Mos Eisley – A Week Later
Anakin hadn't spoken to Maul since the battle.
He spent his days in silent recovery, sitting alone in the small storage chamber assigned to him beneath the eastern command tower. His ribs still ached with every breath, and the burn marks on his arms had scabbed into dark lines of crusted flesh. The mercenaries avoided him. Even the ruthless slave overseers, lowered their eyes in fear when passing him in the halls.
Outside, the city returned to its grim routine. Slave lines hauled spice crates to the newly repaired spaceport under the watchful gaze of Jabba's guards. Within a week, the first bulk freighter roared up into the dusty sky, its hull marked with false registry codes to hide the illicit cargo in its hold.
The screams of dying men were replaced by the mechanical hum of cargo loaders and the shouts of slave drivers.
Life continued. Profit resumed. The dead were forgotten.
Gardulla's Fortress
The stale air reeked of spoiled meat and decaying blood moss. Gardulla Besadii sprawled on her silken dais, her massive tail coiled under her trembling bulk. Her yellow eyes darted from one flickering holoscreen to another, each displaying updated balance sheets and territory manifests.
Almost all her forces were gone. The columns she sent to Mos Eisley had been annihilated. Black Sun's hired commandos lay rotting in foreign sands. Her own elite Weequay enforcers, Rodian riflemen, advisors—dead, burned, dismembered, or captured. No survivors returned.
She had pulled every available credit line to fund that assault. Supporters within the Banking Clan had arranged the transfers discreetly. But it was all gone now, leaving nothing but debt.
Her palace was silent, the vast halls devoid of the thrum of mercenary boots or laughter of well-fed captains. Only Nikto guards remained, standing watch with dull eyes and tightened grips on vibrospears.
Gardulla shivered despite the warmth of the torches.
A faint chime echoed across the throne chamber. One of her protocol droids scuttled forward.
"Mighty Gardulla, an incoming encrypted transmission from Scipio."
"Put it through," she rumbled, mucus bubbling in her throat.
A flickering blue holo projection appeared before her dais. Tall, skeletal, and draped in flowing Muun banker robes, Hego Damask II's sunken eyes peered down at her from within the shimmering light.
"Gardulla Besadii," he intoned in his flat, nasal voice. "I see your offensive has failed."
She shifted her massive bulk anxiously. "My lord… my forces were ambushed. Black Sun betrayed—"
"Enough," he cut her off, the faintest flicker of disdain curling his thin lips. "Your incompetence has cost me considerable influence among the clan council. My support was not charity. It was investment."
Gardulla lowered her head, mucus dripping from her jaws. "Please… I only require another line of credit. Jabba's forces are depleted. His tanks destroyed. His mercenaries scattered. If you support me once more, I will take back the spice routes. I will repay double what is owed—"
"No," Damask said flatly.
She froze.
"You will repay what is owed within the agreed fiscal period," he continued coldly. "Failure will result in immediate asset seizure. If necessary, the InterGalactic Banking Clan will dispatch debt collection enforcement units to ensure compliance."
"But my Lord, I—"
The projection vanished before she finished. The throne chamber fell silent save for the hum of torch emitters. Gardulla's tail thudded against the pillows in impotent rage. The stone beneath her bulk cracked under the impact.
She felt it then – true despair. Her other enterprises – gladiatorial pits, pit fighting beasts, slave auctions – were profitable, but nowhere near spice trade's margins. Worse, they were under permanent threat of being seized by rival clans or Black Sun opportunists the moment the bankers' debt collection units arrived.
Her mucus dripped thicker, her chest heaving with silent, rattling fury.
'It's all gone. All gone…'
A faint chime broke the silence again.
Her protocol droid flinched. "Mistress… another incoming transmission. Encrypted. Origin unknown."
"Put it through," she rasped, voice trembling with exhaustion and hatred.
The holoprojector flickered to life once more. A hooded figure appeared within the projection. Its face was entirely obscured by a heavy cowl. Only a pale chin and gloved hands were visible.
For a moment, neither spoke. Only the crackle of the holo emitter filled the throne room.
"Who are you?" Gardulla demanded, her voice quivering with exhaustion and suspicion.
The hooded figure tilted its head slightly. When it spoke, the voice was calm, low, and distorted through a mechanical filter.
"An enemy of your enemy."
Gardulla narrowed her eyes, mucus bubbling as she shifted her bulk. "That is meaningless. Everyone claims such titles. Speak your name or begone from my sight."
"My name is unimportant," the figure said softly. "What matters is that I bring you what you lack."
She rumbled deep in her throat, tail flicking with irritation. "And what is that, shadow-man?"
"Stability," he replied. "And the means to keep what remains of your empire… if you are willing to assist me."
Her yellow eyes narrowed. "Assist you? How?"
The figure's hood shifted slightly. Though his eyes remained hidden, she felt the cold calculation within his words.
"I require your cooperation to deal with a… mutual inconvenience. The Muun who abandoned you to ruin. Hego Damask."
Gardulla froze. The mucus bubbling at her lips thickened as her breath quickened. "You… you know of him."
"I know he left you to die," the figure said evenly. "I know his plans extend far beyond your petty world. I know he uses your clan as disposable assets to conceal his own manipulations. I also know… you want revenge."
Her throat convulsed, anger surging through her exhausted limbs. "What is it you offer… exactly?"
"Assistance," the figure said simply. "Financial aid to stabilise your operations. Enough to keep the Banking Clan collectors at bay. Enough to rebuild your small fleet and hold what remains of your territories. In exchange… you will assist me when the time comes to remove Damask from his pedestal."
Gardulla was silent, her massive tail curling tightly around her. Thoughts raced through her sluggish mind – fear, suspicion, hatred, desperation.
"And if I refuse?" she rasped.
The figure tilted his head slightly, his voice a quiet whisper.
"Then you will die, your empire shattered, your body rotting under Jabba's gates as your name is erased from clan records. I care nothing for your fate… only your utility."
Gardulla was silent, her massive tail curling tightly around her bulk. Thoughts raced through her sluggish mind – fear, suspicion, hatred, desperation.
"And if I refuse?" she rasped.
The figure tilted his head slightly, his voice dropping to a quiet, measured whisper.
"Then you will die. Your empire shattered. Your body rotting beneath Jabba's gates, your name erased from clan records and memory alike. I care nothing for your fate… only your utility."
Gardulla's throat bubbled with quiet laughter – a wet, broken sound. "You speak… like one who deals in shadows."
The figure was silent for a moment. Then, softly:
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
She closed her eyes briefly, mucus pooling in the folds of her neck. The crushing certainty of her ruin pressed down upon her mind. Finally, she lowered her head in submission.
"What would you have me do?"
"For now… nothing," he replied calmly. "Continue your operations. Accept the financial aid I will transmit within the hour. Prepare your remaining lieutenants to obey future instructions without question."
She exhaled slowly, tail uncoiling just slightly. "And then… Hego Damask will fall?"
The hooded figure's voice lowered to an almost tender whisper.
"All things fall, mighty Gardulla. Even Muun."
Before she could form another question, the transmission flickered and died, leaving only silence and the dim flicker of failing glow-panels.
Gardulla sat alone in the darkness, mucus dripping from her jaws onto the stone floor.
But for the first time in days, a faint, hungry smile curled across her massive lips.
Naboo – The Royal Palace
The marble conference table gleamed under the soft glowpanels. King Ars Veruna paced behind it, robes swirling around his ankles. His face was flushed, eyes bloodshot with exhaustion and rage.
"This… this child," he spat, slamming his fist onto the table. "Every day her name spreads further. Padmé Naberrie, Padmé Naberrie – she's thirteen! She knows nothing of governance, nothing of compromise, yet the holos adore her!"
Senator Palpatine sat across from him in silent composure, fingers steepled lightly. He inclined his head.
"Indeed, Your Majesty. But… perhaps it is wise not to oppose her so directly."
Veruna rounded on him, teeth bared. "Not oppose her? She undermines every initiative I put forward. The public cheers her empty speeches while they call me corrupt!"
Palpatine's lips curled in a faint, measured smile. "The people… often cling to symbols. Innocence, hope, humility. She embodies these illusions perfectly."
Veruna's brow twitched, sweat beading at his temples. "Then what do you suggest, Senator? That I let her continue unchecked until she sits on my throne?"
Palpatine shook his head softly. "Of course not, Your Majesty. Only that… perhaps your attention is better focused elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?" Veruna snapped. "Where, then?"
Palpatine's gaze flickered to the darkening skyline beyond the tall windows.
"The Banking Clan's delays. The mining concessions. The… arrangements made with Hego Damask."
Veruna stiffened. His throat worked silently before he rasped, "That was… Damask's doing. He insisted the contracts remain private. Now the bankers delay disbursement, and every credit I needed for the expansion is trapped."
Palpatine nodded slowly, his tone gentle, almost mournful. "He has… great influence, Your Majesty. Influence that eclipses even Naboo's royal prerogatives."
Veruna's hands clenched into trembling fists. "That Muun parasite… If he were gone…"
Palpatine's eyes gleamed faintly in the low light, though his expression remained calm. "Then, perhaps, Naboo's rightful revenues would return to your control. Perhaps… the people would see their king restored to glory."
Veruna began pacing again, breath coming fast and shallow. "He's the root. The public turns on me because credits vanish into his coffers. The Senate questions my rulership because he bleeds my treasury dry. Padmé Naberrie rises only because I cannot fund the programs I promised. All because of him."
Palpatine remained silent, his gaze following the king with cool patience.
Finally Veruna turned back, eyes wide, chest heaving. "You think… if Damask were removed… if he died… then Naboo could reclaim the contracts?"
Palpatine tilted his head slightly, as if considering something distant and abstract.
"I think, Your Majesty… that the universe is a web of cause and effect. When one spider is removed… all others may feed where it once feasted."
Veruna stared at him, pulse pounding so loudly he barely heard the words.
'Without him… I could keep everything. The credits, the mines, the throne…'
Palpatine rose smoothly, gathering his robes. "Forgive me, Your Majesty. I must depart for the evening session. The committee will be waiting."
Veruna barely registered him leaving. His mind roared with hate and frantic hope.
Later that night – Veruna's Private Chambers
He threw the brandy glass against the wall. Shards scattered across the polished floor as he strode to the open window, glaring out into the silent gardens beyond.
"Damask… Damask… it's all you…" he whispered.
A sudden breeze cut through the humid room, carrying the scent of rain. Frowning, he moved to shut the window, hands trembling with drink and rage. He latched it closed and turned back toward his desk—
And froze.
A woman stood there.
Tall, clad in a matte black bodysuit that clung to her lithe frame. Short blonde hair fell across angular cheekbones, and a half-mask covered her mouth and nose. Her eyes, cold and distant, gleamed with silent, calm malice.
He recoiled so violently that his back struck the window.
"Who… who are you? Guards! Guards—"
"They cannot hear you."
Her voice was soft, low, and utterly certain.
He swallowed, sweat dripping down his temples. "What… what do you want…?"
She tilted her head slightly. "Do you wish to remain king, Ars Veruna?"
His legs weakened. He gripped the windowsill to keep from falling.
"Who… are you…?"
She stepped forward, silent as a shadow. "I am Komari Vosa. High Priestess of the Bando Gora."
His breath caught in his throat. The name hit him like ice water down his spine. Bando Gora… He had heard rumours whispered in smoky war rooms and secret intelligence reports: a cult of death and madness, slavers and assassins, their victims left as hollow-eyed husks, minds broken beyond repair.
His pulse thundered against his skull. "What… what do you want…?"
She watched him with faint amusement flickering in her eyes. "We bring an offer."
His voice cracked. "What… offer?"
"To remove the obstacle in your path. Hego Damask."
The room seemed to tilt and spin around him. "You… you would kill him?"
She raised a gloved hand, brushing one cold finger down his cheek. His skin crawled.
"He is mortal. Remove him… and you keep what is yours. The credits. The mines. The throne."
He swallowed, feeling her touch burn ice into his veins. "Why… why help me?"
She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "Because your enemy is our enemy."
His pulse hammered, nausea coiling in his gut. "Damask… you want him dead… too?"
She said nothing, but he felt her smile beneath the mask.
Her gloved fingers tightened on his chin, forcing him to meet her dark, predatory eyes.
"We will remove him together. You will remain king. The credits. The mines. The throne… all yours."
His knees buckled. Tears welled in his eyes.
"And in return?" he whispered.
She tilted her head slightly. "An alliance. Nothing more… for now."
He shivered under her gaze, the taste of metal on his tongue.
"Yes," he rasped. "Yes… anything…"
She released his chin. "Good."
As she stepped back into the shadows, her voice drifted to him like poisoned silk.
"Sleep well, mighty king. Our goals align… for now."
When he blinked, the room was empty. Only the faint sway of the curtains remained, whispering softly against the silent windowpanes.