Chapter Text
[ISB-P511A]: ISB officers are not trained to believe in coincidences, [7792CE] . Your explanation does not inspire confidence.
[7792CE]: Like I said, SoroSuub only collaborated with MandalMotors because they had the best metallurgists in the galaxy. The Mandalorians came to us in the days of the old Republic because we had the mineralogists and hypermatter refining experts they needed. We agreed to merge our engineering subsidiaries to make the galaxy’s greatest hyperdrives. That’s all! The first sub-Class One hyperdrives were breakthrough innovations borne of this merger. This was a business decision made in the time of Duchess Satine Kryze, before there was even a Galactic Empire! We do not communicate with the Mandalorian terrorists. The sisters hated each other! There is no rebel collusion on my watch, I promise you.
[ISB-P511A]: Then explain to me why Alderaanian terrorists were being sheltered on Sullust.
[7792CE]: How would I know? I’m just a businessman. You’ll have to ask the Prime Minister.
[ISB-P511A]: You don’t know? I suppose you don’t care, either? Is concern for the greater good of this galaxy non-existent in your kind? It’s becoming clear to me that you are loyal only to the credit chip. Incom’s [redacted] told me something very similar, all the while selling hundreds of their snub fighters to terrrorists. He left us no choice but to imperialize that company. I’m starting to think I should recommend the same course of action here.
[7792CE]: What? I’ve already turned in everything we’ve got on MandalMotors! We’ve been nothing but cooperative and loyal all these years! More than half of Sullustian livelihoods are dependent on SoroSuub!
[ISB-P511A]: Perhaps your Prime Minister should have evaluated the consequences of his decisions before making them.
“ISB-T7792CE-1-10108040745: Testimony of Detainee 7792CE*”. 1BBY.
*Detainee 7792CE is believed to be Mr. Siin Suub, former Chief Executive Officer of the SoroSuub Corporation.
Unsealed interrogation transcripts of the Imperial Security Bureau.
While I appreciate the concerns of the opposing Senators on the difficulty of galactic corporate regulation in this post-civil war context, I believe there is a stronger case to be made for ceding imperialized companies back into private hands. Cutting operation costs for the New Republic and delivering economic justice are important justifications that my colleagues have elaborated upon at length. But more critically, I believe such a move will inject much-needed vitality and dynamism into the galactic economy. Galactic innovation and technological achievement indices have long signaled stagnation (and in some industries, regression) during the Imperial decades. This is unsurprising. The great crucible of innovation is a free and open-minded society, and there are few incentives for thinking differently under authoritarian regimes. In these difficult and uncertain times, the galaxy is in urgent need of bold new solutions in planetary reconstruction, medicine, food production, and environmental rehabilitation. Therefore, I support Senator Dern’s proposal to reinstate former boards of directors and return ownership of imperialized corporations to their original shareholders, whenever it is feasible. Where such a course of action is impossible or politically ill-advised, a combination of public offerings, asset sales, and management buyouts could be used to entrust these assets into the care of our most enterprising and visionary citizens, to invest in a brighter future for our children.
Dr. Ral Rotha, 7ABY. “The Case for Re-Privatizing Imperialized Corporations”.
Invited opinion in The Galactic Beacon.
Dr. Rotha is a Chancellor-nominated Speaker in the New Republic Senate and Professor of Galactic Political Economy at the Sartha School of Economics, University of Chandrila at Hana City.
If you think the sort of havoc wrought by the illegal spice trade will be history with the enactment of Bill 184 and the ongoing bankruptcy case of Oba Diah Fortress, think again. A new psychoactive called ‘Golden Goddess’ arrived on the scene no longer than six months ago, and sales have skyrocketed. The drug is marketed as little tubes of sparkling nectar emblazoned with the golden silhouette of a dancing Twi’lek goddess. Street value of ‘Goddess’ seized by the Corellian Narcotics Control Bureau was over twenty million NRC in the last month alone - nearly eight times more than glitterstim, and just behind pure sansanna spice. “You probably don’t remember, but Deathsticks did a number on the lower levels of Coronet City and around the Bottoms in the days of the previous Republic. People aren’t dying in large numbers from the ‘Goddess’ so far, but its addictiveness scares me,” Jace Rendor, the retired former chief coroner of Corellian Security Forces, told this journalist. “It’s an even more profitable product, in that way. I mean - you want your users hooked, not dead. Someone’s getting filthy rich out there.”
Street dealers appear to be targeting the young with this sweet concoction that produces a similar user experience as sansanna spice, albeit more potent and addictive. Five deaths have been directly linked to ‘Goddess’, all near-humans under thirty standard years of age. Experts are concerned about the use prevalence of this mysterious new mind-altering substance in the sub-adult population as it coincides with a spike in missing person cases in the same demographic. Investigations are ongoing to determine its source and establish if there may be a link between the novel narcotic and these disappearances. Pharmaceutical analyses of the active compound have not yet been publicly made available, but autopsy reports indicate that the five ‘Golden Goddess’ victims showed signs of hypermatter poisoning, consistent with coaxium overexposure. Our sources in the Bureau tell us that initial investigations suggest that the ‘synth-spice’ is trafficked mainly through the Hydian Way, with a growing presence along the Corellian Run.
The Corellian Narcotics Bureau is ramping up its public education campaign on the ‘Goddess’. But residents in affected neighborhoods are skeptical of these efforts. “Look, we don’t need to tell kids it’s poison. They know it better than anyone else. It’s just been so hard after the war in these parts. Life was bad under Imperial rule, but it was predictable, you know? With a bit of luck and a few brain cells, you could figure out how to survive,” said a resident of Sub-level 13/13, who would only give us his nickname ‘Polk’. “Now? There are no jobs, no food, no medicine, no rules. Every week, a new idiot is proclaiming himself underworld boss. It doesn’t feel like there’s a future here. So if you’re having a really bad day or lost somebody recently, maybe you’d accept a bit of relief too.”
Mirrax Horn, “The Sinister Coming of the ‘Golden Goddess’”.
Special issue of The Corellian Inquirer in 13ABY.
Ner verd’ika,
Quit trying to lure me back to Manda’yaim. You know how much I miss you and your vode - almost as much as Isbet’s tiinglar! But I am an old man, and my task is done. My continued presence there will only hinder your ba’vodu’s rule. Knowing when to entrust leadership to the next generation is a vital part of leading, verd’ika. I must set the right example, and I am most satisfied that Mandalore is in good hands with her.
I have reacclimated well to life at the Temple. It is a relief to just be an ordinary jedi once more. You will tease me for being maudlin, but I have been spending much time at the creche with younglings and initiates. It reminds me of the first few years after the Force guided me to you on Concordia. For all the historic enmity between Mando’ade and Jetii, my two peoples are more similar than they care to admit. (…)
Perhaps this will only be a footnote in our history, but I want you to know that caring for you and Sar’ika remains the most meaningful task of my life, imperfect as I was as your buir. When you have a child or a foundling of your own, I hope you will instill in them this above all else: a warrior must first and foremost be a good person. That is what both Creed and Code teaches us, in so many different words. The terrible power to inflict death and destruction must be wielded with honor and tempered by compassion, especially for those we may perceive as our enemy. It is the only way to ensure that our people will never descend into madness again.
Jedi Master Tarre Viszla, to his Mandalorian foundling ‘Verd’ika’, circa. 1190 BBY.
Reproduced in Family Letters, from Temple to Forge: Select correspondences of Master Tarre Viszla.
Collected and published by anonymous archivists of the Old Jedi Order.
The pets and sub-adults in this palace are all spoilt rotten, Fennec Shand concluded with great annoyance, as yet another ground-shaking roar came from the rancor pit beneath. Dust swirled visibly around the throne room where shafts of late afternoon light shone through. A strill’s rattling cackle can be heard from somewhere beyond the lighting fixtures above the grate to the rancor pit. Before her, their Gamorrean guards picked up the petitioner who had just fainted and dutifully carried him out to their public-facing medbay. At the doorway, the two other petitioners waiting outside the throne room quickly excused themselves and said they would come back another time. Fennec sighed and rubbed her temple as she activated her commlink. Well, at least it will be a short day of audiences.
“Vhenn! Get your pet out of the throne room,” she snapped into the comms.
She heard him groan on the other end. “So that’s where Stinky went again. Sorry, boss. Coming right away.”
“Uja! Stop encouraging the strill. Go lay down! Now,” she scolded down into the pit at the enraged rancor. Uja ignored her and continued roaring futilely at the ceiling above. For additional encouragement, Fennec added, “Boba will take you out for an extra walk tonight if you comply immediately.” In the pit, beady eyes perked up at the words ‘Boba’ and ‘walk’. It appeared to consider the bribe for a moment before reluctantly obeying with one last angry roar and a slam on her grate. The enormous beast finally disappeared into her den.
Fennec could now hear barely stifled sniggering from both entrances to the throne room. She narrowed her eyes first at the Rau cousins stationed at the main entrance, then turned dangerously to Skad and Zed at the back. They immediately assumed a more professional manner.
No one listens to her properly anymore around here. It’s incredibly frustrating and most definitely Boba’s fault. In the preceding period when her husband was off on Mandalorian business, she had it all handled. Everyone was appropriately terrified of her. But since the Daimyo’s return, immediate and unquestioned obedience was becoming increasingly uncommon. And the greatest offender of all was the strill.
Getting off the throne, Fennec made her way to stand directly above Uja’s grate. She crossed her arms and glared up into a pair of reflective eyes lurking in the shadowy recesses behind the light. The strill stared back at her unabashedly.
In a moment of weakness after hearing a lengthy sob story about this creature, she had capitulated to Vhenn’s request to bring it back to Tatooine. Now she is condemned to pay the price for her lack of fortitude on Concord Dawn. Since its arrival at the palace, the strill spends all of its waking hours terrorizing the other creatures in the Palace. It had put the rat-catcher droids out of work within a week of its arrival - vermin of all manners seem to have a preternatural sense of a great predator in their vicinity and made themselves scarce. The massifs are noticeably nervous around it after it stalked and pounced on them several times. But the strill’s favorite target is the sulking rancor below.
‘Stinky’ the strill would sneak into the throne room with stealth even the master assassin had to admire grudgingly. No one had quite managed to figure out exactly how it gets in. The first and only indication of its presence is always Uja’s abrupt and furious roar, reacting to some noise the strill emitted outside of a human’s hearing range. Sometimes, the strill would pounce on the pit’s grate and deliberately drool into it, leaping easily out of the way as the rancor swiped furiously through the grate. Fennec was under no illusion that the strill was merely acting upon its hunting instincts. The creature was well-fed and must know that the massive rancor wasn’t suitable prey. She can only explain the behavior as taunting for entertainment, knowing full well that the much larger predator below could do nothing in retaliation. If it wasn’t causing such a ruckus in the echoing throne room and threatening to damage the pit grates while she was seeing petitioners, Fennec might have sat back and watched with amusement.
“Come down,” she barked up at the creature. No luck. It remained still and watchful, clinging precariously onto the swaying ceiling fixture with its sharp claws. ‘Stinky’ the strill does not listen to her. It listens to Vhenn, but also seems conveniently hard of hearing at times. On occasion, it might obey Boba, but the Daimyo was off negotiating with Tusken tribes today.
Fennec sighed in exasperation. She really didn’t want the light to come crashing down and draw the rancor out again. Perhaps if she waved her rifle warningly at the beast, it would scramble off? She strode back to the throne to pick up her favored weapon leaning against the armrest, only to flinch. The strap of her rifle is wet. And sticky. She looked at the clinging strands of strill drool on her gloves in disgust. Dank farrik, her rifle had just been serviced! Fennec’s left eyelid started twitching. Darkly, she wondered how upset Vhenn would be if she surreptitiously arranged for the creature to meet its demise in an unfortunate accident.
Just then, said teenage Mandalorian rushed into the throne room. The strill immediately leaped off the ceiling in greeting, the light creaking and swinging wildly in its wake. Fennec narrowed her eyes at the monstrous pet and its owner.
“Keep the strill under control, Vhenn,” she warned him gravely. “Or I will not be held responsible for my actions the next time it wreaks havoc in this palace.”
“Sorry, boss,” Vhenn replied, his brows knitted in contrition. “Stinky’s been bored. He hasn’t been out on a hunt in a while.”
“Then direct its boredom elsewhere,” Fennec responded, frowning as she held out her sticky glove and rifle strap accusingly. “Look at this.”
Instead of apologizing, Vhenn smiled at the damning evidence. “Aw. He likes you.” At its master’s side, the strill flopped onto its belly and lolled out a dripping tongue while staring directly at Fennec, as if demonstrating Vhenn’s point. What a manipulative creature.
“Which is why it refuses to listen to my commands and attempts to destroy my property?” She asked incredulously, pointing to the mess on her glove and rifle. “Are you taking me for a fool, Vhenn?”
“It’s just what strill do when they consider you their own! Honest!” Vhenn protested, wide-eyed and seemingly hurt on his pet’s behalf. That sly old beast had the gall to make a whimpering noise at her raised voice. It knew exactly what it was doing. “Strill scent-mark your stuff so that they know you’re family.”
Fennec sighed. She decided against appearing too heartless and playing right into the strill’s schemes. “Well, then kindly convey to the creature that I do not care for its affection.”
“Maybe you can take Stinky out on one of your stakeouts. He was the best tracker of his cohort and he used to -” But before Vhenn could finish, their Gamorrean guards escorted a nervous-looking nikto into the throne room. His red-brown coat was dusty and disheveled from what was probably a long speeder ride. Beneath the worn fabric of his hood, the alien’s dark eyes darted about the room furtively as if he were expecting unwelcome company. Ah, one of her informants.
“News from Mos Eisley, Grom?”
He looked warily at the strill, then nodded once. Fennec gave him a moment to settle his nerves and catch his breath as she wiped off her sticky glove on the fabric of her kama. Grom Tovar is a Mos Eisley spaceport operator and former Hutt spice runner whom she had bribed and threatened into working as their gotra’s eyes on smuggling operations there. While the various synth-spice trafficking rings seem to have steered clear of Mos Espa’s spaceports since the Daimyo busted their local operations about a year ago, Fennec kept a close eye on what was happening in the neighboring spaceport. After all, infections have a tendency to spread quickly.
“It’s ramping up,” Grom Tovar reported in a hoarse voice. “I’ve heard rumors that a couple of young port workers associated with the smaller synth-spice rings have gone missing in the last month. Kids no one would miss.”
Fennec frowned and signaled for him to continue.
“My people connected to the rings believe that there’s a big shipment from Nar Kanji coming through tomorrow night at Terminal four-cresh. They say they’re moving product this time, not raw material.”
“Product?” Fennec was alarmed. Grom nodded, reaching into his coat pockets to toss a tiny vial of liquid at her. She snatched it out of mid-air and examined the object curiously. The liquid inside was clear and viscous, with golden flakes suspended within. It glittered when it caught the sunlight. An adhesive featuring the metallic gold silhouette of a dancing Twi’lek wrapped around the glass vial, looking like it was hastily slapped on.
“A street dealer pushed this onto one of my workers. That’s a single dose,” Grom explained gruffly. “Oral intake. Sparkly stuff in there are synth-spice crystal flakes. The vehicle’s some oil-based gel.”
The frown on Fennec’s brows deepened. In her experience, a single active rat in the day always indicated a hundred others scurrying about in the night.
“And this… big shipment is intended for direct sales in our sector?”
The nikto merely shrugged in response to her query. “Can’t say. But I don’t think so. The local rings might skim off a bit for sales but the population and money ain’t here.”
Troubled, Fennec looked at the vial in her hand for a long moment before pocketing it and waving Skad over to hand out the usual payment.
“Keep your ears peeled, Grom,” Fennec instructed. Her informant grunted in assent and left the way he came, pulling his hood more securely over his face as he exited.
Tomorrow night, Grom had said. She glanced back at Vhenn and his pet. The pair had been watching the whole exchange with curiosity. At her renewed attention, the strill let its long dripping tongue hang out again. Fennec fingered the vial of synth-spice in her pocket as she considered the palace nuisance and its master in a new light.
“Perhaps your strill’s boredom will soon be alleviated.”
That evening, Fennec was finishing her meal and idly examining a bottle of Tusken Wind her partner had brought back from his day trip earlier. When Boba returned from the promised walk with Uja, she observed that he seemed in a pleasant mood, humming softly as he strolled into the dining hall and settled into his usual seat next to her.
“Negotiations were productive, I take it?”
The Daimyo grunted an affirmative and reached over to retrieve the bottle from her hands. “The affected tribes are amenable as long as they get a cut, and we modify the race track to traverse the bedrock-controlled channels of the canyons instead of passing over the Dune Sea.” Now that things were more stable in Mandalorian Space, Boba had been looking to resume the Boonta Eve Classic podrace that had once raked in massive profits for Jabba and Gardulla when they brought in gamblers and spectators from all over the Mid-rim and Outer rim.
“Good. We’ll have a healthy surplus this Boonta Eve to make up for the drought relief expenses, then.”
Boba smiled broadly. “Let’s celebrate with some of this fine offering from the Dune Sea, hm?”
He deftly broke open the gifted bottle and poured a finger into his glass. He nodded approvingly as he tasted the precious beverage. He then filled another glass and handed it to her. Fennec never quite took to the taste of fresh black melon milk, but she could appreciate the strange fruit in its fermented and distilled form. She took a sip. It was sweet and dry, with a surprisingly spicy afterbite.
“Did you know that vibrations from podracing can disrupt the local Dune Sea ecosystem for months after the event?” Boba asked semi-rhetorically as he savored the drink, sounding intrigued by whatever he learnt today.
“Really?” Fennec couldn’t help but smile at the look of wonder Boba always wore when talking about the natural realm.
“Desert fauna navigate the sands using a combination of magneto- and mechano-reception. The planet’s magnetic fields orient the animals during long migrations, but many species also rely on surface vibrations to assess weather conditions and identify feeding opportunities,” her husband explained, gesturing with his hands like he was communicating with the Tuskens. His deep interest in the topic was plain to Fennec. It was… endearing. “Vibrations over the sand dunes from podracer engines feel like a deadly sandstorm to many of these creatures. It repels nearly all of the Tusken’s preferred hunting game and several critical black melon spore dispersers, while drawing in big opportunistic feeders like Kryat dragons.”
That makes sense. “You learn something every day, don’t you?” Her response was teasing, but the smile lingered at the corner of her mouth as she reached over with a hand to cup his cheek fondly. The corners of Boba’s eyes crinkled as he grinned back and turned his head to kiss her hand at the unusual display of affection.
“Speaking of the ecosystem, how are the decontamination works going in the Jhundland Wastes?” Fennec asked in a more somber tone, after watching him eat in comfortable silence for several minutes. They had first discovered the synth-spice threat a little less than a year ago, when an up-and-coming syndicate based on Nar Kanji attempted to move the narcotic through Tatooine by hijacking the Daimyo’s water imports. By bribing transportation companies and workers, trafficking rings fixed water imports with the water-soluble synthetic drug, reclaiming their product in a decommissioned water treatment facility in the Jhundland wastes. The reclamation process, however, created a toxic by-product that poisoned the sands where it was dumped.
Boba frowned. “The Mayor’s construction crews have excavated and capped most of the contaminated region. Their geohydrologists say there is no evidence dumped effluents penetrated the groundwater barrier. But I’ve requested that the Desert Survey Office monitor toxicity levels over the next couple of years, just in case.”
“And what of the children who got sick?” Three Tusken children from the Jhundland tribes fell sick, and two massifs died after consuming black melons foraged in the contaminated area.
“Tribe leaders tell me that they are back to their normal selves for now, physically. No one else has displayed any symptoms. But blood work shows elevated levels of several toxic trace minerals in nearly all tribe members,” Boba sighed and rubbed his temples. “The medics aren’t sure what it means, but they mentioned that potential health problems may look a little like hypermatter overexposure if the test values don’t improve.”
Fennec felt a sinking feeling in her mechanical gut. The most infamous victims of hypermatter poisoning were the enslaved beings who mined coaxium on Kessel. Life expectancy was no longer than five years for most humanoid species sentenced to work in that noxious environment with no protection.
“I should have investigated the discrepancy with the delivered water relief volumes sooner,” she muttered.
Boba shook his head and squeezed her hand lightly in response. “It’s a wonder you caught on to it at all. It was very obscure.”
“Perhaps I should join you on the stakeout tomorrow night,” he added with a frown after a pensive moment. “I agreed to close one eye at small amounts going through Mos Eisley’s ports so you can conduct your investigations, but they are getting too bold. I must draw the line at any attempt to make sales on this planet or turn it into a distribution center.”
Fennec leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms as she considered her partner’s words. No, it wouldn’t do for this new narcotic to gain any sort of user base here on Tatooine. If Grom Tovar’s information was correct, then this could be an opportunity to apprehend some of the local ringleaders. But what would that accomplish? Others will immediately spring up to take their place. She glanced back at Boba.
“Stay put in the palace. It won’t look good if the Daimyo is spotted dealing with a synth-spice problem personally while we are courting businesses for the Boonta Eve Classic,” she said finally. At Boba’s unconvinced expression, she added, “I’ll take Vhenn and a squad of our best soldiers along. We’ll make sure any synth-spice stock brought in is destroyed.”
Terminal 4C of the Mos Eisley spaceport was an impressive piece of transportation infrastructure cut into the plateau overlooking the Slauce canyon, situated some distance from the actual city. It was an older cargo terminal, a little shabby on the outside but functionally adequate, primarily handling imports and exports within Greater Hutt Space. Fennec and her disguised squad of eight had filed in gradually a little after 2100 standard. The arrival manifest she retrieved from Grom Tovar indicated that it would be an exceptionally busy night and she decided to take advantage of the fact to plant their people into the terminal workforce as temporary hires. While the gotra’s soldiers blended in with the workers at the terminal, she stayed hidden with Vhenn and his strill on the roof of the warehouse that was supposed to be handling the shipment of interest.
This time of the night, the winds blew cold over surfaces that still radiated warmth. Fennec shifted uncomfortably at the temperature contrast over her bionics on the dusty sandstone roof. She fiddled with her commlink, repeatedly screening the various active communications channels in the Mos Eisely spaceport for relevant information. Next to her, Vhenn was outfitting his patiently-awaiting strill with a harness equipped with some sort of advanced tracking system and then carefully calibrating the device.
The vessel they were alerted to watch out for was a common Corellian Baleen -class bulk freighter with a port of origin in Cantonica, and multiple intermediary stops at spaceports in Greater Hutt Space. Thankfully, only one scheduled arrival matched this description - a BV-7922 Canto Orca , operated by a privately contracted crew. The ship was due to dock at the orbital station above Mos Eisley within the next half-standard hour. Through her binocs, Fennec scanned the scene at the loading decks and landing bays through her binocs. All of their people appear to be in position. Oblivious to their surveillance, service crew and loader droids busied themselves moving containers from freighters of all sizes onto hovercarts.
The bored voice of a control tower officer caught her attention minutes later. “-twenty-two Canto Orca , you are cleared for docking at orbital platform three. Please standby for offloading procedures.”
Fennec glanced at the displayed frequency on her commlink. “Lock on to four-twenty-one,” she instructed. Vhenn complied quickly.
“-night. Looks like you’ve got a tight schedule ahead, Captain. I’ll try to prioritize the refuelers for you.”
“Thanks, Kip. Send the feeder carrier with that reliable red astromech for me, will ya? I’ve got a shipment on the list with some volatile stuff, apparently.”
“Will do. What’s in there, Capt?”
“Eh. People pay me to haul their gak around, not ask questions. Let’s see the import tariff forms… Galactic HS-Code 8504.0015… blah blah blah… proprietary pseudo-hyperfuel compounds. Whatever that means. It needs to be stored in the climate-controlled warehouse until distribution. Anyway, transmitting authentication and import authorization codes now.”
“Received and cleared.”
There was a long silence before a groan was heard from the control tower personnel.
“Are you kidding me? No cargo scanners? Manual inspections only?”
“Hah. You’re not the only one complaining, I’ll tell ya that.”
A chorus of groans. “Jabba’s slimy sacs! Real karkin’ good time, too. We don’t have the people for this tonight. I should’ve quit this job yesterday,” some other officer complained loudly in the background.
“I’d just slap a customs stamp on it and call it golden, Kip. For what it’s worth, I’ve taken it past two checks at other ports already.”
Fennec exchanged a sidelong glance with Vhenn.
A sigh cackled over the frequency. “I’ll get one of the temps to do a quick random inspection when it hits planetside. Stars, this is my fourth double-shift this week and it’s not even Zhellday…”
“Suit yourself, dank. Y’know, I dislike the idea of planets gettin’ blown up as much as the next mudscuffer, but shipping was never this broken under the Empire. Now I’m payin’ a dozen different protection fees and every karking port and planet wants to do things their own special way,” the captain groused while chugging down some beverage from a flask.
“You’re telling me!” Came the officer’s agitated reply. “Yesterday I reviewed four separate sets of import documents for one kriffin’ shipment of bandages! Are bandages textile, or medical-one, or medical-two, or….”
As the customs officer ranted over the channel, Fennec decisively moved into action. She signaled for Vhenn to get the strill ready and opened the line to the gotra’s soldiers disguised as dock workers below. “Krayt leader, the shipment is being loaded onto a feeder carrier at the orbital platform now. Hang out around loading bay six-four and look unoccupied. See if our people can get called to conduct manual cargo inspection. The strill is heading down now.”
Beside her, Vhenn unsealed the synth-spice sample and held it before the strill, who sniffed at it for nearly a minute before making a croaking noise. “ Oya, ‘Woorla ,” the young man whispered, giving his pet a few encouraging rubs on its back as it moved to scurry off into the darkness.
“You’re sure the creature will do its job?” Fennec asked skeptically when the strill disappeared from view. Vhenn merely angled his helmet at her silently in response. The boy was picking up on some of Boba’s mannerisms. She sighed and raised her hands in surrender. “Fine, fine.”
No more than ten minutes later, the silhouette of a cargo feeder trawling a neat stack of shipping containers grew larger against the glow of Tatooine’s moons as it descended from the orbital station above. It was a bulky, slow-moving vessel that took its time to land and dock. When it finally came to a stop, Fennec watched intently as two of her disguised soldiers were handed datapads by a grumpy-looking officer in a rumpled uniform. She appeared to be giving them instructions on cargo inspection with a checklist, before disappearing into the worker’s cafeteria. Another moment later, two loader droids slowly approached and unsealed the red shipping container with a loud hiss.
As Fennec continued surveilling the scene below, it became clear to her that the people running this smuggling operation knew the ins and out of galactic bureaucracy and trading laws well. Everything seemed… legitimate. There were no tells that anyone was being bribed. No dock worker or officer was acting suspiciously, as far as she could see. Everyone just seemed to be tolerating another boring night shift down there.
“Stinky’s in,” Vhenn reported with a note of pride in his voice.
That was fast. She didn’t even notice the creature getting into the shipment. “Good.”
Before long, the communications line with the squad leader down below crackled to life with his report. “Nothing seems amiss so far, boss. Dak and Trelli say the cargo spot checks passed inspection protocols. Camtonos match the description submitted. Handheld scanners show that atomic signatures and density values are as described on the import authorization forms.”
Fennec thought it was unlikely that the information Grom gave was erroneous. Her informant was certain that several known Mos Eisley-based spice running crews were due to pick up this particular shipment, and she did not think the nikto foolish enough to attempt to deceive her. The assassin frowned, pondering their next move as she watched the loader droids shuffle multiple cartons onto automated hover carts that slowly trudged toward the warehouse they were currently perched upon.
“Boss, look!” Vhenn sounded urgently next to her. “I’m registering heat signatures inside that new red container they are moving back onto the feeder at the loading bay. There are people inside!”
Fennec startled. A curious development. She peered through her binocs at the object indicated and switched to infrared vision mode. In the far corner of the shipping container, she could just about make out the heat emissions of five or six figures huddled together. They appear to be bound and unconscious. At the cargo loading bay, one of theirs was moving a hover cart not far from said feeder transport. “Marr, come in. Place a tracking beacon on that new red container being loaded onto the feeder carrier. And listen around for where that shipment came from.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We have to get them out! They’re being taken by slavers!” The boy was already pushing his weight off the roof when Fennec grabbed him by the front of his cowl and pulled him back down with an annoyed glare.
“Stay put. We didn’t take down the Pykes by playing benevolent saviors of the downtrodden,” she hissed. The young man’s armored shoulders slumped a little at her reprimand. How does a six-foot-tall Mandalorian in full beskar manage to look like a kicked massif pup? Fennec sighed internally and decided to offer a more gentle explanation. At his age, she always hated it when taskmasters directed her every move without properly telling her the reasons. “We are trying to put together a clearer picture of this synth-spice network, Vhenn, so we can decide how to act without dealing with major unintended consequences later. Illegal trades are often intertwined. It’s likely this, too, is connected. So we must first observe, without forcing them to change their tactics before we can get a handle on what they are.”
“But they’re people, not dejarik pieces,” he muttered sullenly. “It doesn’t seem right. What if some of them don’t make it?”
Fennec’s gaze softened. “We can’t save everyone, Vhenn,” she said quietly. “Your heart’s in the right place. If Boba or Din were here, they might have gone in blasters blazing with you. But this is the way I protect our planet from threats. I need you to keep a cool head and listen.”
Finally, the kid sighed and backed down. “I know. Alor Fett entrusts these things to you for a reason.”
She smiled back at him and squeezed his arm reassuringly. “We’ll go looking for these missing people as soon as we can, I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied grudgingly, but his bearing seemed lighter. But before he could say more on the subject, the teen suddenly turned his focus downwards into the warehouse below, holding a hand over his helmet’s controls. “Stinky found a scent match,” he reported briskly. “He’s down there.”
Fennec frowned and pushed her weight off the roof to move into a crouched position. Part of her had been hoping that Grom Tovar’s intel was indeed incorrect. The organization running this smuggling operation, she figured, was either too stupid to understand the repercussions of defying the Daimyo, or too powerful to care. She could not help the nagging feeling that it was the latter. Quickly, she made her way towards the roof access window with Vhenn, firing a quick message to the squad leader. “Kryat leader, the strill found something. Vhenn and I are going in. Keep an eye out.”
“Copy that.”
They repelled down from the roof hatch with grappling lines, landing silently in the small and relatively empty warehouse. It was significantly cooler in the climate-controlled facility and Fennec’s exhales fogged up the air in front of her. A faint croaking noise directed their attention to the strill, perched on top of a stack of boxes marked with multiple warning labels. It whipped its tail to and fro with what looked like impatience as it scratched at the bottom edge of one of these boxes with sharp claws.
Vhenn pried open the box lid with a vibroblade sheathed against his shin as his pet continued to paw vigorously. Carefully, he pulled out several canisters of clear, viscous liquid and inspected the base of the storage box.
“False bottom,” he whispered triumphantly. Fennec raised an eyebrow and handed him her durasteel slicer. When the acid ate through his cuts, Vhenn reached in and pulled out a golden vacuum-sealed brick. It was heavy, and sparkled under the light of her torch. The bottom of the box must be lined with them.
She looked at the strill and its master and then smirked. “Impressive. Grab one of the liquid canisters and then let’s get out of here before the smugglers arrive.”
“Krayt leader - we found the evidence we needed. Destroy the rest of the shipment,” she commanded as the pair left the warehouse building. After a moment of thought, she added, “Tamper with the warehouse climate controls. Make it look like an accident with a new hire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wouldn’t they be suspicious anyway?” Vhenn asked curiously beside her.
“Oh, they’ll know,” Fennec responded lightly. “It’s about plausible deniability, my dear. Drug cartels are profit-driven and open warfare is bad for everyone’s bottom lines. We are offering them the option to back off our territory quietly for now, whoever they are.” Hopefully, they would take the hint. She would really prefer to focus on facilitating a profitable Boonta Eve season rather than fighting another syndicate war.
As they sped off into the dune sea, Fennec indulged in a self-satisfied smile as she heard a small explosion in the distant port behind.
By the time they returned to the palace, well after midnight, Fennec was ready to hit the sonic shower and rest before returning to her puzzle. But as these things go, her commlink started buzzing again the moment she arrived at the Palace’s darkened hangar.
“Boss, we just heard that Canto Orca will be docking at Nar Shaddaa next, not Christophis as stated on the official itinerary. The tracking beacon we planted seems to be corroborating this.”
“Nar Shaddaa?” Fennec frowned. It wasn’t all that surprising, she supposed. The Smuggler’s Moon was homebase to all manners of illegal activity in the Outer Rim. But if the Hutt King of Nar Shaddaa was involved in any way, then their Gotra will have to move very carefully.
“Keep listening, Marr,” she instructed simply before cutting the line.
Then she heard a disbelieving noise from Vhenn. The boy had taken off his helmet and was looking intently at something on the liquid canister he had taken from the warehouse.
“What’s wrong?”
Wordlessly, he turned the canister over to her and shone his light directly over two tiny rows of embossed text on the lid:
MandalMotors Co. Mtrl. Eng. Div.,
CSA Cantonica.