Authors: James Luceno
“That won’t be necessary,” Plagueis said. “I’ll contact him myself.”
“As you wish, Magister. What services can the station provide?”
Plagueis gestured in an offhanded way to the berthed freighter. “This ship is to be sealed and slagged.”
“Without salvaging anything?” the Dug said.
Plagueis looked at him. “I said sealed and slagged. Do you need to hear it a third time?”
The Dug bared his teeth. “Do you know who you’re talking to, Muun?”
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.”
5: HOMECOMING
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.”
“As are we,” Damask said, motioning to Hill and the rest.
“You’ve been traveling, Magister?”
“A business trip, Chairman.”
“Of course.” It was Tonith’s turn to show a weak smile. “But in that case perhaps you haven’t heard that the Senate is on the verge of creating additional free-trade zones in the Outer Rim Territories. Despite what I understand were considerable efforts on your part to the contrary, the shipping cartels face the danger of being broken, and even if not, will certainly have to deal with fierce competition from start-up companies. Both Core and Outer Rim worlds should benefit greatly from the arrangement, wouldn’t you agree?”
Damask inclined his head in a bow of acknowledgment. “I hadn’t heard, Magister. Whom can we thank for swaying the liberals to adopt the amendment?”
“Among others, the Jedi Order lobbied successfully.”
“Then it must be for the best.”
“One would think,” Tonith said slowly. “Save for the fact that, in exchange, the Trade Federation will now enjoy full voting privileges in the Senate.”
“Ah, well. Appeasements of one sort or another always figure into Senate affairs.”
Tonith leaned slightly toward Damask. “Thank you, however, for suggesting that we invest in Outer Rim and trans-Perlemian shipping. The results provided a windfall.”
“Where and when I can be of service, Chairman.”
Tonith straightened. “Your clan father would be proud.”
Damask looked Tonith in the eye. “I take that as a compliment.”
“How else would I mean it, Magister?”
When the Banking Clan members had moved off and Damask’s group was back in motion, Damask glanced at Hill. “Someday we will topple the Toniths from their lofty perch.”
Hill smiled with his eyes. “I hope I’m alive to see that day. And just so you know, Hego, your father
would
be proud. Chairman Tonith’s sarcasm notwithstanding.”
“You would know better than most.”
Having arrived at the skyhook turbolifts, Hill was motioning everyone but himself and Damask into a separate lift when Damask said, “The droid will ride with us.”
Hill appraised 11-4D as the three of them entered the turbolift. “A new acquisition?”
“A door prize of sorts,” Damask said.
Hill didn’t pursue it. “You’ll be going to your residence or to Aborah?”
“Directly to the island. The droid will accompany me.”
“I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
Damask lowered his voice to ask, “Are we secure in here?”
“Completely.”
Damask turned to face the taller, elder Muun. “Rugess Nome is dead.”
“The Bith?” Hill said in astonishment. “How? Where?”
“Of no relevance,” Damask said, remembering. “Eventually Nome’s estate will pass to us, but that won’t be for some time to come, since it’s unlikely that his body will ever be found.”
Hill didn’t bother asking for details. “We’ll allow a standard year to pass. Then we’ll petition the probate courts to render a decision—at the very least for whatever assets are contractually ours. You are the executor, in any case, are you not?”
Damask nodded. “Ultimately we’ll be liquidating most of the estate. But there are several … antiques of a curious sort I plan to retain. I’ll prepare an inventory. In the meantime I want you to familiarize yourself with a world called Bal’demnic. Once you have, you’re to acquire mining rights for the entire northeast peninsula of the principal landmass. Purchase as much property as you can, from the shoreline to the central highlands. I’ll provide you with specific coordinates.”
Uncertainty tugged at Hill’s strong features. “Are we venturing into the mining business now?”
“When the time is right. Use intermediaries who can’t be traced to us. I suspect that you will have to go all the way to the top to secure what we need. The indigenes will be troublesome to negotiate with, but I’m confident they can be persuaded. Bargain like you mean it, but in the end spare no expense.”
“Bal’demnic is that important?”
“A hunch,” Damask said.
Descending rapidly, the skyhook turbolift pierced layers of pure
white clouds, revealing a curved panorama of aquamarine ocean, pale brown plains, and evergreen forest. And directly below, the view that was said to take one’s breath away: the city of Harnaidan, studded with Neo-Classical structures as towering as the volcanic spires that ringed it, and home to fifty million Muuns, living in an urbanscape that was an orderly masterpiece of art and design. To some, it was the antithesis of most planetary capitals: the anti-Coruscant; the anti-Denon.
“What can we expect at the Gathering?” Damask asked, turning away from the view.
“Gardulla has requested an audience.”
“I’m not in the habit of sitting down with Hutts.”
“She asks your help in mediating a dispute.”
“With whom?”
“The Desilijic clan.”
Damask nodded knowingly. “This has been brewing for some time. What else?”
“Representatives from Yinchorr will be there.”
“Good. Holotransmissions have their limitations.”
“Members of the Trade Federation and the Gran Protectorate will also be attending.”
Damask snorted. “There’s no pleasing any of them.” He grew pensive, then said: “There’s another small matter we need to settle. Extend a personal invitation to the owners of Subtext Mining.”
Hill rubbed his whiskered chin. “I can’t recall having engaged in dealings with them. Does this have anything to do with Bal’demnic?”
Damask ignored the question. “For a time they advised Nome. Make certain they understand that we operate in complete confidentiality.”
“If the Bith partnered with them, they must come highly recommended.”
“One would think.” Damask turned his back to Hill to take in the view once more. “But, in fact, I don’t see much future for them.”
Unlike so many worlds that had been surveyed and settled by species from the Core, Muunilinst had given rise to its own brand of sentients. Farmers and fisherfolk, the ancient Muuns hadn’t known how favored
their planet was until interstellar travel had become commonplace, and precious metals the backbone of the galactic economy. Had those early millennia of expansion not been a time of peace, the Muuns might have lost what they had to military might; but as it happened they had resisted all attempts at exploitation and become masters of their fate. Still, what was an economic blessing eventually became a burden. Once the Muuns understood the value of what they had previously taken for granted, they held on to their riches with a ferocious tenacity, and developed an almost agoraphobic attachment to their homeworld.