James Luceno - Darth Plagueis

“We’ve a Twi’lek who supplies the females,” Damask said from his armchair. “You’ll have to speak with her.”

Gardulla noted the sharp tone in his voice. “On to business then.”

Damask offered a gesture of apology. “A busy schedule affords me scant time for pleasantries.”

Unaccustomed to straight talk, the Hutt frowned, then said, “I plan to make a grab for Tatooine, Magister, and I’ve come to solicit your support.”

“An arid world in the Arkanis sector of the Outer Rim,” Hill supplied quietly from behind the armchair.

“By support , I presume we are talking about credits,” Damask said.

Gardulla repositioned herself on the litter. “I’m aware that you disapprove of spice and slavery, but there are profits to be made on Tatooine by other means.”

“Not moisture farming, then.”

Gardulla glowered. “You mock me.”

Damask motioned negligently. “I tease you, Gardulla. I know little about Tatooine, other than that the planet was heir to an ecological catastrophe in the dim past, and that its vast deserts now support a population of ne’er-do-wells, scoundrels, and hapless spacers of all species. I’ve heard it said that nothing pans out on Tatooine, and that beings who reside there age prematurely.”

Damask knew, too, that the ancient Sith had once had an outpost on Tatooine, but he kept that to himself.

“Fortunately, longevity comes naturally to my species,” Gardulla said. “But I don’t want for enemies of a different sort, Magister. Enemies who would like nothing more than to see me in an early grave.”

“The Desilijic clan.”

“They are precisely the reason I wish to remove myself from Nal Hutta — and from the likes of Jabba Desilijic Tiure and the rest. With your financial assistance I can accomplish that. I know that you have befriended Hutts in your own planetary neighborhood.”

“It’s true that Drixo and Progga have done well for themselves on Comra,” Damask said, “but their successes came at a high cost. What are you offering in return for our investment?”

A light came into the Hutt’s dark, oblique eyes. “A Podrace course that will make those on Malastare and on your own Muunilinst seem like amateur runs. In addition, the renaissance of an annual Podrace event that will bring tens of thousands of gamblers to Tatooine and fill my coffers to overflowing.” She paused, then added: “And I’m willing to take you on as a partner.”

“A silent partner,” Damask amended.

She nodded. “As you wish.”

Damask steepled his long fingers and raised his hands to his jutting chin. “In addition to a percentage of the profits, I want you to arrange for Boss Cabra to operate freely on Nar Shaddaa.”

Gardulla adopted an incredulous look. “The Dug crime boss?”

“You know the one,” Hill said sharply.

The Hutt fretted. “I can’t make promises, Magister. Black Sun is deeply entrenched on Nar Shaddaa, and the Vigos are grooming Alexi Garyn to assume control of the organization. They may not appreciate or permit—”

“Those are our terms, Gardulla,” Damask cut in. “Find some way to allow Cabra to reach an accommodation with Black Sun and we will support your takeover of Tatooine.” He gestured toward the fortress courtyard. “This very night I can arrange for you to meet with officials representing the Bank of Aargau, who will advance whatever amount of credits you need.”

After a long moment of silence, Gardulla nodded. “I accept your terms, Magister Damask. You will not be disappointed.”

When the Hutt had steered her antigrav litter from the room, members of the Sun Guard showed in a group of tall reptilian sentients who stood on two thick legs and whose broad snouts curved downward at the tip. Damask’s previous contact with the Yinchorri had been limited to holoprojector; now he leaned forward in keen interest as the spokes-member introduced himself in gruff Basic as Qayhuk — secretary of the Council of Elders — and launched immediately into a diatribe denouncing the Senate for refusing to admit Yinchorr to the Republic. With bellicose encouragement from his comrades, Qayhuk went on to say with fist-pounding emphasis that although their homeworld had been charted hundred of years earlier by the Republic, Yinchorr remained an underprivileged, backrocket planet deserving of far better treatment.

“Or someone will pay in blood for the ongoing injustice,” the secretary warned.

Larsh Hill waited until he was certain that Qayhuk was finished to remark under his breath, “I’m not sure even the Senate is ready for them.”

Holding Qayhuk’s baleful gaze and motioning with his hand, Damask said, “You have no interest in seeing Yinchorr seated in the Senate.”

Qayhuk took umbrage. “Why else would we have journeyed all this way?”

“You have no interest in seeing Yinchorr seated in the Senate,” Plagueis repeated.

Qayhuk glanced at his green-skinned brethren, then looked at Hill. “Is Magister Damask deaf or in ill health?”

Hill turned to Damask in concern but said nothing.

Damask concealed his astonishment. As rumored, the Yinchorri were apparently resistant to Force suggestion! But how was it possible that midi-chlorians in a being of relatively low intelligence could erect an impenetrable wall against the influence of a Sith? Was this some sort of survival mechanism — the midi-chlorians’ way of protecting the consciousness of their vessels by refusing to be manipulated? He would need to possess one of these beings to learn the secret.

“We might be willing to help you lobby for representation in the Senate,” he said at last, “but the process could require standard years or even decades, and I’m not convinced you have the patience for it.”

Qayhuk’s wide nostrils flared. “What’s a decade when we have been patient for a century? Are we not sentients? Or are we required to embrace the conditions along with accepting them?”

Damask shook his head. “No one is asking you to applaud the arrangement.”

Qayhuk’s expression softened somewhat. “Then we have an accord?”

“We will draw up a contract,” Damask said. “In the meantime, I want some assurance that I can call on you for a personal favor should the need arise.”

Qayhuk stared at him. “A personal favor? Of what sort?”

Damask showed the palms of his hands. “Of whatever sort I require, Secretary.”

The Yinchorri and his brethren traded uncertain glances, but Qayhuk ultimately nodded in agreement. “Done, Magister.”

“A favor?” Hill asked as the Yinchorri were being seen out.

“Nothing more than a test,” Damask told him.

Next to be admitted for audience were two Gran; the larger of the pair, a Republic Senator named Pax Teem, represented the Gran Protectorate. Teem had scarcely taken a seat when he said, “Promise me, Magister Damask, that you haven’t entered into a deal with Gardulla.”

“Our dealings with the Hutts,” Hill said, “are no less confidential than our dealings with you, Senator Teem.”

The Gran’s trio of stalked eyes twitched in anger. “Rumors abound of Gardulla’s plans to refurbish the Podrace course on Tatooine and enter into direct competition with Malastare.”

Damask regarded him blankly. “Surely you haven’t come all this way to hear me address rumors.”

Teem worked his big jaw. “Promises were made, Magister.”

“And fulfilled,” Damask said; then, in a calmer voice, he added, “As a means of offsetting losses in revenue derived from Podracing, the cost of Malastare’s fuel exports could be raised.”

The Gran ruminated. “That sounds more like a possibility than a guarantee.”

Damask shrugged. “We will take it up with the steerage committee. But for now, consider it a starting point for discussion.” Reclining in the chair, he appraised Teem before saying, “What else is troubling you, Senator?”