Diversity Alliance

12

In her private chambers connected to the throne-room grotto, Nolaa Tarkona sat at a long polished table carved out of lava rock. Though the day outside was broiling hot in one direction and disastrously cold in the other, the Ryloth cave warrens remained at a pleasant, constant temperature.

Dimness was an ever-present companion.

Across from her, Adjutant Advisor Hovrak shuffled his paraphernalia, preparing for his daily presentation. The Shistavanen wolfman stared at the electronic datapad on which he kept the most secret records of the Diversity Alliance. With clawed fingers Hovrak punched buttons, calling up entries in his encyclopedia of alien species.

Nolaa watched with interest—the records had become an obsession with the wolf man. Holographic images gelled into focus from his catalog, and the Adjutant Advisor discussed their progress, referring to the new entries he had compiled.

The sharp image of a broad-shouldered, long-limbed cyclops rotated to show the brute’s features from 360 degrees. “An Abyssin,” said Hovrak. “Not very smart, but violent and brutal. Once trained, they are great fighters. We have quite a few already in our ranks, and I believe that with a little effort we could get most of their species to join the Diversity Alliance.”

Nolaa nodded, taking in the information as Hovrak called up the next entry. “Cha’a, a small reptilian species.”

She saw a squat creature, its head mounted low on its shoulders as if its neck had retracted into its spine. The slitted eyes were set wide apart. Delicate scales covered a sloping head that looked like a snake’s.

“Wily, ambitious, untrustworthy—though the Cha’a can be counted on to look after their own interests.”

Nolaa nodded, tapping a claw against her newly resharpened teeth.

“Then we must convince them that being loyal to the Diversity Alliance is in their best interests.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Hovrak said with a snarl. “Several Cha’a have been tricked into joining Luke Skywalker’s Jedi training center, but I believe most have no great love for humans and their domination.”

Nolaa stroked her one intact head-tail, feeling the tingle of sensations. She had tattooed designs across the smooth, greenish flesh. The stuttering pain of the tattoo needles had been excruciating on the intensely sensitive skin of her brain appendage, every touch of the ink-filled stinger needles a throb of painful exhilaration, and she had endured it. Few Twi’lek males could tolerate such prolonged agony and now everyone who saw her tattoos could not help but admire her endurance. It added to her power.

Nolaa’s other head-tail, which had once been so long, so supple, so beautiful, had been blasted off in the violent battle when she had overthrown her slave master, killed him and his henchmen, then made her escape.

Although losing a head-tail was a severe handicap to Twi’leks, Nolaa Tarkona had survived. In the twitching stump she had implanted an optical sensor that could pick up images from behind and relay them to her brain, thus increasing her deadly mystique. This Twi’lek woman who had overthrown a male-dominated culture, slaughtered her masters, and launched a powerful political movement literally had an eye in the back of her head….

“Chevin,” Hovrak continued, “a species easily recognized by their startlingly long faces and huge heads.” The display showed a creature whose chin hung down nearly to its ankles. “Many humans find them unsavory, particularly ugly, but the Chevin view themselves as opportunistic realists interested in their own well-being.”

Nolaa smiled. “We are interested in the well-being of all alien peoples.”

Hovrak pointed to the image on the datapad. “Unfortunately, we still have no representatives from this species, despite our propaganda campaign.”

“Then I believe we ought to work harder to recruit at least one Chevin,” Nolaa said with a faint frown. “Even if it takes a bribe.”

“Yes,” Hovrak said, growling deep in his throat. Nolaa Tarkona’s disappointment in his failure to recruit a Chevin came as a personal defeat to Hovrak. “I believe I shall concentrate my efforts on that species.”

A Gamorrean guard strode in and stood snuffling at attention.

Because they were intensely loyal and able to follow orders, so long as they were simple enough, Nolaa had found the porcine guards to be good henchmen. She didn’t for a minute expect that they might betray her; they were too stupid to think of such a thing.

“Lunch ready,” the Gamorrean said in a phlegm-filled voice.

Hovrak froze the image on the datapad and stood up, his fur bristling. “Good, I’m ready for food, fresh food … wet food.”

He snarled in anticipation, flexing his claws.

Deciding to stretch her legs as well, Nolaa followed the wolfman out to the main grotto, where holding cells dotted the walls. “Another newly arrived prisoner?” she asked.

Saliva had already begun to run in the wolfman’s mouth. “Yes, a fresh one—fresh from Concord Dawn, convicted of cheating at Sabacc.”

“Cheating at Sabacc, nothing more?” Nolaa said. “And they sent him to you?”

“On Concord Dawn, cheating is a capital offense.” Hovrak’s black lips curled back away from his fangs. “And laws are laws.”

Moving with stiff, tensely coiled muscles, as if he were stalking prey, Hovrak strode toward one of the cell doors. “Besides,” he snarled back over his shoulder, “one of the senior magistrates there, a Devaronian, is sympathetic to our cause.”

He opened the cell door, clenching and unclenching his clawed hands.

From inside the prison chamber a weak voice, a deliciously human voice, wailed, “Please let me go! I’m innocent. I didn’t know cheating was a capital offense. I’ll never do it again!”

Hovrak merely snarled. The voice changed abruptly in tone. “Wait, what are you doing? Stop. Noooo!” The human voice ended in a gurgling scream. Then one of the Gamorrean guards slammed the cell door so that Nolaa didn’t have to listen to the wet, tearing sounds as the wolfman ate his lunch.

Nolaa waited patiently. She decided not to take a meal now. Not yet. She usually ate alone in her private chambers, dining on food she prepared herself. It was a habit she had developed … not that she expected any members of the Diversity Alliance to poison her. No, she knew how fiercely loyal they were. She just liked it better that way.

More self-sufficient.

Nolaa would have liked to dine with her half-sister … if lovely Oola had survived to see these glory days. Nolaa Tarkona had brought supreme triumph to the Twi’leks … and especially to females of the species. But not before her half-sister had been captured as a slave, her teeth sanded flat, her memories of family and clan hammered out of her. Poor, innocent Oola had been brainwashed, stripped, beaten.

Her entire life had become one of servitude—dancing and otherwise pleasing the whims of those who had paid to own her, body and soul.

Twi’lek dancing girls were highly prized throughout the galaxy.

One of the despicable criminals of their own species, Bib Fortuna, had cast his lot in with the highest bidder and acted as a simpering henchman to a crime lord, with no pride in himself or in his people.

Fortuna had purchased Oola and other dancing girls, dragging them against their will to serve Jabba the Hutt. Oola had served indeed, and served well.

Nolaa had dug deep to find details of her half-sister’s time in the Hutt’s palace, even receiving spy-holo images of how well Oola had danced, the grace with which she moved, her greenish skin glistening with sweat, her head-tails flying about like the wind in a storm. Oola had given the Hutt everything he wanted—until one day, on a whim, Jabba had fed her to his pet rancor. The imprisoned monster had devoured Nolaa’s dear half-sister in much the same way that Hovrak now snacked on the hapless scam artist in the cell. Ah well. At least the scam artist was a mere human.

Nolaa felt a twinge of sadness at the memory of her half-sister, imagining how, together, they could have proven themselves to the galaxy at large. But soon she let the grief turn to anger. Nolaa had always found anger to be a more productive emotion anyway.

Finally, the wolfman emerged from the cell, wiping blood spatters from his muzzle and his fur with a self-moistened napkin.

Then he tossed it away, along with the stained apron he had worn to protect his Diversity Alliance uniform. He meticulously combed his black-brown hair and, using a long claw to pick a shred of food from between his sharp teeth, straightened his Adjutant Advisor uniform again. “Now then, Esteemed Tarkona, shall we return to work?”

“Yes,” Nolaa said, stroking her single head-tail and walking back to the private meeting chambers. “We have only a standard hour until I must depart for the grand campaign on Chroma Zed. If we do our work properly there, we can gain converts throughout that system.”

“Let’s hope so,” the wolfman said. “I don’t believe the Chromans are on our list yet.”

They returned to the private chamber, and Hovrak punched his electronic datapad again. “Now then, let’s see…” Another alien appeared in the holographic projector, a blue-skinned goatlike creature with a trio of eyes on stalks protruding from its forehead.

“The Grans, easily distinguishable by their three eyes. Traditionally unreliable, easily bribed, and quickly addicted to drugs or liquors … but shrewd and often underestimated. If we could recruit several, they could infiltrate the seediest cantinas in the galaxy….” The Adjutant Advisor continued through the alphabet.