth it just let it play out. If they snagged him, he always had an excuse in his back pocket. If not, well then, another deal well executed.
Chewie stood near the top of the gangplank as Han came around the corner. The look on the Wookie’s face, even in the dim yellow of their landing lighting, was unmistakable.
“Yeah, I know, buddy,” Han offered, disappointed himself. “But c’mon, let’s get it over with.”
At that, Han sucked in a breath, like the kind of big inhale before going under water, and hit the release for the gangplank. He waited, wondering for a split second as nothing seemed to happen if it wasn’t as bad this time, if maybe he’d finally gotten used to it, but then–as always–an oppressive heat hit him, and he regrettably let go of that breath, then braced against the inevitable.
For all the time he’d been here, he still had not yet gone noseblind to the fetid stink of this place that perpetually hung in the air. His stomach turned at the smell of whatever rotting garbage or pollution or mephitis caused the almost tangibly thick odor. And to add insult to injury, the stench reliably hung alongside a pervasive, heavy humidity. He pinched his shirt off him and shrugged his shoulders in a vain attempt to escape the suffocating dampness of the midday moon. As always, he loathed this initial moment of adjustment–the concentrated moisture forced him to take in a deep inhale in order to pull enough air, and then he’d get stuck inhaling clouds of miasma. And rather than the Hutt Palace being one of the few places of refuge from the experience, considering the wealth and resources of the place, being anywhere around the grounds only added the additional effluvium of the Hutts.
They crossed through the hangar with ease, their gaze locked on the doorway at the back that would lead to the accounting manager. They passed ship after ship, some of them unrecognizable, but a few of them all-too familiar: when Han and Chewie had first arrived on Nar Shaddaa, they had begun their work for the Hutts by flying from this fleet, a collection of renter ships that made the Bria look steady in comparison. After some frustrating trial and error, Han had found at least one he tried to secure as often as he could, an Allanar N3 with a unique blue star pattern across her hull. In fact, as they neared the exit, they came upon her, and Han patted the ship as he dipped under her low wings.
The receiving room was empty as they stepped in, not even anyone behind the counter, and Han called out into the space, announcing themselves. After a lag, a tall, sickly pale Twi’lek stepped out, scrutinizing Han from the doorway before approaching the counter.
“You took long enough. We had begun to think you hadn’t made it,” the Twi’lek hissed in Huttese, smirking with satisfaction at his taunt.
Han snorted a laugh. Fortuna wasn’t exactly personable–Han particularly loathed the beady red eyes and the undeserved hautiness–but the tail-head did touch the seat of power, or at least touched it by a degree or two removed.
“Yeah,” Han offered, tossing the strongbox up onto the counter, “made it all the way to Socorro and back. Too bad you didn’t come with, we coulda stopped over at Ryloth. Might have made for a wild homecoming for you.”
At that, Fortuna stiffened up, then suddenly became all business, pulling up the data about Han’s trip and beginning the process of logging the contents of the delivery before him. He asked Han a series of curt questions, showing impatience as the smuggler languidly responded, the latter acutely aware of just how sensitive the Twi’lek could be about his rather ignominious ejection from his homeworld and reveling in the discomfort he was causing by dragging out their interaction.
The job properly documented, Fortuna then grabbed the strongbox and slipped away, disappearing again behind a doorway that led to the vault. Han grinned to himself–this was working. Sure, the actual contents would still need to be counted and verified, but something told him that Fortuna didn’t just hang out in that back room and count coins all day. Allegedly, the Twi’lek had a weakness for ryll, and the solitude of the back room would offer the perfect cover. Han nodded to himself, adding the Twi’lek to his list of scapegoats.
“Ugh, where is he?” abruptly came a gravely voice behind the man and the Wookie.
Han coolly pivoted on his heel, identifying the speaker by her unmistakable voice, the side effect of years spent in a room filled with hookah smoke. She had asked the question rhetorically, certainly not expecting either of the room’s occupants to answer her but rather a reflexive means by which to express her frustration with the Twi’lek. Looking straight past Han and Chewie, she marched up to the counter, then craned her ear to listen. Having discerned her answer, she stiffly sucked in a breath and waited.
Deino had no last name, least as far as Han knew, and didn’t have use for it. Everyone knew the majordomo to Jiliac the Hutt, and having seen her once, she could easily be picked out from a crowd by her signature headdress, a tall, squarish design that always perfectly matched her floor-length silk dresses. She was human and probably a middle aged woman, though strikingly beautiful still in an austere yet graceful way. She never said much, and that was a good quality to have in a majordomo.
Bib Fortuna, ignorant to her entry, came back around the corner and damn near dropped the credits he had bundled in his hands at the sight of Deino. Nervously, he hurried to the counter and spilled the contents of his hands, attempting in vain to suppress his sudden anxiety at her presence. His quivering inquiry into her arrival was met with a brusque response.
“Jabba has asked for you. Don’t ask me why.”
“Of course,” Fortuna supplicated. “Let me just finish here.” Impatiently, he gestured for Han to come forward, hastening him with impatient clicks of his long fingernails on the countertop.
Han wouldn’t hesitate to get paid, but as he stepped up, the shape and color of the money on the table registered to him, and he shook his head. “I don’t take the peggat. You have to give it to me in credits.”
“You’ll take what you’re offered,” Fortuna argued back.
“I will not,” Han returned, a slight edge to his voice. “I made that deal with the Hutts forever ago–I don’t take payment in anything but credits.”
The Twi’lek opened his mouth to rebut, but Deino interjected first. “Just give it to him,” she demanded, her exasperation clear.
Fortuna clamped his mouth closed at her order, flashing a wrothful look at Han with those eerie red eyes before gathering up the coins on the counter and vanishing again.
“Thanks,” Han offered, smiling warmly in anticipation of her turning to acknowledge him.
“Not a favor,” the woman corrected sharply, barely turning her head as she answered.
Han took the clarification in silence, only exchanging surprised glances with Chewie, then resigning himself to waiting quietly. He shifted his weight around, struggling to stem off his building impatience, and actually felt a sense of relief when Fortuna returned.
“Fifteen hundred credits,” the Twi’lek replied flatly as he placed the stacks down, then waited as Han inspected them.
The smuggler picked up the top bullion, a one hundred piece credit, then counted the stacks. Fourteen, as expected. “Nice doing business with you,” he crooned, acknowledging Fortuna with a singular nod, then began organizing the chips into various pockets across his person as he strolled away. Smaller value credits always went in his pants pocket, in case someone tried to mug him. He put higher value credits in his front breast pocket, in case the mugger tried to insist he had more on him. The highest value credit slips, though, went on the inside of his vest, nearest his skin. Let someone try and take those from him…let them see what would happen.
He was doing the math in his head as they wove their way out of the Palace. A hundred would need to go directly to Shug, then they needed money for fuel, the rent on the apartment was due shortly, then provisions for the ship, then perhaps the part for the coaxium regulator, and then–. He stopped short, frustrated. Fifteen hundred seemed nothing to sneeze at, but…it always slipped right through his fingers.
They finally came to the large square outside the Hutt Palace, and Han’s eyes shot straight to the distant horizon to check the weather. Sure enough, the sky churned in violent, fluffy bundles, threatening to unleash its torrent at a moment’s notice. It poured here every day, to the minute, soaking the already gray city in misery, making the cluttered streets awash in discarded refuse that would bundle at the neglected sewers. The rain was unforgiving, and the entirety of this side of the moon cleared out to wait until the storms waned. When the clouds passed, though, they would take the bulk of the humidity with them. Even the stench washed out temporarily, offering the denizens of Nar Shaddaa a few fleeting hours in the evening of uncorrupted air. And yet, by dawn the next day, the heat and the humidity and the malodor would return.
As the rain appeared imminent, they needed to catch the tram that ran from the square into the Corellian Sector. The square sat at Level 3, but Nar Shaddaa was constructed of a dizzying maze of levels and gangways and stairwells, all haphazardly and tenuously linked. The tram operated at Level 7, so he and Chewie crossed towards the station platform. As they neared, the area became more congested, and it heightened his uneasiness. Coming to the lift that would take them up to the boarding platform, Han reflexively looked at either side of him at the encampments of the homeless, a mix of the destitute, the drunk, and the perpetually strung out. Most would mind their business, he knew, but occasionally one would get confrontational or even belligerent. Having Chewie with him helped deter many of the lazier thieves–Wookies had proven rarer and rarer in the last decade, even on Nar Shaddaa, but their reputation rightly preceded them. The well-worn grip on his blaster helped dissuade even more, though he would never put it past someone particularly daring or stupid to try him.
Coming off the lift, he checked the announcement board for the tram to see that a ride would arrive in just a few minutes. Cognizant of the weight of the coins in his vest, he lifted his chin and casually scanned the platform. No one seemed especially interested, however. Many of the other patrons just stood with eyes downcast, dead set on minding their own business. Unconvinced, the smuggler continued surveying. To Chewie’s left were a pair of humans who were stiffly discussing some personal business; behind him was a family of Sullustans with an especially young kid who kept loudly asking questions and getting hushed by the parents; and to his right, a single male Twi’lek who nervously shifted his weight back and forth. The yelling in the distance died down, and then Han heard the hum of the tram. Sure enough, as he looked up the rail, a series of cars were gliding toward them, the headlamp on the front car broken.
People began to instinctively move forward in their eagerness to board, but Han and Chewie stayed stock still. They’d be the last to get on…that meant they could also hurry off if need be. The movement of the crowd around Han, regular though it was, left him uneasy. This moment was its own opportunity…someone might wait until he was almost on the tram before they tried to bash, strike, or stab him and dash off with his pelf at his breast. His shoulders stiffened up as he continued to watch, conscious to not let himself be distracted by circumstance.
Sure enough, movement caught his attention, way back at his periphery–it didn’t move forward, but sideways. Towards them. Chewie noticed it, too, and grumbled, then turned to check in the other direction: an ambush on the two of them would be smart. As Chewie made no noise beside him, Han knew this was a solitary attack. He surreptitiously studied the crowd, trying to pick out exactly what it was he had detected. It was easier said than done in the shuffle of everyone around him, but then he spotted what it was that had disquieted him: a teenage boy, a stinging cockiness in his gaze, had begun to close the distance. He had a deftness to his step, his head whipping over his shoulder to repeatedly check the oncoming tram, then snapping back around to keep eyes on the man and the Wookie.
The tram arrived and lurched to a stop. As the doors opened, the other patrons stepped on, and the boy drew closer. Slowly, Han stepped forward as well, his gaze ostensibly forward but still watching. Chewie followed a beat behind him, an awkwardness to his step, as though Han’s movement caught him off guard. The crowd shuffled forward, and Han moved forward again, approaching the doors. The boy inched ever nearer, more intently watching the closer he got. Still, Han paid him no mind, his attention seemingly wrapped up in monitoring the immediate bustle around him.
Seeing his chance, the boy tensed to make his grab. Before he could lunge forward, though, he found an emitter nozzle at his windpipe. His whole body frozen in shock, the boy’s eyes–wide in surprise–didn’t blink so long as Han held his blaster against his throat.
“Pick a different mark, Kid,” Han breathed, then in one smooth motion, he reholstered his weapon and finished stepping on the tram, the doors closing as he found his footing.
The other passengers had watched, and an uncomfortable silence gripped the train car, so that only the grinding of the tracks could be heard. It was Chewie who broke the quiet. [I have a distaste for your insistence on showmanship] he griped.
Han shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s good to make an impression sometimes,” he said out the side of his mouth. Impression made, the train rode on, mute.
The Spacebarn sat at the end of the line for the Corellian Sector route, bordering on the edge of the Industrial Sector. The rain had only just begun as they neared, starting with a few warning salvos of thunder before unleashing the full torrent of the storm. Luckily, the tram terminus connected to an indoor commercial mall that would take them the rest of the way. It was a smooth enough walk, with only the occasional encounter with a beggar posted outside the abandoned storefronts and the off-putting solicitations of the area’s hard-working females to come inside the shrouded parlors for a release. Finally, beside a noodle bar that surprisingly impressed, they could access the lift that would take them down to Shug’s.
As the lift descended, beneath it sprawled a hangar, large enough for twenty small to mid range vessels. Han grimaced again to have had his spot taken, though a part of him knew that none of these belonged to anyone truly but Shug. It was first come, first serve, and the mechanic wasn’t in the business of turning down customers. And yet, each of the pilots had their favorite spot, and Han had known Shug to be “forgetful” about listing a bay as available when its usual occupier was due back. Considering how ornery he’d seen some of the pop-in customers to be, the smuggler questioned then how much of this forgetfulness was kindness and how much of it was the mechanic choosing the devil he knew. Obviously, that hadn’t stopped him this time.
Shug’s office lay at the other end of the facility, though the mechanic rarely sat back with his heels up. He more than likely had his hands buried in some engine, so the both of them swept their heads back and forth, peering into each bay as they passed. It was Chewie who eventually spotted him, dexterously perched on the outer hull of an unfamiliar craft in Bay 7, heavily masked with a welder in one hand and his pliers in the other. Somehow, despite the shower of sparks around him, the mechanic picked out the arm-waving from the docking bay doorway, and at sight of the smuggler and the Wookie, paused his work and climbed down from the ship.
“You actually came,” the mechanic started with a grin as he closed the distance, his three-fingered hand rustling the sweat-stained hair from his neck. Shug Ninx’s human heritage unquestionably dominated his physique, but Ninx had something else in the mix, something that left him with splotches of green and blue markings across his otherwise tawny skin. Elsewhere in the Galaxy, particularly in the Core, such admixture would cause him issues, but no one around here cared–that was the beauty of the Outer Rim.
Han snorted at the dig, rummaging into his jacket and removing a single credit slip. The mechanic quickly palmed the ingot, feeling its weight, then tucked it into one of his myriad pockets. He swept a quick look behind him, inspecting the bay for its potential occupants, before turning back to Han, the stress evident on his face.
“Some Gotal came in whooping and hollering about some busted catalyzer…said someone up in New Vertica ripped him off. We got ‘em straight, and they’ll probably leave soon. Then you can have your spot back.”
“Thanks,” Han offered, genuine. “That kid anywhere around here?”
“Jarik?” Shug questioned reflexively. “Uh…yeah, I think I saw him not too long ago. Why, you got something for him?”
“Rodian hemolymph,” Han answered, then he turned to Chewie. “Go take a lap and see if you can find him. Tell him he’s gonna need a freezer cart to move that stuff. And tell him to start by making some calls up to the hospitals–I ain’t interested in winging it out in the bazaar. Take a whole damn month to sell that stuff that way,” he griped, waving the Wookie off.
“You comin’ in just to dock or you need somethin’?” Shug asked as he nodded his goodbye to Chewie.
“Probably need to revisit that patch on the hull, and then we’ll need a refuel.” At that, Han resumed the calculations in his head, subtracting from his total what this maintenance could likely cost him. The hemolymph, at least, would bring in profit, possibly as much as another four hundred…if the kid could do the transaction right. That would offset the rent on the apartment, at least, with a little left over.
Only when the Corellian looked up did he register Shug’s silence and blank stare. Han shifted his weight to the side, frowning. “Hey,” he entreated, “I’ve got the money for the refuel.”
The mechanic jutted out his lower lip. “I didn’t say anything. But now that you mention it, I may be able to source you a whole coax regulator. Last I saw, it looked like the whole part might need replacement. It’d be cheaper for you in the long run if you sprang for it, rather than just replacing the valves. Safer, too.”
Han held his breath for a moment, then let it out with an uneasy laugh: that was more than he’d factored for. “Yeah, Shug, but…”
The mechanic read Han’s apprehension and put his hands up. “Hey, I get it. But I’m just saying…it’s not easy to find parts for her. I don’t know when I’m gonna be able to get my hands on something like this again.” He combed his hands through his dark blonde hair, then scratched at his scalp, thinking. “Sorosuub needs to stick to the landspeeder market. They’ve got no business trying to play with the big heads.”
“You'll get no argument from me on that,” Han grumbled. “Any chance you still have those secondhand valves?”
The mechanic sighed. “I do. I don’t recommend them–her type doesn’t take well to off-brand–but I have them.”
“Well, I’ll need them,” he conceded, then glanced around the hangar. “Is Mako around?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. He’s waiting on a shipment to come in–supplier said it wouldn’t be here until the morning. You know him, he ain’t gonna stick around. You Corellians have that in common: impatient–the whole lot of you.”
Han ignored the rib, and instead rolled his eyes to think of how exactly the smuggler was occupying his time. Mako Spince had a penchant for making his money and then blowing it on whatever distracting outlet he could. Long as Han had known him, he’d always been like that–a taste for the indulgent and the outrageous.
“What’s he need a shipment for?” he asked, turning back to the mechanic. “Somethin’ happen?”
Shug’s face scrunched up. “Said he had a run in with some pirates. Fought his way out, obviously, but took some damage to his weapons systems.”
Immediately, Han spun and gawked at the ship in the bay opposite. Inside, only dimly lit by the default lighting of the hangar sat a gunmetal gray ship. She sat heavy on her frame, a bulky, hulking vessel. Punching Out wasn’t the fastest, but she could take a beating and give it back twice as hard. And, by the looks of it, that’s exactly what she’d done her last trip. Streaks of laser fire marred her hull, and Han could see the pit of charred black where the cannons on the starboard side had once been.
The mechanic shook his head. “Feels like they’re more brazen to me. Never heard of them out as far as Utapau. But, then again, Empire didn’t use to be there, either.”
Han grimaced at Shug’s observation. Planet after planet had fallen into Imperial control in the last decade and a half, the Empire slowly eating up territory and planets and breaking economies to either suit their purposes or fold in the face of their dominant and ever-growing military regime. The Core near the center of the galaxy, already a cohesive unit under the previous Republic, had succumbed quickly. A central hub established, the Empire had then begun branching out, slowly gobbling up additional star systems and picking off useful colonies on the periphery to support the burgeoning needs of the war machine. Utapau was newly acquired Empire territory. Pirates had never hung around it much, but the imposition of the Imperials meant a chokehold on imports and exports. Exploiting such restrictions was the specialty of smugglers, but unfortunately, where smugglers went, pirates went, too.
“Rho told me he never listened about how to sidestep them,” Han remarked dryly, still staring at Punching Out. “Always went barreling down the middle.”
Shug snickered. “Well, he’s reckless. You all have that in common, too.”
Distantly, Han nodded, then his gaze surreptitiously eyeballed the bay nearest the back. Upon inspection, he acknowledged with a sigh that the darkness of the doorway and the red light above the entrance meant the bay sat empty, which meant its usual occupier had already left for her run.
“You missed her by all of half an hour,” came Shug’s voice behind him.
Han turned tightly, barely able to suppress his surprise to have been caught and hurriedly forced a smirk. “Tell me she didn’t kiss you goodbye in my absence,” he returned, laconic.
“No accounting for taste,” the mechanic teased, grinning, before gesturing behind him at the Gotal’s ship. “Listen, I gotta turn-to.”
They parted after a quick handshake, Han still holding the grin, but soon as Shug had made it about ten paces away, his face fell. Once again, he glanced down at the empty bay towards the front, then shrugged, figuring he’d just have to see her when she came back, though he felt the mildest little pang that she’d not waited to say goodbye. That was just like Salla, though–seldom sentimental–and he supposed that was the exact thing that made them work.
With no bay of his own here to return to, no immediate task to complete, no friend in sight to kill time with, an emptiness tugged somewhere in his chest, reaching up for his throat. His brow hardened and with a tight swallow, he forced the feeling down.
He needed to focus…Chewie–where the hell was Chewie? He stretched his neck to search across the hangar, his eyes straining in the dark to catch sight of the unmistakable mass of the Wookie. His hunt fruitless. Exasperated, he let go of a long, grumbling sigh. The big lug hovered when he wasn’t needed…and then disappeared when he was.
Wait…he’d need to wait. He shifted his weight around, his hands briefly finding his hips, his attention searching for something–anything–to take his mind off whatever might surface. He scanned what he could see of the hangar: bodies and parts and machinery moved around almost in a dance, but nothing particular caught his eye. Then, in the distance, a spray of yellow sparks erupted into the air, grinding at some ship obscured by its respective bay. Ever so faintly, he heard the whine of the engine and the sharp, resistant squeal of the hull, and he watched for a beat, entranced by the fireworks show.
At the noise of someone else, a stranger, coming to pass him in the corridor, he remembered himself. Giving the customary nod, he moved to the side to let her pass. She slipped by with little acknowledgement, a stiff dismissal that he felt surprised to be offended by. He watched her walk down the corridor, watched her slip into her hangar, saw the green light above the bay entrance start to blink in warning of impending take-off.
He swallowed again. No need to be upset…that was just how this place worked. Come. Go. Get what you need. Mind your own business. Sidestep who you need to. Do what it takes to thrive on the Smuggler’s Moon.