James Luceno - Darth Plagueis

Plagueis cut his eyes to the Nikto. “Who is this callow pup?”

“Pup?” the Dug repeated before the Nikto could intervene.

“Boss Cabra’s youngest progeny, Magister,” she said quickly, restraining the Dug with her extended left arm. “He means no disrespect.”

Plagueis regarded the Dug again. “What are you called, pup?”

The Dug’s rear legs were tensed for a leap, but the Nikto whirled rapidly, slapping him across his flewed and broad-nostriled snout and clamping a hand on his windpipe.

“Answer him!” she bellowed into his snarling face. “And with due respect!”

The Dug relented and whimpered, though certainly more out of humiliation than pain. “Darnada,” he squeaked at last.

“Darnada,” Plagueis repeated before addressing the Nikto. “Perhaps young Darnada should be muzzled to prevent him from endangering his father’s business relationships.”

“His brashness reflects his inexperience, Magister,” the Nikto said in abject apology. She gave Darnada a menacing glance before continuing. “Trust that your orders regarding the ship will be honored in full, Magister.”

“I will also need a change of wardrobe and a fueled, piloted ship.”

“Can we provide the pilot with a destination beforehand?”

“Muunilinst.”

“Of course, Magister. And what are your instructions regarding the droid?”

“Instructions?”

“Is the droid to be slagged along with the ship?”

Plagueis looked over his shoulder at 11-4D. “How much of your memory can be wiped without tampering with your medical protocols?”

“I’m modular in design,” the droid said. “My memory storage can be erased in its entirety or according to whatever parameters you establish.”

Plagueis considered that. “Remain with the ship until it has been liquefied. I will expect a complete audio-vid recording.”

OneOne-FourDee raised its right-side appendages in a gesture of acknowledgment. “At your service, Magister Damask.”

Those fortunate enough to have visited Muunilinst in the decades preceding the Clone Wars often remarked that the planet had been blessed with the most beautiful skies in the galaxy. To maintain that pristine blue realm — to prevent it from being sullied by drop ships, shuttles, or landing craft — the Muuns had erected the most costly skyhook of its kind anywhere outside the Core. As efficient as it was luxurious, the skyhook, known affectionately as the Financial Funnel, linked the orbital city of High Port with the planetary capital, Harnaidan, which functioned as the nerve center of the InterGalactic Banking Clan. While the stately tower seemed to speak to the Muuns’ high regard for aesthetics and ecology, its true purpose was to keep visitors from setting foot on Muunilinst, thereby safeguarding the planet’s wealth of resources and keeping secret the lavish lifestyles of those who had ascended to the top of the food chain.

From its remote corner of the Outer Rim, Muunilinst exerted its influence across all of known space and halfway to the galaxy’s nearest satellite star cluster. Dating back to the founding of the Republic, the Banking Clan had funded governments, supported settlements, and bankrolled countless commerce guilds, trade corporations, and shipping cartels. In a very real sense, the IBC dictated the ebb and flow of wealth from the Core to the Outer Rim. Scarcely a building was raised on Coruscant without the Banking Clan’s approval; scarcely a starship left the yards at Kuat or Bilbringi or Fondor without the IBC having brokered the deal; and scarcely an election occurred on Corellia or Commenor without the Muuns having been consulted.

The Muuns accomplished all these things with a meticulous serenity that belied the frenzied workings of their mathematical minds. Save for when it came to collecting on overdue debts, the Muuns, on first acquaintance, appeared to be a stolid and lenient species, if somewhat arrogant, with an ascetic nature that was in full keeping with their willowy bodies and was reflected in the simple but harmonious architecture of their cities.

As pale as the Muuns themselves, High Port Space Center incorporated the design elements they favored most: domed interiors, arch-topped windows, fluted columns, and unadorned friezes and entablatures. Among these faux-stone building blocks large groups of Muuns maneuvered and mingled with unhurried if single-minded purpose, maintaining a conversational clamor that struck some visitors as reminiscent of the spoken language of thinking machines. Attending them were droids of all variety, and guest workers from the nearby worlds of Bescane, Jaemus, Entralla, and others. On any given day a visitor might spy envoys from Yagai, Gravlex Med, or Kalee, along with Hutts of the Drixo or Progga kin. But what one saw most, in overwhelming numbers, were members of the Banking Clan — financiers, accountants, lawyers — dressed in their signatory Palo fiduciary garb: formfitting green trousers and boots, round-collared green tunics, and flare-shouldered green cloaks. Some were accompanied by retinues of squat, dark-skinned, flat-nosed soldiers from the planet Iotra, sporting garish body armor and carrying ceremonial weapons.

That day, cutting through the verdant sea like some predatory sea creature came a wedge-shaped cluster of Muuns dressed in black cloaks and skullcaps, guarded by a contingent of towheaded Echani warriors whose silver eyes darted vigilantly, and whose metallic bodysuits masked the translucency of their skin. At the leading edge of the wedge marched an elder Muun with a whiskered chin and stooped shoulders, who was making directly for High Port’s customs control station, where Hego Damask — as Plagueis was known to everyone but the late Darth Tenebrous — and 11-4D were waiting, amid a contingent of security personnel.

“We came as soon as High Port Immigration notified us,” Larsh Hill said. “If you had contacted us from Deep Space Demolition, we could have sent a ship, rather than have you rely on Boss Cabra’s specious hospitality.” “No one seems to believe that I’m capable of finding my own way home,” Damask said.

Hill’s long face wrinkled. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s not important that you do. Suffice it to say that your dispatching a ship would only have resulted in further delay.” Like Hill and his coterie of half a dozen, Damask’s hairless head was encased in a tight-fitting bonnet, and the hem of his black cloak swept the polished floor.

“You were expected days ago,” Hill said, with a note of exasperation.

“Events of an unforeseen nature prevented me from returning earlier.” “A successful journey, nevertheless, I assume.”

“You assume correctly.”

Hill relaxed somewhat. “We shouldn’t tarry here any longer than necessary. Transport is waiting.” At Hill’s gesture, the black-cloaked Muuns began to angle toward the skyhook turbolifts, four of the silver-suited warriors falling in to flank Damask and the droid, which walked behind him.

“You’re limping,” Hill said in hushed urgency. “Are you injured?”

“Healing,” Damask said. “Make no further mention of it.”

“We could postpone the Gathering—”

“No. It will take place as scheduled.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Hill said, “since several of your guests are already in transit to Sojourn.” The group was halfway to the turbolifts when a faction of Banking Clan officials deliberately cut across their path, forcing them to halt. The faction’s obvious leader, a Muun of middle age, separated himself from the rest and moved to the front.

“Magister Damask,” he said. “What a surprise to encounter you here, among the rabble.” Damask adopted a faint grin. “Excluding yourself, of course, Chairman Tonith.” Tonith stiffened. “We’re simply passing through.”