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“My Lord Seneschal,” the Twi’lek major-domo said with a deep bow, “Naboor the Hutt has answered thy summons—by hypercomm,” he added.

The massive Hutt narrowed his eyes, but he did not strike the Twi’lek.  Instead a rumble emerged from deep within his chest.  “Has he?  Put the transmission through,” he ordered.

The Twi’lek bowed again and made a gesture with one hand; his own assistants activated the screen and the holographic image of the much smaller—and younger—Hutt appeared in the throne room of the Seneschal of Bundil.

“What is this, Naboor?” asked the Seneschal in a quiet voice.  “Did I not command that you were to report to me—in person?  Instead, you risk my anger by failing to obey your betters.”

“I bear warnings to you, the Lord Seneschal of Durga the Mighty,” the image of Naboor said with a bow.  A very shallow and insincere bow. 

“Warnings?  Explain yourself, Naboor the Weak.”

“Bundil has been targeted by the Union, Lord Seneschal—I fear that you are in grave danger.”

“You fear too much, Naboor.  Had Durga the Mighty allowed it, I would have ordered your demise already—but he believes that there may still be value in you.  I do not such any such value in one who has bowed to these . . . humans.”

Naboor bristled, but then he bowed low again.  “These humans know no fear, my Lord Seneschal; they dare much which none have attempted in millennia.  They believe in their laws, rather than seeing them as impediments to be overcome—Patrice, foul as that name is within my mouth, has dedicated himself to stamping out corruption.  Our best agents have been arrested or slain; our operations have been compromised again and again—this Union seeks to destroy our power here in the territory they have the temerity to claim as their own.”

“Against such a worthless child as you, Naboor, they dare much,” the older Hutt laughed.  “Here, on Bundil and other worlds, they dare not to challenge Durga the Mighty or those who speak for him.  You show them weakness and expect them to grovel—that is not the way of the Hutt.  Durga himself grows ever more displeased by the pittance you send to him—perhaps finally he has come to the opinion where you should be replaced with a more worthy, and skilled, Hutt.  Profit from your operations has dwindled, Naboor—and that cannot be tolerated.”

“Forgive me, Lord Seneschal, but you do not understand the difficulties under which I labor.  These accursed Rangers hound my operations day and night—the humans have dedicated themselves to ending once and for all time the trade in slaves and illegal spice.  My smugglers have fled en masse and there are few who are willing to risk swift judgments under Union law for minor profit.”

“So,” the Seneschal laughed, “you admit your failure?”

Naboor squirmed and the anger in his eyes was clearly evident even through the hologram.  “I have . . . changed course to ensure that profits flow; not as great as in days past, but profits nonetheless, Lord Seneschal.  And for that, the humans—bel Iblis and Patrice and Morvin—they have allowed my . . . more legitimate operations to proceed without harassment.  But your operations, my Lord Seneschal, those still provoke their ire.”

“Of all that I thought to see and experience in this Galaxy, a Hutt filled with fear of lesser beings was the last I would have imagined.  Until today, Naboor the Weak,” the Seneschal said with a grim chuckle.  “Your Union which you fear so much has already landed here and they dare not to violate the sanctity of my domain—they avoid it.  They know not to challenge me.”

“Yet,” Naboor whispered the single word, and the elder Hutt’s eyes narrowed again.

“What was that, Naboor?”

“They do not challenge you yet, my Lord Seneschal,” the hologram answered.  “But they shall, oh, they shall.”

“Not even Palpatine dared to attempt to bring the Hutts to task, Naboor.  You are a disgrace to all Hutts past and present and future—a disgrace that I shall endeavor to see removed from your post; you will serve as the lowliest Hutt on Nar Shaddaa; you shall become a servant and not a Master.”

The Seneschal drew himself up to his full height and began to speak again, when the Twi’lek suddenly stumbled back into the throne room.  “What is the reason for this interruption?”

“A transmission from the ships in orbit, my Lord Seneschal,” the Twi’lek whispered.  “Their commander—Captain G’deransk demands to speak with you.”

“DEMANDS?” the Seneschal bellowed.

And at the name, Naboor shivered and he shook his head.  “My warnings come too late; perhaps others will take heed of this harbinger,” and then his image died as he cut the holographic transmission at the source.

“I DID NOT DISMISS HIM!” howled the Seneschal.  “HE WILL BE BROKEN!  DESTROYED!”

All sound within the throne room died as everyone being present stared at the furious Hutt in horror as he ranted and raved and threw droids left and right.

Finally, the Twi’lek gathered his courage and he stepped forward.  “My Lord?  The human is waiting.”

The Hutt glared at his advisor, and then he drew in a deep breath.  “Activate the circuit,” he ordered curtly.

A hologram of an immaculately dressed Imperial officer appeared standing before the Hutt.  “Hello, worm,” it said—and the Seneschal jerked as a GASP went through the throne room.

“HOW DARE YOU!”

“I wished to inform you personally that Lord Steward bel Iblis has decided to leave this world to the New Republic—my forces are withdrawing.”

The Seneschal’s eyes flashed and he laughed.  “Then be gone from this world, human.”

“We shall, we shall,” G’deransk said with a chuckle.  “But first, there is one final thing we can to ensure that this world has best chance to prosper in the future.”

“And that is?”

“Utterly destroying you and your operations,” G’deransk answered with a smile.

Utter and complete silence filled the throne room.  No one dared to even breath, until the Hutt began to laugh.  “Think I am not prepared for such?  My defenses are such that not even your Star Destroyers can broach.  RAISE THE SHIELD!”

The Twi’lek bowed and rushed to the control section, where he blanched.  “My Lord!  Their ground vehicles and star-fighters already approach!”

“QUICKLY YOU FOOL!” the Seneschal bellowed.  “They cannot penetrate MY shields once they are raised.”

The Twi’lek bowed and he activated the defensive shields—and Tylan G’deransk smiled.

“Of course, you do not ask why if we wanted to destroy you we did not attack when we first landed here four weeks ago.  Hutt arrogance on display at its finest!  We did not attack you because first we had to deal with your defensive shield, you slime-ridden, diseased-filled, excuse for a life form.”

And the transmission ceased.

The Seneschal’s eyes grew wide and then the Twi’lek turned around in stunned disbelief.  “My Lord!  The shield generators!  They have just . . . exploded, my Lord!”

“E CHU TA!” screamed the Hutt as heavy laser bolts and concussion missiles began to slam into the unshielded walls of his fortress.

As the explosions ripped apart the outer walls of Durga’s vacation palace on Bundil, one of the exquisitely camouflaged troopers sprawled out along the flank of the mountain overlooking the target sighed heavily.

“What a waste,” he whispered into his helmet microphone.  “You know that the Hutt had to have had a fortune in there—and we are just gonna smash it flat?”

“Vsilisk,” another trooper, this one the section sergeant, growled.

“Not our job, I know,” Vsilisk said plaintively.  “Noooooo, we just risk life and limb to sneak in and plant those charges on the generators down there.  And we leave it behind for some nerf-herding salvager to dig out all of those treasures.”

“Vsilisk!  Shut that damn mouth!”

But Captain Anton L’sard just chuckled from his perch half a kilometer away.

“Vsilisk,” he said into his own mike.

“Here, Captain, Sir,” the cheery—if somewhat insolent voice—answered immediately.

“You really want to dig through the rubble down there for trinkets?”

Trey Vsilisk began to open his mouth—but three full years of working for the officer made him hold his tongue; at least a little, anyway.  “Well, I’d rather have snuck in and liberated the treasury before the Hammers blew half of it into orbit, Sir.”

“Wasn’t the question, Vsilisk,” L’sard replied.  “We have three hours and twenty-two minutes to rendezvous with our transport . . . which is the last Union ship leaving Bundil.  You want to loot that palace, go right ahead, trooper—but I’m not holding the transport on the ground to wait for you.”

A long sigh came over the comm system again.  “Probably too much to carry anyway,” muttered the special operations trooper.  “Unless you and the rest of the guys want to give me a hand, Sarge?”

“Vsilisk, when we get aboard ship, I swear I am going to . . .,” and the squeal of feedback through the helmet comms made every trooper wince.

“Sir,” another of the soldiers snapped.  “Escape vessel just launched from the palace—twenty seconds before it passes overhead.  ID confirmed—Hutt stealth ship, hyperspace capable.”

L’sard smiled behind his armored mask.  “Drogan, Kelp—break out the Plex-Four and engage that target,” he ordered.

The two troopers lifted the heavy weapon (the PLX-4, or ‘Plex-Four’), one holding it on his shoulder as he aimed, while the second—Drogan—armed the revolving cylinder which contained four GAMs (Gravity Activated Missile).  Then he tapped Kelp on the top of his helmet.  That trooper locked the Plex-Four’s sensors onto the oncoming vessel and a tone began to sound—he squeezed the trigger and the first GAM was hurled forward before its drive lit off, the barrel of the Plex rising with the recoil force.  As the barrel dropped, the cylinder rotated and a second GAM locked into the launch tube; the tone sounded again—and once more a missile streaked away.  In two seconds, Kelp had fired all four of the ready missiles—homing in on the gravity signature of the Hutt vessel’s repulsorlifts.

The pilot tried to evade, but the GAM was a very smart missile and each approached from a different vector under the control of its suicidal droid brain; of course, the sensors and intelligence did not leave room for much of a payload, but each GAM carried a miniature proton torpedo—and four were more than enough to shatter the escape crafts repulsorlifts, sending it hurtling towards a snow-filled glacier that it slammed into with a dull BOOM.

“Vsilisk,” L’sard continued with a smile.  “Ten to one the fortune you seek is there—along with a very high-ranking Hutt.  How about we take them both?”

“Hutts are pretty damn heavy, Captain, Sir—can we throw him off the cliff face and call it a day?”

“Vsilisk!” the Sergeant snapped, as the rest of the platoon began to chuckle.

“Slimy too . . . damn worm will make a mess of the shuttle when it picks us up.  Not to mention the smell.”

“VSILISK!”

“Hey, I’m just saying!”

WooHoo, its back 

We need more of this for the new year

Yeah you are right