The Long Game

[Shayde]

[SIZE=14.6667px]The Fartrader Lounge, 850 ABY[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]What had once been a desolate ruin was now a thriving hub of business.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]In the days of the Old Republic, the Fartrader Lounge had been the dark shadow of the already seedy Dealer’s Den, a known hangout of wanted men. It was where smugglers and slavers had done business under the very nose of Coruscant Security, the site of half a dozen famous and bloody raids by law enforcement that took a vicious toll on both sides but never quite got the place permanently shut down. It was said that the Lounge was a place where the Republic’s most wanted could walk openly on its capital world, and that reputation had lasted for centuries.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]It had died with the Old Galactic Market, transformed into a dark, dank warren of Cthons. But there was no room for such rot in Shayde’s new empire, and now it had resumed its former purpose. Two dozen different species were represented within its walls, all of them openly armed. This was not a place for the crime lord’s miserable, malnourished subjects; it was a place of business, where enterprising captains could pick up work from the Harch slumlord or exchange illegal goods beyond the prying eyes of the ambitious and moralistic Galactic Alliance.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]The faces inside it were once again the faces of wanted men, and that was the way Shayde wanted it. They brought good business. No longer did the Harch subsist on scavenged scraps, though his desperate “constituents” still brought them in exchange for food and safety. Now he could take a bite out of all the underworld activity that flowed through his little haven, a far richer tax than he had been able to extort before. All the while his thugs and his droids ensured that no one would escape paying that tax, and that they would pay dearly indeed if they tried.[/SIZE]

 

[Shayde]

[SIZE=14.6667px]The Dealer’s Den was still Shayde’s headquarters, a fortress rather than a cantina, but he didn’t need to emerge from it to see how business was going. The network of holocams his forces had set up after he’d conquered the Old Galactic Market kept him abreast of developments that men kept hidden from their own families, each one hooked into the vast computer hub hidden behind blast doors and laser screens in the market’s rough center. Still, he didn’t like to remain in any one place too long, even his stronghold. He did not enjoy being reminded of his caged childhood.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]And so he came with some regularity to the Fartrader Lounge to observe business in person. Although the free traders here did not show him quite the same bowing, scraping, terrified deference as the tent-dwelling gutter scum outside, they parted readily enough when he came to pass through. No matter how fierce their independent streaks, they knew that his word in this place was law, and to oppose or disrespect it was death. To be on his good side, however, was to enjoy trade that was utterly unrestricted - so long as he got his cut. That was a good deal indeed.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]As a result, the shipping and receiving docks were practically overflowing with business, and the vast old warehouses were filled with illegal goods. Secret routes, tunnels beneath old buildings and huge pipeworks long out of use, provided smugglers with the opportunity to reach and depart from the landing pads unseen, keeping the full extent of the Court’s dark dealings secret. Word was spreading - this was one of those places where anything could be had for a price. And with the Core Worlds destabilized, the amount of underworld traffic pouring in was truly impressive.[/SIZE]

 

[Shayde]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Sstramru was a slaver, one of the best. The Trandoshan was older than Shayde, first active long before the return of the Republic and now even after its collapse. Throughout that time she had bartered and sold virtually every type of being imaginable, and for every purpose. To Shayde, she represented a convenient avenue to dispose of undesirables. He didn’t need to buy slaves when he had thousands of ostensibly free people desperate to do his bidding, but he could certainly sell sentients that proved inconvenient to feed and house or difficult to sufficiently motivate.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]She sat across from the slumlord, idly clicking his clawed fingers on the durasteel table in the center of the booth. The sound bothered him more than he let on. It reminded him unpleasantly of the sounds children had made back at the carnival, tapping on the bars of his cage to try to get him to show his freakish face. But that had been a lifetime agol he had erased that creature from history so that only his power was remembered. And so he gave no indication of irritation or discomfort as the two of them discussed price and quantity, caging others as he had been caged.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Because life was chaotic and devious and cruel and totally, desperately unfair. No one was born equal, but there was one great equalizer - death, and those capable of dealing it. Shayde did not care, not even for an instant, about the lives he was destroying with that very conversation. If they were worthy of freedom, as he had proven himself, they would act as he had. They would seize their right to choose and defend it from all comers. If they failed in that, they did not deserve to choose for themselves. Their lives were blown by changing winds, not anchored by a great soul.[/SIZE]

 

[Shayde]

[SIZE=14.6667px]“Twenty or thirty,”[/SIZE][SIZE=14.6667px] Shayde was saying, his voice a low and raspy chitter. [/SIZE][SIZE=14.6667px]“Whether they can’t or won’t pay their dues doesn’t matter to me. They haven’t met our contract, so they’re yours.”[/SIZE][SIZE=14.6667px] Sstramu shrugged. “However you want to justify it. I just want the product.” Shayde smiled, his mandibles spreading. No one in his little kingdom would have gotten away with speaking to him thus, implicitly questioning whether he was fettered by morality. Questioning him at all lead to a slow, messy, and public death. But the rules were a little different for free traders. Only a little.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]“Let’s see them, then,”[/SIZE][SIZE=14.6667px] he replied, standing to leave the booth. He still wore his vibroblades close to hand, the sheaths strapped to his thick leatheris jacket. With all the income he was making from the criminal trade passing through his little port, it was easy to commission custom clothing and armor to fit his arachnoid frame. The sea of smugglers and pirates parted to allow him to pass; the rules for them might be laxer, but they all knew better than to get in his way. He kept order by being a jealous god, swift to punish even the slightest sign of disrespect or disloyalty.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]The two of them emerged from the Fartrader Lounge and stepped onto the darkened platform. This sublevel was in its simulated night cycle, and the flickering streetlamps provided only hesitant, flickering illumination. But Shayde’s eight eyes were accustomed to darkness, and it hardly caused him any inconvenience. He could pick out every one of the cameras and blaster turrets tracking their every move, ready to track and annihilate any enemy who might challenge his rule. In truth, he could have walked unarmed and been safe. But it was good to spread fear of him personally.[/SIZE]

 

[Shayde]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Not so long ago, these platforms had been overrun by the predators of the underworld. Duracrete slugs had laid their eggs in the gutters and Cthon spoor had clogged the main thoroughfares. The scorch marks of the initial cleansing by fire were still evident, the burning that had cleared all that filth away. Now they were full of a different kind of detritus - the crowded tents of thousands upon thousands of desperate beings. Years of exponential growth had filled all of these upper levels, leaving them just as packed as the camp that had once crammed into the main market concourse.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Yet even the tents managed to melt away from Shayde as their desperate owners dragged them aside, tripping over others, pushing through them in their frantic struggle to clear his path. They knew he would walk right over them if he had to, and that he would be displeased by the inconvenience. Given that their entire lives hinged on his continued pleasure and whim, it was not a chance they were willing to take. Wide-eyed children, their bellies bloated with hunger, were hurriedly led from his path. Beggars scrambled to snatch away their cups, lest they be taxed twice.[/SIZE]


[SIZE=14.6667px]The story was the same across every level of the old Skyline Mall. Every storefront of every level, and virtually every square centimeter of the space outside them, was packed with makeshift tents. Blood was not infrequently shed over who got to sleep within the drier, warmer storefronts, a practice Shayde allowed so long as it stayed limited and ruthlessly suppressed if it threatened to become a block war. The smell was wretched. There was hardly enough water and rarely enough food. Yet the safety it offered meant that even this squalor seemed like a promised land to some.[/SIZE]

 

[Shayde]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Of course, no small number of the storefronts they passed had been converted to other purposes. With smugglers now making regular stops at this Court of Beggars, as people had taken to calling it, businesses had cropped up to cater to them. Brothels, gambling parlors, spice dens and liquor stores, all of them provided new opportunities for the wretched folk of the Court to pay their tax while keeping the wealthier newcomers entertained. As such, drunken laughter echoed up from several of the doorways. Those stuck outside turned toward the sound with hollow, envious eyes.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Most of that had been local enterprise, with a cunning few rising to master their own businesses. Shayde approved; if they could seize that advancement, they deserved it, so long as they still acknowledged him as lord in this place. But he had set up a few opportunities of his own. Hydroponic farms lurked behind other storefronts and workshops, where those incapable of scavenging labored over the Court’s food production. With these in place, he no longer had to import any of the essentials to sustain life here. The resulting gruel was thin, but it was sufficient.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Shayde and Sstramu passed each of these places without a second glance. They were descending from the mall, on their way to the vast warehouses abutting the landing pads. The tents thinned somewhat as they reached the ramps, partly because Shayde sent his droids to brutally clear a path for cargo whenever necessary and partly because these platforms were windy and exposed, a place only the most desperate among the desperate masses would try to set up camp. This did not interest them either. They passed each tent by with utter indifference.[/SIZE]

 

[Shayde]

[SIZE=14.6667px]The warehouses loomed up before them, vast and dark. In the time since they had been cleared of Cthons, the huge buildings had been filled with all manner of illegal cargoes. Loader droids and organic laborers alike moved in and out of the structures, some lugging crates by hand, others pushing repulsorlift platforms stacked high with boxes. It was a task far beyond any organic mind to track the volume of goods passing through this shadowport, for it served as a distribution point for cargoes bound all across the Core Worlds and beyond. Computers struggled to keep up.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Shayde and Sstramu passed crates of repeating blasters, illegal droid parts, death sticks, shock collars, ryll spice, and half a dozen endangered species. Nothing was forbidden save failure to pay one’s dues, making this place a darkly impressive gallery of utter immorality, debauchery, and cruelty. Shayde’s Mark II Droidekas patrolled through the organized chaos, guided by the network of cameras to potential trouble spots. They walked openly to remind even the most fearless and arrogant of captains that there were laws and consequences here, however minimalist.[/SIZE]


[SIZE=14.6667px]Tax collectors walked here, too. Clad in black robes emblazoned with the spider head symbol of Shayde, they moved from captain to captain, levying dues on each cargo crate or sentient head. These were inhabitants of the slumlord’s kingdom who had shown some facility with numbers, enough to be able to remember which codes to punch into their datapads for different types and amounts of cargo. The rewards for their role were not insubstantial; they ate at the same time as the guards, and were second pick for indoor housing. If they could live with what they condoned.[/SIZE]

 

[Shayde]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Shayde and Sstramu passed through the cavernous doors of one of the warehouses, and the guards inside snapped to attention. Shayde enforced near-military discipline in his troops, hiring mercenaries to train them and vigorously punishing any lapse that might lead to loss of profits or respect. This group had done well. A mix of Gamorreans, Aqualish, and Klatooinians, they had been chosen for size and intimidation rather than brains, and carried large weapons to further the effect. Shayde might feel no fear, but the small crowd of beings huddled in the warehouse…[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Penalties for failing to pay the tax were clear: Shayde would find a way to make you profitable. Sometimes that meant vivisecting you to harvest your organs. Sometimes that meant just using you to motivate others with a public execution. And sometimes that meant selling you as forced labor. The slumlord had created the uncertainty over the specifics of the punishment because all were severe enough to serve as a deterrent. Those who failed were left to ponder how ex[/SIZE]actly they would meet a horrible end while still suffering the iron certainty that they would meet one.

[SIZE=14.6667px]Twenty-seven was the final count for this batch. Young and old. Human, near-human, and entirely different stock. Men and women. Shayde knew that Sstramu could find a use for all of them, from pleasure parlors to spice mines. All he saw when he looked at them was credit signs, ways to cover their debts and then some to add to his own coffers. He did not even hear the chorus of begging that began as soon as he entered the room, the desperate, tearful pleas of two dozen voices that echoed from the cold durasteel walls. He had ignored it all many times before.[/SIZE]

 

[Shayde]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Busily surveying the merchandise, Shayde noticed none of it until a middle-aged human grabbed his boot. “Please,” the man begged, tears streaming down his face. “Please. Take me, but let my son stay. It’s my fault, not his.” The slumlord stared down at him, regarding his tired face with all eight crimson eyes. His mandibles tightened. Groveling disgusted him; it was the last resort of the pathetically weak, those who refused to take action to save themselves. Without a word he kicked the man off, drawing blood as teeth cut into lips, and turned to speak to Sstramu.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]It was only an instant later that he felt the pressure, head the screech of metal on metal as powerful arms drove the blade through his leatheris jacket and into his back. Or would have, if not for the heavy armor he wore just beneath the material. The vibroblade scraped along the layered plates, desperately seeking an opening it would never find. Even a Houk with a molecular stiletto would have struggled to pierce such defenses, let alone a malnourished fool with a half-powered blade. Shayde’s guard started forward an instant later, but there was no need. He was ready.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]The Harch whirled on the spot. One huge, three-fingered hand caught the man by the throat; two others grabbed each of his arms, twisting viciously until the bones of each wrist splintered. The man screamed, and the vibroblade dropped to the floor. Staring into the dark eyes of the human, Shayde reevaluated his estimation of the man. It was disgusting that his first instinct had been to grovel, to show inferiority, but at least he had proven to have a spine in the end. Unfortunately for him, he had tried to assert his mastery over someone far more powerful. He would pay for that.[/SIZE]

 

[Shayde]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Shayde’s three free arms waved his guards back. He strode out of the warehouse, his negotiations with Sstramu temporarily suspended, the would-be assassin still hanging in his grip. Despite the broken bones, despite being unarmed and being clearly defeated, the human still wriggled and struggled. Outside the warehouse, laborers and ship captains scattered as the odd pair moved across the landing platform, heading for the edge. Then they gathered behind the crime lord and his prisoner, a hushed, expectant crowd. They knew what would come next.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]“On some level,” Shayde told the wriggling man, now fighting (still with no visible effect) with the desperation of the condemned, “I admire what you have done.” The Harch stood at the platform’s edge, his toes gripping the durasteel as he suspended the human over the abyss below. The wind of passing speeders and atmospheric regulators whipped at Shayde’s jacket and tousled the man’s unkempt hair. “But you chose your moment, and your target, utterly wrong. And for that, there is a price.” Finally, the man stopped struggling, going limp in admitted defeat.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]One final spasm of fire seemed to pass through him. He opened his eyes, stared straight at Shayde. “One day,” he gasped around the constricting hand, “someone will find the right moment for you.” Shayde laughed, a harsh, guttural chittering that echoed on the wind. Then he dropped the man over the edge. The small form was rapidly stolen by darkness; he fell in silence, refusing the indignity of a fruitless final scream. Shayde turned away, back toward the assembled beings watching the scene unfold. He said nothing, only stared, until finally they returned to work.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=14.6667px]Even without words, the message was clear. “Your lives, and your deaths, belong to me.”[/SIZE]