Star Wars_ Tales From Jabba's Palace - Kevin J. Anderson [99]
It was a bright, clear day on the Dune Sea, the kind of weather that the Hutt preferred. Barada squinted in the fierce sunshine as he left the barracks building. He’d walked only a few yards before two armed Weequay guards joined him, one on either side.
“I do something?” Barada asked. “What’d I do?” The gray-skinned Weequays didn’t answer. Barada had never heard them speak. They just walked beside him, carrying their force pikes. He wasn’t happy about their company.
“The Hutt send you to get me?” he asked. There was only silence from the Weequays. He turned in the direction of the scrap heap behind the Hutt’s palace, and the Weequays followed. They were among the most merciless fighters in the Hutt’s retinue, but if they’d wanted Barada dead, injured, or in irons, it would already have happened. The Weequays were as inscrutable as any species in the Empire, so for the time being there was nothing for Barada to do but ignore them. Finally, he decided to pretend they weren’t even there, and to go on with what he’d planned for the morning.
The blazing summer sun and desert climate made the scrap heap an unpleasant destination. Barada could smell the stench long before he could see his goal. Garbage and trash of every kind had been piled up in a gigantic mound. The Klatooinan shook his head and frowned. He really didn’t want to do it, but he waded hip-deep into the rotting food and discarded machinery, searching for a half-dozen small metal parts.
“You guys want to help me out here?” he said, shading his eyes with one hand. The Weequays only stared at him. Barada muttered a curse in his native language and went back to work.
Five minutes later, the mechanic made his discovery. It wasn’t the rocker-panel cotter pins he had been looking for, or any kind of useful machinery. It was just a dead body. “Ak-Buz,” Barada murmured, recognizing the corpse. Ak-Buz, the captain of the Hutt’s sail barge.
The Weequays glanced at each other and stepped closer. They still didn’t say anything, but at least they had shown some interest. Together, they hauled Ak-Buz’s body out of the garbage and laid it on the ground.
Barada grunted. “No marks,” he said. “Whoever killed the guy didn’t leave any marks on the body.” He looked from one Weequay to the other. “Anzat. It’s an Anzat killed him. Anzat don’t leave marks.”
If the Weequays were impressed, they didn’t show it. They squatted beside Ak-Buz’s body and examined it for a few minutes. Then they stood up and started to walk away. Barada followed. “There’s been a lot of dead bodies turning up,” he said. The Weequays halted and faced him. One reached out and put his hand on Barada’s chest. The other pointed back to the scrap heap. “Sure,” said the mechanic, “none of my business. I get it. I guess I’ll just go look for those pins now. Want me to do anything with our friend Ak-Buz?”
He got no answer, of course.
The Weequays shouldered their force pikes and marched off in step toward their own quarters. They stared straight ahead, not even changing expressions, until they’d arrived at the small building that housed the Hutt’s Weequay contingent. They went inside. There were more Weequays in the Hutt’s employ, but they were away attending to other matters.
“Alone now,” said Weequay.
“We can talk,” said the other Weequay. Weequays have no individual names; it never seems to cause them any difficulty, though.
“Trouble.”
Weequay nodded. He put his force pike down on his bunk. “Too many dead.”
“Even stupid Barada knows that.”
The Weequays paused, possibly in thought. “We must have a meeting,” said one finally.
“Agreed,” said the other.
The Weequays sat down at a plank table, across from each other. One put slips of paper and writing styluses between them. This was the first activity at any proper Weequay meeting: the election of officers.
“There are