While the pit droids were servicing the freighter, Quinto and Truda struck up a conversation, falls right into their routine as old acquaintances.
“So, where did Velas disappear to?
Why didn’t she run this leg with you?” Truda asked, adjusting his tools.
“And those faces behind you look entirely unmapped.”
He jerked his chin toward Trent, Daemon, and the rest of the crew.
“They’re my new…
uh…” Quinto hesitated, scanning his thoughts for an explanation.
He could hardly advertise that Velas was currently being kept as a high-value collateral asset within the comfortable residential sectors of Planet Dawn.
“Corporate partners,” Trent called out from behind, his voice smooth and steady.
“Right, partners!” Quinto echoed immediately, masking his stumble.
“Whatever.
Just make sure you clear your own operational liabilities,” Truda grunted, checking a terminal line.
“I’ve already notified Jabba’s enforcement network.
His syndicalists should touch down any minute.”
“Hey, old man!
Don’t tank my line like that!
I just cracked atmospheric entry, at least let me grab a drink first!” Quinto protested.
Truda let out a low, gravelly sneer.
“We both execute logistics for Jabba, border runner.
You understand the protocol.”
Sure enough, before their conversation could loop, a group of armed enforcers dressed in scuffed bounty hunter armor marched into the docking bay, their voices cutting through the engine whine.
“Quinto!
Move your skin out here!
Where is the manifest Jabba ordered?!”
Quinto flinched, casting a desperate glance toward Daemon, but the Administrator remained entirely unbothered, offering zero tactical response.
Left with no cards to play, the smuggler stiffened his posture.
“Right here.
I am…
transitioning the cargo now.”
“You runts, clear the hold and load the skiff!
Jabba doesn’t like waiting for his property!” a Twi’lek mercenary barked, leveling a heavy blaster rifle directly at Daemon’s chest.
The rifle featured a reinforced military frame, an offensive grade significantly more lethal than the cheap DL-18 blaster pistols Quinto’s ring traditionally carried.
It was a clear display of regional leverage.
The T-850 stepped forward, its internal combat matrix calculating the necessary trajectory to neutralize the threat.
But Daemon raised a hand, checking the machine’s movement.
“Stand down.
Clear the freight.”
Without a trace of hesitation or pride, Daemon stepped into the cargo bay, hoisted a heavy modular container, and carried it out to deposit it onto an absolute workhorse of the outer systems—a Bantha-II cargo skiff.
The syndicalists stood by with their arms crossed, watching the crew handle the physical labor.
Once the manifest was cleared, the lead enforcer tossed a small handful of heavy coins at Quinto’s feet and turned on his heel. The source of this chapter is novelping.com.
Quinto scooped up the coins, verifying the count before shouting, “Hey!
This is barely two thousand wupiupi!
The contractual term was locked at five thousand!”
Wupiupi was the dominant currency system processing transactions across Tatooine.
Since the desert world sat within the sovereign territory of Hutt Space, the standard credit system of the Galactic Republic carried zero structural value; these localized hard coins were the only currency that mattered.
The enforcers didn’t even scrub their speed, the leader casting a mocking sneer over his shoulder.
“Be grateful you’re walking away with your skin, you miserable muun-milker!
Take the coins and clear the port!
Hahaha!”
Quinto’s jaw tightened, his face turning an angry shade of red.
Once the cargo skiff cleared the hanger perimeter, he threw a sharp gesture toward the street.
“Bantha-spawned scum!”
Trent remained entirely unfazed.
He walked over, clapping a firm hand onto Quinto’s shoulder.
“Let it slide, border runner.
At least we cleared baseline liquidation.
Once our corporate infrastructure scales, we’ll be running high-yield logistics across multiple sectors.
You won’t have to balance your ledger against Jabba’s mood forever.”
“Jabba…” Quinto murmured, his focus dropping into absolute submission at the mere mention of the crime lord’s name.
“Come on,” Trent said, a light grin returning to his face.
“Let’s isolate a local cantina.
First round is on my tab.”
“It’s my coin you’re spending anyway,” Quinto muttered with a dry shake of his head.
They marched into the heart of Mos Eisley, a sprawling settlement that possessed zero civil planning or organized transit corridors.
The architecture consisted of haphazardly thrown-together clay hovels and tattered fabric awnings, giving the entire perimeter the distinct look of a massive, sun-scoured slum.
A diverse tapestry of alien species bustled through the sandy streets, every traveler wrapped in thick desert cloaks to shield their skin from the intense radiation of the binary suns.
Street vendors yelled out descriptions of exotic hardware, drift-miners searched for open logistics contracts, and heavily armed mercenaries leaned against the mud walls, waiting for a cartel boss to purchase their leverage.
Most of the freelance gun-hands went out of their way to look severe, attempting to projecting an aura of lethal capability to up their market value.
Suddenly, a tall, spindly assassin droid marched down the center lane, its metallic chassis clutching a cluster of severed Aqualish heads.
The civilian crowd parted instantly to clear its path, the self-proclaimed lethal mercenaries moving the fastest of all to drop their gaze.
Whispers rippled through the onlookers.
“Look…
it’s the Aqualish enforcers from the Iron Fish ring.
They hijacked one of Jabba’s light freighters last week…”
Quinto grabbed Daemon’s sleeve, pulling him back against a structural alcove to clear the lane.
“That’s an IG-86 unit,” he whispered, his voice tight.
“One of Jabba’s dedicated hunters.
Maintain absolute distance; if its cognitive processors determine your movement interferes with its objective tracker, it will execute you on the spot.”
Daemon offered no verbal response.
He locked his gaze onto the unyielding mechanical sentinel for a brief, calculated moment before turning away, following Quinto into a nearby cantina.
The air inside was thick, packed with a volatile mixture of automated units and diverse alien species spending their blood-stained wages on low-grade synthesized intoxicants to vent their stress. This story is hosted at NovelPing.
Flawless executioners and desperate drift-workers sat side by side—squid-faced Quarren, massive porcine Gamorreans, and sleek Twi’leks with their distinct cranial lekku twirling as they spoke.
It looked exactly like an unmapped galactic menagerie.
Trent’s adventurous focus flared at the sights.
The moment they cleared the threshold, he swiped a few hard coins from Quinto’s palm and vanished into the crowd.
Within minutes, he had secured a seat beside a sleek Twi’lek woman, laughing and drinking as if he had lived on the desert world his entire life.
Daemon walked straight toward the large, oval bar structure dominating the center of the room.
He flagged down the bartender, ordering a standard drink.
Taking a slow, measured sip, he slid a heavy wupiupi coin across the counter and dropped his voice into a low tone.
“I am searching for data regarding the Skywalker lineage.”
The bartender swiped the coin into his apron with a seamless, practiced motion, continuing to polish a glass as he spoke in a low murmur that barely cleared the ambient noise.
“They reside over in Mos Espa.
They’re registered as the property of Watto, a Toydarian junk dealer.
He won their contracts from Gardulla the Hutt in a high-stakes pod-racing bet.
The sector’s been talking about that turn for months.”
Daemon pushed a second hard coin across the counter.
“I intend to chart a course to their location.
What is your operational analysis?”
The bartender secured the second coin, stacking his glassware in neat, uniform columns.
“Mos Espa sits directly within Gardulla’s territorial grid.
You understand the structural friction between Jabba and Gardulla…
it’s a cold war.
You touched down under Jabba’s flight clearance; if Gardulla’s enforcers track your presence in her sectors, your survival probability drops to zero.”
This port truly is an information sinkhole, Daemon thought, his expression remaining perfectly controlled.
He had barely cracked real-space before Jabba’s enforcers flagged his manifest, and already the local information networks had mapped his corporate alignment.
Daemon balanced their final wupiupi coin on his finger, preparing to dig deeper into Watto’s security grid, when a sudden, heavy impact slammed against his shoulder, shoving him aside.
His brow furrowed, a flash of irritation sparking in his thoughts.
Turning his head, he found a heavily intoxicated human spacer slumping against the counter beside him, his breath reeking of cheap synthesized rum.
“Hey!
I’m talking to you, smooth-skin!
You look like you’ve got standard credits to burn.
What do you say you and I partner up to balance our ledgers, huh?”
Hearing the word ‘partner,’ Daemon raised a brief hand, checking the T-850 before its internal combat algorithms could flatten the spacer.
He looked at the drunk calmly.
“What is your proposition?”
“Hahaha!
Look at that pristine skin, you’re definitely a Core-world runaway with a massive family inheritance locked in a vault!
Hic!
Here’s the play: I secure your skin for an automated ransom file, and you have your family wire a million credits to clear the lock!
What do you think of that partnership, smooth-skin?
Hahaha!”
The drunk roared with laughter, and a group of armed mercenaries at a nearby table evidently his crew joined in the celebration, their eyes locked onto Daemon like predators marking a fresh target.