Myk Bidlor raised a cautioning hand. “Lord Durga, please … allow us to finish our tests. We will continue our work, and we will report back as soon as we have something definitive to report.”
Durga waved a dismissive hand at the forensics expert. “Very well.
See that you report to me instantly when you discover what we are dealing with here.”
The man bowed. “You have my assurance, Lord Durga.”
With a muttered curse, the Hutt Lord broke the connection.
Durga was not the only unhappy Hutt on Nal Hutta. Jabba Desilijic Tiure, second-in-command of the powerful Desilijic clan, was both depressed and displeased.
Jabba had spent the entire morning with his aunt, Jiliac, the leader of Desilijic, trying to finish the final report on the losses to Desilijic that had resulted from the Imperial attempt to raze Nar Shaddaa and subjugate Nal Hutta. The Empire’s attack had failed, mostly due to Jabba and Jiliac’s successful bribe of the Imperial Admiral, but it would be a long time before business on Nar Shaddaa was back to normal.
Nar Shaddaa was a large moon that orbited Nal Hutta. The other name for Nar Shaddaa was “the Smuggler’s Moon,” and it was apt, for most of its denizens lived there because they were connected with the illegal trade that moved through Nar Shaddaa every day. Running spice, running guns, fencing stolen treasures and antiquities … Nar Shaddaa saw all of that and more.
“Shipping is down forty-four percent, Aunt,” Jabba said, his comparatively small, delicate fingers touching the datapad expertly.
“We lost so many ships, so many captains and crews when that thrice-cursed Sam Shild mounted that attack. Our spice customers have been complaining that we can’t move our product the way we used to.
Even Han Solo lost his ship, and he’s our best pilot.”
Jiliac glanced at her nephew. “He has been flying our ships ever since the attack, Nephew.”
“I know, but most of our ships are older models, Aunt. Slower. And, in our business, time equals credits.” Jabba did another calculation, then made an exasperated sound. “Aunt, our profits this year will be the lowest we’ve experienced in ten years.”
Jiliac replied with a mighty belch. Jabba looked up and saw that she was eating again, some high-sustenance goop she smeared on the backs of her swamp-wrigglers before stuffing them into her enormous mouth. Ever since becoming pregnant last year, Jiliac had been undergoing one of the typical Hutt growth spurts most adult Hutts experienced several times in their adult lives.
In the space of a year, Jiliac was nearly a third again the size she had been before her pregnancy.
“You’d better be careful,” Jabba warned. “Those wrigglers gave you terrible indigestion the other day. Remember?”
Jiliac belched again. “You’re right. I should cut back … but the baby needs the nourishment.”
Jabba sighed. Jiliac’s infant was still spending much of its time inside its mother’s pouch. Baby Hutts depended upon their mothers for all their nourishment for the first year of their lives. “Here is a message from Ephant Mon,” Jabba said, seeing that his “message” indicator was blinking on his comlink. Quickly the Hutt Lord scanned the communique. “He says I should return to Tatooine. He is running my business interests as ably as he can, I am sure, but the Lady Valarian is taking full advantage of my prolonged absence to try and move in on my territory.”
Jiliac turned her bulbous eyes on her nephew. “If you must go, Nephew, go.
But see that it is a quick trip. I will need you to handle the conference with the Desilijic representatives from the Core Worlds in ten days.”
“But, Aunt, it would do you good to handle it yourself. You have gotten rather out of touch with those reps,” Jabba pointed out. Jiliac burped delicately, then yawned. “Oh, I shall plan to attend, Nephew.
But the baby is so demanding I will need you to be there and handle things when I must rest.”
Jabba started to protest, then forced back the words. What good would it do? Jiliac simply wasn’t interested in the affairs of Desilijic the way she had been before motherhood. It was probably hormonal ….
For months now, Jabba had been working to recoup the losses the Desilijic kajidic suffered in the Battle of Nar Shaddaa. He was getting tired of shouldering—speaking figuratively, of course, for Hutts did not really have shoulders—the burden of running Desilijic.
“Here is a note that should interest you, Aunt,” Jabba said, examining another message. “Repairs to your yacht have been completed. The Dragon Pearl is fully operational again.”
In the old days, Jiliac’s first question would have been “how much?” but she did not ask it. The bottom line was no longer her primary interest in life ….