The Fett Dynasty II: Siege of Orri Prime

SPLOOGE! The frigid water felt like someone just stabbed a thousand icicles into Burl’s face. He screamed and furioushooshook his head as he awoke. He suddenly realized that was all he could shake, as he was strapped rather tightly upright in a chair bolted into the floor. He opened his eyes to see the bulbous, fur-trimmed face of his Aqualish kidnapper staring him right in the eyes.

“Rise and shine, Moonbeam,” the alien hissed through his lip sacs. “The boss will see you now.”

Blinking frantically, Burl did what he could to assimilate his surroundings. He found himself sitting in a huge chamber of forest green marble, the walls draped in expensive Arisand silk swags and a giant durasteel and crystal chandelier mounted in the ceiling. The room was devoid of any furniture save for the chair he was tied to, an immense desk of the same green marble set approximately six meters directly in front of him, and a large black leather chair with the back turned set behind that. Framing the desk was a window as high as the wall in which Burl could see a spectacular view of Worlport’s skyline, with its sweeping towers, spires, and rooftop gardens gently illuminated by Ord Mantell’s indigo dusk. There was also a window set in one of the sidewalls, and through that Burl could see flashing lights blink from the darkness as well as hear the thumping bass and drums of some wild dance music.

Scattered throughout the chamber were several aliens, two of which he recognized as his kidnappers, the Aqualish and the one-eyed Wookiee. There was also a short, stubby Snivvian, who was cleaning his blunt talons with the point of a vibro-blade, and a tall, broadly-built Bothan, whose sable brown pelt was rippling all along the exposed parts of his body in anticipation.

“Where…” Burl blubbered, his face dripping with sweat and cold water, “where am I?”

“You are in my private office,” came a smooth, resonant male human voice. Since none of the aliens had opened their mouths, Burl assumed it had come from the huge, high-backed desk chair. He saw two leather-gloved hands gesture from the sides of the chair. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I spared no expense in its renovation. Please, take yoime ime appreciating it. It may be the last place you see.” Suddenly, a lithe, tall, lavender-skinned Twi’leki female emerged from behind the chair, wearing a sad, shameful expression as she re-clasped the front of her top and assumed her position against the wall.

His eyes shooting over the band of surly-looking aliens, Burl asked, “Where’s Baac?”

The voice spoke again. “Baac…? Oh, yes, Baac. If he stays true to his vermin-like nature, he’s probably gambled away the credits he stole from you—and trying to screw any female that comes within five meters of him.” The alien band all chuckled heartily at the comment. Again, the gloved hand emerged and hastily snapped at the poor Twi’leki lass, who immediately jumped to the command and poured a drink from a bottle on the desk. As she hurried around the desk with his glass, the voice added, “You needn’t fret about Baac, son. He has served his purpose.”

Burl’s face sunk as low as his spirits. Above everything else, now he had been robbed and had no way of getting back to Orri Prime. He raised his head a bit. “Who are you? Are you Black Sun?”

The question not only elicited snorts from the surrounding aliens, but from the man in the chair as well. “In a manner of speaking, yes.” The chair slowly circled around to reveal its occupant, who stated smoothly, “But you may call me Czethros.”

Even though he was seated all the way across the room from him, the very apanceance of the man behind the desk made Burl as though he had just been grabbed by the throat. Czethros was a humanoid male and far more human-looking than anyone else in the room, save for several aspects. His hair was a dark moss green, the same color as the walls and desk, and was slicked back from his forehead and tied at the base of his neck. He was strongly built, and even seated he appeared to be extremely tall, almost as tall as Burl himself. He was impeccably dressed in an expensive green silk brocade jacket tailored to accentuate his well-sculpted shoulders and chest, with an equally expensive shirt underneath clasped at the neck with a black jewel as big as Burl’s thumb: Burl was quite positive that the outfit alone cost more than his entire life’s salary. But the one feature that struck sheer terror in Burl’s gut was his eyes—or lack thereof. Czethros wore a partial silver skullcap that covered his forehead and eyes, and a single point of red light rolled back and forth in a thin liquid crystal display across his face. The red dot sputtered a bit, blipping in short pulses back and forth as it scanned the wet, frightened miner strapped in the chair in front of him.

Still staring at Burl with his bionic eye, Czethros appeared to be speaking to no one in particular when he queried, “Who is he?”

The Bothan took up the question, moving forward from his position. Reaching into a pocket in his vest, he pulled a small datapad that Burl recognized as his galactic passport. As he stepped toward Czethros, the Bothan read, “Thutchen, Burl. Occupation—miner. Homeworld—Orri Prime.” He handed the passport to Czethros, who accepted it without taking his eye off Burl.

“Orri Prime? You’re a long way from home, son,” the man quipped, lazily looking over the passport. “Here for a little vacation, perhaps?” The red eye shot back toward Burl, and his voice became increasingly menacing. “Or are you here just to bandy our name about like yesterday’s pod race results and stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

Burl was actually happy that his chair was bolted to the floor, for he was sure that his mad trembling would have sent him skimming across the chamber’s slick marble floor. Trying his best for some degree of calm, he stammered, “I’m…not here for either…sir. I…I have information for you.”

“Really?” It was then Czethros stood from his chair and walked from behind the desk toward the side window. The length of his tailored jacket billowed behind him, and the hard heels of his high black leather boots clicked against the marble floor. “And you came all the way here to tell me this information? I’m touched, really.” He stopped and glanced down through the window. “What makes you think I may be interested in hearing it?”

“I was told you would be very interested, sir.”

“By whom?”

Burl suddenly stopped as a fog of utter confusion suddenly settled in his mind. He furrowed his brow as he tried to remember…”I…I don’t know, sir.”

“You don’t know,” Czethros repeated. He drew his lips into a thin line before adding, “And what sort of compensation do you seek in exchange for this information? Money? A job perhaps?”

“Uh…money? Yeah, yeah, I guess money would be good.”

“You guess money would be good?” The band of aliens gathered around once again broke out in cruel laughter, but were silenced by Czethros’ red-eyed glare. Lightly tossing his hands up, Czethros began walking toward the bound miner and announced, “All right, son, you have succeeded in peaking my interest. What is this information you have traveled halfway across the galaxy--and risked a most certain painful death at the end of this inquiry--to deliver me?”

Burl swallowed hard, and looked around the room. All eyes were glowering over him, waiting. Pulling himself up as high as he could in his compromised position in his seat, he announced loudly and clearly, “I know where Boba Fett is.”

He expected to hear sardonic chuckles and guffaws again from the alien hoodlums surrounding him, but his expectations fell short. Outside of the muffled bass and thumping of the music coming from the side window, the room held nothing but a cold, still silence. As Burl looked around again, everyone’s expression faded from dangerously smug to stoic, even slightly uncomfortable. Everyone, that is, except for Czethros. He stood perfectly still, his face below his bionic visor remaining unchanged. The only indication that this news had any effect on him was the erratic pulsing of his bionic eye.

Stepping forward, Czethros leaned down into Burl’s face, setting his lip in a smirk. “Do you now?” Burl nodded dumbly. Czethros pulled himself back up. “Well, Burl Thutchen, let me thank you in my own special way for this…information.” He turned to the vibro-wielding Snivvian and exclaimed, “Treatment!”

With lightening speed, the Snivvian pounced upon the bound Burl, cutting his straps from the chair. But before Burl had any chance to be glad, the Aqualish and the Wookiee once again had him up and off the floor, carrying him kicking and flailing to Czethros’ massive desk. They threw him down on his back, knocking the wind out of him. The Aqualish and the Bothan spread his legs wide and held them down while the Wookiee pinned his arms over his head. The Snivvian, still brandishing the vibro-blade, leapt onto the desktop to land and squat right between Burl’s legs. As he held the flashing blade up and screeched a horrific, ultra-sonic giggle, Burl read jud just exactly what the “treatment” was about to be. “Oh gods! Gods no, PLEEASE!”

Coolly and casually, Czethros strode around the desk, unabashed by the display. “I deplore waste of any kind, Master Thutchen, but the one thing I cannot abide by any means is the waste of my precious time. I am a busy man, sir, and I have neither the desire nor the patience to hear your precise accounts of the whereabouts of a DEAD MAN!” He stopped, standing adjacent to Burl’s prone body, and shot his gloved hand forth to furiously grab his jowled jaw. “And unless you can miraculously raise that murdering son of a bitch bounty-hng fng fuck from his grave on Tatooine so I can have the distinct pleasure of killing him myself, I am left with no alternative but to perform the execution I intended for him…on YOU.”

The vibro-blade flashed once again in the subdued lighting of the chandelier, and the Snivvian again howled his terrifying laugh as he sliced it through Burl’s trouser belt. Burl thrashed and yelped, sweat pouring out of every pore in his body, his dim mind feverishly attempting to find something—anything—that would spare him this nightmarish end…Then the words came, as though in a dream, as though it wasn’t him actually saying them; the words Burl would live to regret uttering every single hour he lived after that…

“STOP! PLEASE, STOP! I SWEAR, HE AIN’T DEAD! I GOT PICTURES! OF HIM AND HIS WOMAN! HE’S GOT A WOMAN!!”

The Snivvian had Burl’s trousers partly cut away and was about to claim his ‘prize’ when Czethros abruptly caught his arm and stopped him. He leaned in again close to the miner’s face and muttered, “Fett doesn’t have a woman. I have been informed from reliable sources within my payroll that he is a celibate and does not partake in such…voluptuary delights.” Turning to his comrades, he relayed, “Force knows they tried…”

With his expansive chest heaving in short, terrified breaths, Burl rasped, “Well, he partook of something, cuz he’s got a kid to prove it!” Czethros remained frozen in front of him, his red eye slowly rolling from one side to the other. Burl pressed on. “I got proof, Czethros! I got a holodisc of them—together! I got proof!”

Czethros continued to stare him down for several more long, agonizing moments before muttering to his crew, “Let him go.”

The Bothan’s head snapped up as he barked, “Czethros, you don’t actually believe this guy—“

“Jober, shut your trap! I said let him go!” Czethros snapped. Softening his tone andncinncing back at Burl, he added, “I will see this proof.” Reluctantly, the aliens complied. Burl sprang from the desktop, holding his cut trousers over himself. The aliens backed off the desk as Czethros again took his seat. Reaching under, he flicked a switch and a holorecorder popped out of the desktop. Folding his hands over his chest, Czos sos said, “The disc. Do you have it?”

Burl stood befuddled for a moment. He unexpectedly felt his body moving without his control, his hand reaching down as he lifted his foot from the floor. Pulling off his short boot, he reached inside and pulled out the tiny holodisc. He stepped to the desk and handed it over. Czethros nodded to the Bothan, who snatched it out of Burl’s hand and slid it into the recorder.

The projector beam shot forth directly into the center of the chamber. The three-dimensional image crackled and sputtered for a brief moment before sharpening into the crystal clear life-sized form of a tall, superbly shaped girl with long raven-black curls standing in a garden. She wore a simple yet elegant gown of pale yellow, and in her arms she held a laughing, squirming dark-haired baby. She and the baby were completely surrounded by scores of wildly blooming flowers and a gentle breeze caught her lustrous hair, blowing it delicately around her pale face and shoulders. The girl was laughing as well, and she began to hum a little song to her babe as she cradled him to her chest.

A man appeared at the very edge of the image. He was slightly taller than she, wearing a snug long sleeved gray shirt and black pants. Swarthy, lean, and muscular, his sable-brown hair was cut in a military crop and his face hosted a variety of scars. Moving with slow, deliberate grace and holding the woman steadily in his dark eyes, he seemed like a predator stalking his prey: Still smiling and singing, she obviously could not hear him come up behind her. He suddenly pounced on her, throwing his arms around her waist and lifting her from the ground. The girl squealed, but not from fright. Rather, she laughed even more heartily and playfully kicked her feet as the man spun her around. Setting her down, he turned her around and planted a firm, passionate kiss upon her lips. The man reached down and touched the baby’s head, gazing down at the infant with eyes brimming with pride.

“Freeze it there,” Czethros coded ded softly. The holographic family froze in place. Czethros placed his fingertips to his lips and glared at the image for many long moments, his red beam that was his eye scanning it over and over again. His alien cohorts waited in silence. Burl stood shaking, still holding up his pants and ng tng to ignore the beads of sweat cascading off his brow into his eyes.

Without taking his eye off the hologram, Czethros demanded, “Who’s the woman?”

“That’s my boss, Lady I’Lai. She became governor of the planet after—“

Czethros threw his hand up, indicating to Burl to shut up. He paused for a moment, then motioned to the Snivvian to come toward him and whispered something in his ear. As the Snivvian grunted and hurried out of the room, he turned his attention back to Burl. A broad smile suddenly crept onto Czethros’ face, and he rose from his chair, extending his hands toward the miner as he strode toward him. “Master Thutchen!” He slapped Burl on both arms and exclaimed, “Welcome to Ord Mantell and to my humble establishment, the Fifteen Moons Casino and Resort!”

The Bothan, Aqualish, and the charcoal-hued Wookiee all shot bewildered glances at each other, but no one in the room was more baffled than Burl. “Uh,” Burl grunted, feeling utterly beaten and confused, “thanks…I think…”

Slipping his arm around Burl’s massive shoulder, Czethros began to lead him to the side window. “Please accept my sincerest apologies for my treatment of you upon your arrival here. You see, Master Thutchen, I am the senior administrator of an intergalactic organization called Black Sun. We are a …fraternal organization, dedicated to furthering the…quality of life for our distinguished members.” He shot a glance over his shoulder to his comrades. “Isn’t that right, boys?” They answered him with familiar humorless chuckles---at this point, Burl found their laughter almost comforting. Czethros continued, “All fraternal organizations have a credo and ours is…” He leaned into Burl’s ear and whispered, “‘Absolute discretion’.” He resumed his normal volume. “So you see, when a stranger to the organization—case in point, yourself---abruptly shows up and proceeds to drop our name about in earshot of the unwitting masses, we get a little…nervous. You understand, don’t you, son?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Burl mumbled. He looked out the window, and gasped at the scene below him. He found himself looking down three stories into a gigantic dance club, packed with hundreds of beings all swaying and dancing wildly to gyrating lights and pulsating music. “Whoa…”

Czethros grinned. “You like? Just opened the club a month ago. It has been quite successful, if I do say so myself.” He turned again to the miner, and tightened his arm around his shoulder. “Master Thutchen, do you have lodging for the evening?”

“Uh, well, no sir. And now that I’ve been robbed—“

“Well sir, you do now. I would be very pleased if you would accept my invitation to stay in one of our opulent guest suites, on the house. It will be my way of making up for your brutish treatment here today.” He glanced down at Burl’s tattered trousers. “And, of course, we will provide you with some… suitable attire. Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight? After you’ve been shown to your suite and freshened up a bit? We can further discuss the details of your knowledge regarding Boba Fett over a proper meal.” He finished his speech with an icy grin.

Burl finally felt him rel relaxing under Czethros’ arm. “Uh, yeah, that would be swell, sure!”

Czethros leaned into his ear and murmured, “I take it you like women?”

The miner suddenly brightened. “Oh yeah, sure I do!”

Czethros turned over his shoulder to the Wookiee. “Send him Aleste.” He turned to Burl again and announced, “Master Thutchen, please indulge whatever your heart desires as my personal guest!” He gestured toward the Wookiee. “Trodeccuu here will escort you to your suite, and I will see you in approximately two hours. Agreed?”

Burl was positively beaming now. “Yeah, yeah, sure, ok!” Czethros extended his hand, and Burl shook it in ferocious enthusiasm. “Thank you, oh, thank you, sir!”

“The pleasure is all mine, Master Thutchen,” Czethros crooned as the surly-looking Wookiee led Burl toward the door. As they left the chamber, Czethros’ smile faded into a pensive scowl. He turned and barked at the Twi’leki female, “Wait for me in my apartments.” She hurriedly left as well. Turning to the Aqualish, he ordered, “Run a check on this imbecile. Find out everything you can about him, right down to what he had for breakfast five years ago.” The alien bowed his head and shuffled out the door, leaving Czethros alone with the Bothan known as Jober.

Jober leaned against the wall once again, crossing his ankles and folding his arms. “I don’t get it---five minutes ago, you were ready to cut his balls off. And now you give him a bed, food, and a woman. What’s next, boss? Feeding some orphans?”

“Only to my Rancor, Jober,” Czethros snarled. The head of Black Sun casually strode around the glimmering holographic image, hands clasped behind his back, taking in every angle.

“Don’t tell me you believe that idiot.”

“Yes, I do believe him. He comes here with information. He wants no money. He wants no job. He says someone supposedly ‘sent’ him here, but he cannot tell me who. So what reason would he have to tell me this? I’m guessing revenge. Works for me.”

The Bothan gestured toward the man in the hologram. “How do you know that’s Fett? That could be anybody.”

“It could be anybody, but it’s not. It’s him.” Czethros stopped directly in front of Fett’s image, leaning in as though he were actually standing toe-to-toe with the bounty hunter. His bionic eye slid sidelong to stare at Jober. “I, like most in this galaxy, have never seen Fett’s face. But the way he moves will forever be engrained in my memory.” He pointed to the baby. “And notice how the child looks nothing like Reynau Denivrian.” Slowly, almost tenderly, he lifted his hand as if to caress the woman’s face. His mouth curled into a sneer as he said, “So, the Angel of Orri Prime isn’t such an angel after all.”

Jober moved up alongside him, taking in her visage as well. “You lost me, boss. Who’s Reynau Denivrian?”

Czethros sighed in mild exasperation. “Jober, for a Bothan, you are remarkably ignorant of current events.” He turned back to the hologram. “The Lady I’Lai is already becoming somewhat of an icon for the New Republic. She was the concubine of Reynau Denivrian, and for some reason only our late Emperor knows, he miraculously and unexpectedly proclaimed her governor of the Dia-Orri system after the Grand Moff’s death. Almost immediately upon her promotion, she freed all the slaves on the planet of Orri Prime and used her own personal wealth to build their townships and schools and pay them wages. Those mental midgets who frequent the holonet have dubbed her ‘The Angel of Orri Prime.’” He continued as he strode back to his chair. “Several months after Denivrian’s death, Lady I’Lai gave birth to a son everyone presumed belonged to him.” He smirked as he added, “If you compare the faces there, you can tell that is obviously not the case.” He took his seat.

“You seem to know a lot about this Lady I’Lai, Czethros.”

“You would too--- if your clan hadn’t exiled you.” Jober shot a dangerous glare at Czethros—he ignored it. “She sent all freed Bothan slaves back to Bothuwai upon their emancipation. Hence, she has gained your people’s respect and undying gratitude and used it as an advantage during the Galactic Civil War.” He caught Jober’s rather dubious expression and replied, “When you head the galaxy’s largest underworld organization, you must keep up on these things. Besides, I have been watching the shipping activity from Orri Prime closely for some time now.”

Jober kept his eyes squarely on the image of the smiling I’Lai. “I wouldn’t mind watching her more closely. She is…delicious,” he muttered in a ravs grs growl.

“Down, Jober,” Czethros growled in return, “Try to hold your glands in check while viewing a human female.” Lazily hoisting his boots onto the desktop, he clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Well Fett, it seems death really is too good for you. All the better for me.”

The Bothan threw his employer a warning frown. “If you’re thinking about revenge, Czethros, just remember what happened to Prince Xizor.”

“My hirsute friend, a day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about our dear departed Xizor. Poor, misguided, stupid Xizor…it is because of him that I am here today.” He glanced back to Jober. “Do not fret. Revenge may be sweet, but rarely is it profitable.” He paused, again scanning the hologram in front of him. “However, rarer still does an opportunity come along that one can combine the two. Do we still have any contact whatsoever with what remains of the Empire?”

“I still have my associates sir, yes.”

“Good, contact them. I’m sure there must be one Imp left with half a brain that will be intereste wha what I have to offer them.” Jober bowed slightly to his superior, drinking in one long, last look at the image of I’Lai before heading out the door.

Czethros stood from his chair and walked again toward the hologram. Planting himself directly in front of the unmasked Boba Fett, a twisted smile formed below his glowing eye. “So, Fett,” he whispered, “There is a chink in your armor after all…”

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