Chapter 45: Leaving the Circus

Tatooine was a crime-infested, barren, desert shit-hole, but I was incredibly happy to be there. It meant that Jon and I could finally get off that damned ship. We’d been on it for just under three days at that point, and I’d had enough.

Enough of Amidala’s unveiled hostility. Enough of her sycophants joining in on treating us alternately as whipping boys and lepers. Enough of the practically transparent ploys from Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi and Master Qui-Gon Jinn attempting to satisfy their curiosity. Enough of the lack of accommodations (the ship only had one passenger suite, for Amidala and a few of her handmaidens, and a couple bunk rooms for the crew; guess who was last on the list for beds or even blankets). Enough of the fucking boredom, unable to work on my magic (or anything else, really).

Just enough.

I think if I’d been on that ship another day, I’d have flipped and filled the entire thing with wildfire before teleporting Jon and I back to Naboo. I didn’t even have Togo to pet. It was awful.

Even the MRE’s sucked. I mean, come the fuck on, future! You can’t manage nice MRE’s on the royal yacht? But no, apparently the ship was only stocked with the freshest food, and only when about to go on a journey. The MRE’s were only there if the hyperdrive went down mid-flight, and they somehow survived the experience, thus needing to wait for rescue.

So when we landed Jon and I semi sarcastically thanked Amidala for her hospitality, then fucked right off. I had more than enough cash on me, and could easily summon up as much as needed. The bastards chose to land in the sand-dunes outside the spaceport of Mos Espa, rather than take my entirely reasonable offer to pay for a ship’s berth myself.

Why did they do this? For “security”.

Morons.

As if a klick of desert would stop mercenary-pirates on flying cars. Or as if the entirely unique royal yacht was somehow less obvious in the desert than the spaceport. No, the only thing landing there meant was that we weren’t under the spaceport authorities’ protection. The Hutts had an interest in maintaining their safe-port status and neutrality, but only for paying customers. In fact, they now had an interest in allowing (or even ordering) an attack on the queen’s party, to ensure others didn’t choose to land in the desert rather than pay their port-fees.

Like I said, morons.

Plus, it meant Jon and I had to walk through the desert, awkwardly close to Qui-Gon, the idiot gungan and Amidala, who had for some doubtless fucking stupid idea decided to join them while pretending to be a handmaiden.

Jon and I were trudging through the sand when he turned to me. “I need a drink.”

I chuckled. “Me too. Fucking hell, but that was miserable.”

He nodded. “Next time, I don’t give a shit if we die, you bust out the magic.”

“Fine,” I replied. He was right. For such a powerful mage, I was being a real coward. What was the point of all the power if I had to suffer that sort of petty bullshit?

“I’m surprised you didn’t go all ‘Mountain Killer’ on that ship.”

“What, run about the place killing everyone, and deliver a sackful of heads to who? Senator Palpatine? Tell him, “Sir, in the future, pick a less obnoxious queen!”?” I asked. “That sounds a bit mad.”

Jon laughed. “I wasn’t aware that sanity was among your virtues.”

“Oh, shut up Jon. And think about what you want to drink,” I said.

“I already know. The most potent, hallucinogenic drink they have. It’s the only way we can still get buzzed, after all your magic.”

“After the past few days, honestly, that sounds divine,” I muttered. “Just watch out for the whores.”

“What? Why?” he asked.

“They’ll be slaves, here.”

“Fucking seriously, Odysseus? We get off that damned ship and away from those horrible people, and now you start being a wet blanket, trying to get me miserable again? Plus, when have you ever known me to visit whores?”

I burst out into laughter at his indignation. “Sorry, sorry,” I apologized.

=================================

Eventually we reached Tatooine, and via a combination of threats and bribes found a dining establishment called the Victor’s Roost that attracted the higher class of scumbag. The establishment itself was pretty amazing. Basically, imagine Tortuga during the golden age of Caribbean piracy. Then imagine a bar for only the richest of captains and their officers. Finally, bring it into the future.

That was the Victor’s Roost. The most luxurious furnishings, bedecked in gold and looted treasures that “looked nice enough,” things that could fetch fortunes, if they weren’t too hot to move, all thrown together with a sort of classless, garish extravagance. The most attractive of human and alien serving girls and dancers (all of whom were also available, for the right price), exotic and expensive wines and food, and of course the drugs.

And underneath it all was this frisson of danger. Fortunes were won and lost on the turn of a card or throw of the dice. Pirates wanted in a dozen sectors met planning attacks on valuable shipments. Smugglers, gun and drug runners were hired by rebels and criminals for essential deliveries. Deadly assassins were hired to hunt down a traitor or remove an enemy or, worse, already on the hunt. Slavers discussed special orders, or just sold off the most precious of their recent stock. And all of these villains were standing at the top of their respective fields.

Suffice to say, the place had ambiance, though the galaxy would doubtless be better off if I hosed it down with spell-fire. But after three days in close quarters with the Nabooian royal party, I was willing to give them a pass so long as the food was good and the drink was strong.

We had literally just finished ordering when I got a call. Considering that the only people who had my number were the Nabooians, it was fairly obvious who the culprit was.

I tapped my earpiece, activating the communicator, and clicked the hard-wired switch for the microphone to “on” – no listening in on my conversations without my knowing. “Odysseus here,” I said.

“Hello Odysseus, it’s Qui-Gon,” I heard from the other end.

“Qui-Gon, I’ve just sat down for the first decent meal in days. This had better be an emergency,” I warned.

He gave a small cough in embarrassment. “Well, it turns out that the salvage-yard owner won’t accept credits.”

“Alright. So, what? Did your mind-control fail?” I asked.

“It’s not mind control,” he protested tiredly. “But yes, the owner proved resistant to being influenced.”

“And then someone remembered I might be carrying hard currency?”

“That’s right,” he said.

“So how much do you need?”

“About twenty thousand credits worth. Are you carrying that much?” he asked hopefully.

I grinned. I sensed another opportunity. “I am. Please give the handmaiden the comm.”

“Hello Mr. Gangari,” Amidala said, her voice far less arrogant than usual. “Thank you so much for agreeing to help us.”

Nice try, queenie. “You can cut the act, Your Majesty,” I drawled. “I doubt you’re fooling the Jedi; you surely didn’t fool me. And I haven’t agreed to help you yet.”

“What do you want,” she asked, her voice totally devoid of feeling. She hated me so much in that instant.

“The Naboo throne doesn’t take it’s cut of my farmland.” It’s always good to start off from a high price in negotiations.

“What. WHAT!” she hissed. “That’s worth tens of billions of credits a year, you, you – you extortionist!”

I chuckled. “Well, what’s your counter-offer?”

“My counter offer? How about you give us the money! How about you do the decent thing, and help us! Help everyone suffering on Naboo!” She was furious. Ah, it was really quite satisfying to dig beneath her mask. But still, she was far too childish.

“Why would I? You’ve hardly done anything to make me well disposed to you, personally. It’s not like you can’t get to Coruscant. You can easily sell the ship, and buy something cheaper. Granted, it might take you a week or two more to get to Coruscant, and you’ll take a bit of a hit to your image, but I’m sure the Jedi will get you there safe and sound. I doubt the Trade Federation will do anything too terrible in the meantime. Granted, some of your entourage may have to be left here until you can retrieve them, but I’m sure they’re all clever enough to get by without falling into slavery.”

I was just cranking her up, making her realize how much she needed my help. I had no idea if they could get credits exchanged otherwise; credits were a government-controlled trackable cryptocurrency, after all, which criminals tended to steer clear of. There were doubtless people who did exchange, and clean, credits, but the exchange was probably exorbitant, and introductions hard to come by.

She was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Five percent. We’ll reduce Naboo’s portion of your produce by five percent,” she finally offered. Her voice was quieter, weakened by the realization of just how screwed they are.

“I trust you mean by five percent of my total produce, not five percent of what you’d get,” I clarified. “But that’s not enough. Twenty-five percent.”

“Ten percent, for a period of a hundred years,” she rejoined.

I grinned. “Now you’re learning to negotiate!” I replied happily, subtly mocking her earlier failures to do so. “Fifteen percent, in perpetuity.”

“Ten percent, in perpetuity.”

Good enough. “I agree, so long as the right is transferrable to future owners. Have one of your handmaidens draw up the agreement, and send it to my datapad. If you text us the address, Jon and I will be by momentarily.” I hung up.

“So, no food?” Jon asked.

“No food,” I agreed.

“No drinks?”

“No drinks.”

“More of this fucking sand?”

“More of this fucking sand.”

He sighed. “How much did you take them for?”

“Ten percent reduction in our agricultural taxes.”

“What – forever?” he clarified.

“That’s right. About six billion credits a year, give or take.” I grinned.

“And how much money did they need?” he asked.

“Twenty thousand credits.”

“Gods, that girl is just awful at negotiations,” he noted.

I nodded. “She really is.”

Jon sighed, looking mournfully at our empty table. “I want half.”

“What?”

“Of what she’s giving you. I’m missing the food too, it’s only fair.”

I laughed at his boldness. “Unlike the queen, I’m not in the habit of bending myself over the barrel for those I negotiate with, Jon.”

He sighed again. “Fine, I’ll take a third.”

“Really? How magnanimous of you,” I said sarcastically.

“It really is. Otherwise you’ll be listening to me bitch and moan about this meal at least until Coruscant,” he warned.

“Fine, fine,” I rolled my eyes. “You can have a third – but no bitching, moaning, whining, or other complaining about this meal. Not that the money even matters; I can make as much as we need.”

“It’s the principle,” Jon replied.

“Right.”

We looked at each other, and broke into laughter.

=================================

After taking a cab to our destination, Watto’s (Junk/Salvage) Shop, I went over and signed the agreement I had with Amidala, had it witnessed by the Jedi, then gave her the money. A single pound-sterling sized coin made out of crystalline vertex could be worth between ten thousand and a hundred thousand credits, depending on crystal quality, which made the whole thing feel slightly ridiculous; all of this seriousness and the object being transferred was a pair of coins.

Suffice to say, Watto, a pot-bellied, child-sized flying alien of some variety, was more willing to accept this form of payment, and delivery of the replacement hyperdrive parts was scheduled for the next day. We left the shop, and I turned to Amidala.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure,” I said with a smirk.

She glared. “I just hope I never have to have any business with you again, ever.”

Qui-Gon looked at us, unsure what to say or do, then settled for a nod and a quick “may the Force be with you,” which I politely returned. Each party turned to go in different directions, Jon and I to our cab and then back to the Victor’s Roost, the Jedi, queen and gungan to their ship.

Except we were interrupted. A sandy-blond slave-boy, his emotions rippling with nervousness combined with curiosity and a sort of empathetic kindness spoke up. “Um, where are you planning on going?”

I looked at him, amused by his daring; I wasn’t cruel, especially to slaves, but he didn’t know that. “Jon and I are off to a place called Victor’s Roost, where we’ll try and get some rooms.”

“And we’re headed back to our ship, which is the sand-dunes to the west of the spaceport,” Qui-Gon answered. “Why?”

The boy shook his head. “There’s a sand-storm coming in. You’ll never make it. And all the rooms will be full; it’s the Boonta Eve Classic in two days. People come in from all over the galaxy to watch it. But you can spend the night at our home.”

After a quick call to the Roost to check if that was actually the case, I agreed to take up the slave boy’s offer of hospitality. Not exactly what I was hoping for, and I’d still be in contact with Amidala, but after getting such a large concession out of her being around her was pissing her off (and amusing me) more than the reverse.