Loic Monerat & The Lizard Brain Spice Smuggling Syndicate - Chris Herron, Greg Provan (red seas under red skies txt) 📗

think you’ve got off light because we’re at Nal Hutta? Well, though I may not have the time to enjoy torturing you, I’m still going to take a souvenir. An eyeball or two, a snack,  before I deliver you to Sarkraa.’ The bounty hunter extended the tip of his claw towards Loic’s bulging, watering eye, but before he could puncture it, the ship’s intercom started crackling. It was the spaceport of Nal Hutta’s moon Nar Shaddaa, they wanted to know his business at the planet.

 

The Hutts built very few spaceports on their homeworld, any business conducted with off-worlders was done so on the planet’s largest moon. Down on the planet’s hot, humid surface the wormlike creatures lived in pustule-like orbs on rare patches of solid ground, these orbs acted as their palaces. Down there in one of those palaces was Sarkraa, whom he needed to see about the small matter of this blasted bounty that had caused so much trouble for him already, far more than he had ever bargained for. Thankfully the prize was a great many credits, or Bossk would have ate the tasty parts of Loic and jettisoned the leftovers into deep space long ago.

Bossk sneered at the bedraggled smuggler as only a reptile could, with those glistening fangs, and he click-clacked over to the intercom where, holding the button with one hooked claw, he spoke, ‘The Hound’s Tooth requesting clearance for landing,’ he spoke in his stridulous voice, his obsidian eyeball swivelling to cast a sidelong glance at his wall ornament, which coughed and spat up some bloody phlegm.

 

Having gained clearance Bossk opened a portal to one of the many corridors in his complex ship and set about dragging the wookies’ bodies away to some unseen freezer facility, or waste jettison. Loic marvelled at the apparent ease with which the bounty hunter manhandled the deadweight of those two enormous beasts, leaving behind two wine-dark patches of blood where they had been. A wave of nausea passed over the smuggler, accompanied by the constant gnawing pain of his injuries and his withdrawal from the spice kicking in. These two things conspired to put him into a deep, troubled sleep as he passed-out into an all-encompassing world of blackness and vivid feverish dreams. 

 

It was the clunking bone-jarring thud of the Hound’s Tooth landing that pulled Loic from the merciful bliss of unconsciousness. How long he had been out this time he did not know. It did not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He was doomed. Doomed to torment and torture, death would be the only release. Circulation had been cut off to his arms, a crusted patina of filth had formed between his nose and upper lip, dehydration maddened him, he had fouled himself – countless times. The Wookie’s eviscerated cadavers, the gore-stained walls, his own wretched plight, it was all too much to bear. He wanted to weep but tears would not be bidden. The doorway whooshed open and there was Bossk, his cruel reptilian face hidden by a penumbra cast by the all-too-bright overheard light.

 

‘Kill me…’ Loic rasped, his throat raw, his breathing ragged. Bossk moved to stand before him, fastened to the wall as he was, their faces were level. ‘Kill me you fuck.’ The reply was an unintelligible low guttural gargling. Agony exploded in Loic’s mind as the bounty hunter unchained him. He fell to the floor unceremoniously. A rough grip took him round the nape of his neck, he was lifted as though he weighed little more than a child’s doll.

 

Bossk marched him out the chamber into a foul-smelling corridor as Loic’s tiptoes sought purchase, his puny human fingers ineffectively scrabbling at the powerful claws gripping his neck like a trap. As they moved towards the cargo doors Loic realised he had given up hope. There was no more trickery left to save him, no more aces up his sleeve. Like the poor Wookie before him he was beaten, humiliated and dead inside. Life was little more than a pile of injustices, cruelties, and ineffective whirling from one hell to another. He should have stayed at home. He should never have left…

 

…But it was guilt that had driven him into the galaxy. The irreconcilable inescapable guilt of an incestuous voyeur. How many times had he secretly watched his sweet sister and her Rebel lover? He had wanted her; she should have been his, not some battle-scarred muscled soldier’s. The Rebel had used his sister roughly, sometimes he wept as he took her no doubt haunted by all he had seen in the wars he had endured. But even as his sister had squealed and moaned Loic did not intercede. He watched and he watched, and he watched… He deserved his fate he knew. It was that act of sibling treachery that had sealed his fate. Whatever gods had been watching would not forgive, would not forget…

Bossk produced a set of wristcuffs, attached them to his captive. The cuffs held Loic’s hands tightly in a palm-to-palm fashion. Bossk had obviously not forgotten Loic’s stunt with the frag grenade. He lifted the cuffs attaching them to a rail which ran the length of the dingy, unkept cargo area. He left Loic once again hanging painfully. When the Trandoshan returned he was wearing an arsenal of weapons. There was an absurdly large rifle strapped across his back, a hand-cannon strapped to his leg, and an assortment of cruel explosives fastened to his orange jumpsuit.

 

Bossk moved past him several paces to the cargo doors which slid open. Light flooded into the cargo hold but Loic was left in shadow unable to see outside. He knew it was unlikely Bossk had been given permission to land on Nal Hutta itself. The Moon was as far as visitors got, at least in their own crafts. A gang of rogue mercenaries had previously taken umbrage with the Sarkraa’s swindling and tried to obliterate her place from the safety of several thousand feet. They failed and were subsequently destroyed, but the wary Hutt had learned the lesson. Bossk walked down the ramp out of view but not out of earshot.

 

‘Ah, Bossk, noble Sarkraa has instructed me to take charge of the smuggler, Monerat. I will deliver him to the surface. I suspect you will be wanting your payment. What was the price, one million, and another quarter if alive I believe?’ The voice was smooth and refined. It felt somewhat out of place, as though it belonged in a courtroom or a parliament building.

 

‘I’ll see Sarkraa myself,’ hissed the Trandoshan.

 

‘The exalted one will not be receiving guests, even ones as esteemed as you.’ The smooth voice was now curt.

 

‘She will receive me.’

 

‘Listen to…’ The reply was cut short and replaced with the unmistakable sound of a man gasping for air. Loic knew that predicament well. He heard blasters being pulled from holsters.

 

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Came a booming voice.

 

‘The Trandoshan is demanding to see Sarkraa, he seized me. Kill him now and we’ll take the smuggler.’ The first voice answered.

 

‘You will be silent. Leave us.’

‘But…’

 

‘It’s said the Nexu hasn’t been fed in weeks. Perhaps I will watch him crunch your bones. Leave us! I am Maax, Sarkraa’s new majordomo. Forgive my underling. I will deal with him later. You say you want to meet with Sarkraa, why?’ The newcomer asked the bounty hunter.

 

‘I want two million.’

 

‘It was already a generous bounty. Why should we entertain paying more?’

 

‘Okkra is enraged, blaster fire, explosions. I’ve lost good business.’

 

‘You’re doing? So, you have fell afoul of Okkra’s wrath? They say bounty hunting is a dangerous profession. You will inevitably make enemies. Tell me, who hunts the hunter? I would not expect many to be daring enough to pursue you. Very well. You can accompany us to the surface. But, of course, not on this ship – oh, she’ll be quite safe here I assure you. A prisoner transport will be leaving presently. In the palace you can tell us about your proceedings with Okkra, a fascinating tale, I am sure. Where is your prize?’

 

Bossk came back up the ramp accompanied by a blue-skinned humanoid dressed in a black gem-encrusted armour. He was a Chiss, Loic realised. He had never encountered their race before but there were many stories told over cups of firewater in spice dens the galaxy over. It was said they were dangerous secretive creatures who largely kept their own council. Loic dangled from the rail wretchedly as they examined one another. The Chiss’ skin was the colour of sapphires, his pitiless eyes the dark crimson of summer wine. Maax clicked his fingers and two brutish hatched-faced Weequay came up the ramp. ‘Take him to the transport.’ He told the two leather-skinned criminals.

When Loic had self-exiled, on Draethos, there had been very little to do during his detox but meditate in caves, climb mountains, think, and read. With his pocketsized electronic encyclopaedia he had used it as a guide to the galaxy and studied all the many species of the cosmos. He knew of all their categories and quirks; he knew for example that the two spindly creatures detaining him were Weequay. Spindly these particular two may be, but Loic knew they were among the toughest sentient beings in the Outer Rim; their homeplanet Sriluur was a desert planet of such hostile , merciless conditions that it had evolved these tough-skinned hides Weequays had, which were basically blasterproof. They looked like living mummies, all leatherskinned and wrinkled and wrapped in bandages, not much call for armour with hides like that! A Weequay is notoriously hard to kill, and virtually impervious to pain, as well as possessing a nimble strength that belied their size, like a desertsnake often does - and so Loic made no argument as they jabbed and bustled him onto the prisoner transport.

 

With tear-rimmed blue eyes he glanced over his shoulder and saw Bossk disappearing into a separate ship with the Chiss, and he silently cursed the foul lizard for dragging him here and being so fucking relentless about it! Loic had had a few chances to escape now, all quashed by that bastard Trandoshan, one-by-one, mercilessly, completely. Despair swirled in the smuggler’s guts like a bad Joganfruit pie, bile rose in his throat as he watched the ramp to the prisoner transport lower. The light-spacecraft was a 14 metre JX-09, an insectlike vehicle with space for up to twenty prisoners, but when Loic was shoved onboard he was all alone, just him, the droid pilot, and the Weequays. Not for the first time today he was chained to a wall, and the ship took off with the familiar whirring of repulsorlift engines. Loic closed his eyes and dreamed of better days, in his simpler youth, in the arms of past lovers, drinking firewater at sabacc tables with friends, or enfolded in the warm embrace of spice as he lay back on pillows and rugs in cosy, firelit drugdens on obscure worlds.

 

The trip to the fetid, humid swampworld of the Hutts was a short uneventful one. Loic had tried to make conversation with his guards, maybe talk his way out, maybe strike a deal, but he knew it was futile, they just stared ahead blankly, no expression in their dark, narrowed eyes. Weequay were dominated by the Hutts and the Hutts alone, a few had defected to the Rebellion, but it was rare. As the ship landed with a bump and a jostle, they unhooked him and dragged him, protesting pathetically, out into the stagnant atmosphere of Nal Hutta.

 

The stench hit Loic like a brisk slap to the face, he almost upchucked in the first instance, the vile, heavy, clingy atmosphere of the place crawled into his eyeballs, forcing them to overproduce tears, which slimed down his throat, causing him to balk. He could barely see as he staggered forward between the two gruff guards, clasping an arm each. It was very, very rare for anyone other than a Hutt or their staff to be allowed on to the