Two weeks had passed since their arrival on Nar Shaddaa, and Alex was already beginning to understand the rhythms of this world. In the morning, he worked with the smugglers' droids in his uncle's workshop. In the afternoon, he studied the local ecosystem, observing the flows of people, money, and power that coursed through the arteries of the moon city like poisoned blood. In the evening, he analyzed what he had seen, recorded it in an encrypted journal, and planned his next steps.
Each day brought new revelations about how this world worked. Alex saw how the economy of vice operated—from the small-time drug dealers in the lower levels to the elite brothels at the city's apex. He saw how corruption permeated all layers of society, from the local police to Imperial officials and senators. He saw how the suffering of some turned into the pleasures of others.
Today, his first serious deal awaited him.
"Gorgah the Hutt is interested in your work," Garrek informed him over breakfast, tearing himself away from the holonews where another Imperial admiral was talking about the fight against smuggling. The irony of the situation was obvious—half the equipment in the workshop was contraband, and the other half was stolen.
Alex looked up from his cup of kaff.
"And what has piqued his interest?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Rumors on Nar Shaddaa spread as if through hyperspace.
"That navigation droid you fixed for Zek. The captain told everyone that the droid now works better than factory-new. The rumors reached the palace."
Alex remembered the Duro. Zek transported spice from Kessel, risking his life for money that he immediately lost in casinos or spent on cheap prostitutes. A vicious cycle of self-destruction, characteristic of most inhabitants of the moon city.
"I see. And what does the Hutt want?"
"To improve his droids. He has about two dozen—security, service, entertainment. If you do a good job, you can count on constant orders."
Garrek said this with enthusiasm, but Alex heard something else in his voice—the weariness of a man who had compromised for too long. His uncle had changed over the years of living here. The kind, principled engineer Alex remembered had turned into a cautious cynic who had learned not to ask too many questions. Why had he called him here? Perhaps he genuinely thought it was safer here during the war, or perhaps he was simply lonely.
Alex dismissed the last thought; it didn't matter anymore. He needed to concentrate on the present. He nodded. Working with Hutts was inevitable—they controlled too large a portion of the local economy. It was impossible to do business on Nar Shaddaa without interacting with them. It was like trying to swim without touching the water.
"What do I need to know about Gorgah?"
Garrek put down his cup and thought. Outside the workshop window, speeders glided by—from the luxurious limousines of crime bosses to battered taxis carrying workers to industrial districts. Each vehicle told the story of its owner, their place in the complex hierarchy of the moon city.
"He's about two hundred years old, which for a Hutt means maturity. Smarter than many of his kind, but no less cruel. He likes to demonstrate his power—executions, torture, humiliation. He gets physical pleasure from it."
"Physical?" Alex knew the theory but wanted practical confirmation.
"Hutts have a peculiar nervous system," Garrek lowered his voice, though there was no one else in the workshop. "When they see the fear or pain of other beings, their brains produce something like endorphins. It's not a metaphor—they literally get high from the suffering of others."
Alex winced. He had read about this in KTI xenobiological reports, studied the neurochemistry of various species, but dry scientific data was one thing, reality was another. It was difficult even for a prepared mind to imagine a sentient being deriving narcotic pleasure from the pain of others.
"That explains a lot," he muttered. "Their political system, economy, culture..."
"Yes," Garrek nodded. "For Hutts, sadism isn't a vice, but a biological need. Like food or sleep for us. They cannot exist without causing suffering."
There was bitterness in his uncle's words, the bitterness of a man who understood the world's injustice but could not change it.
"How should I behave?"
"Confidently, but not provocatively. Show that you are a professional, but don't forget your subordinate position. And most importantly—don't show fear. Hutts sense it and get aroused by it."
Gorgah the Hutt's palace was located on one of the upper levels, in the very heart of his controlled territory. Alex reached it by air taxi—a battered speeder piloted by a silent Rodian with a scar across his snout.
During the flight, he admired the views of Nar Shaddaa from above. The moon city stretched in all directions—endless levels of metal and glass, pierced by the luminous arteries of transport highways. Somewhere below, in the industrial districts, factories churned out drugs for the entire galaxy. Even lower, in the slums of the lower levels, survived those whom the system had cast aside.
And here, at the top, were the palaces of the crime lords—islands of luxury in an ocean of poverty and despair. Each palace was a fortress, surrounded by force fields and guarded by armies of mercenaries. Here lived those who profited from the suffering of others.
The palace building was typically Hutt—massive, grim, with architectural excesses designed to emphasize the owner's wealth and power. At the entrance stood Gamorrean guards with vibroaxes—green-skinned humanoids with pig-like snouts and small, malevolent eyes.
"Alex Corren, droid master," he introduced himself to one of the guards, trying to speak confidently. "His Excellency Gorgah is expecting me."
The Gamorrean checked a datapad, his thick fingers fumbling on the screen. Finally, he nodded and grunted something in his own language. Another guard gestured for Alex to follow him.
They passed through a luxurious foyer, adorned with trophies and works of art of dubious origin. Here hung paintings by famous masters—clearly stolen from museums on Corellia or Alderaan. Statues of ancient Jedi stood there, their faces disfigured, their lightsabers broken—a symbolic humiliation of fallen enemies.
The air was filled with the scent of incense, intended to mask other aromas—fear, pain, death. But a sensitive nose could still detect them. This palace was saturated with suffering, like a sponge with water.
The corridors were wide, with high ceilings, decorated with frescoes. But these frescoes did not depict heroic scenes or pastoral landscapes. They depicted torture, executions, scenes of humiliation of representatives of various races. Hutts did not hide their nature—they were proud of it.
On the way, Alex encountered other inhabitants of the palace. Slaves of various races in collars cleaned the premises, their movements mechanical, their eyes empty. Guards—mercenaries of various species—patrolled the corridors, their hands never far from their weapons. Courtiers in expensive clothes whispered in corners, weaving intrigues and making plans.
All of this was part of one large machine for producing suffering. Each element of the system performed its function—slaves suffered, guards intimidated, courtiers intrigued. And at the center of it all sat Gorgah, reveling in the pain of others.
The throne room was astonishing in its size. The ceiling was lost in the semi-darkness, the walls were filled with the same motifs.
In the center of the hall stood a massive throne of black metal, inlaid with precious stones. But these stones were special—each was linked to someone's death, someone's suffering. Rubies the color of blood, sapphires as cold as death, emeralds as green as poison.
And on the throne—Gorgah the Hutt himself.
Alex had seen Hutts before, in holofilms and news reports, a couple of young ones a few times, but up close, Gorgah was even more imposing. Nearly four meters long, a ton of living weight, covered in slimy, swamp-colored skin. Small hands with long fingers, tipped with sharp claws. And eyes—large, yellow, which seemed both lazy and predatory.
But what struck Alex most wasn't this. Next to the throne, on a short chain, sat a young human slave girl. Her skin was covered in scars—the marks of torture and abuse. Her eyes were empty with despair, like those of someone who no longer hoped for salvation. Around her neck hung a massive spiked collar, its spikes digging into her skin with the slightest movement.
When she tried to move away from the Hutt, he casually tugged the chain, and the girl fell onto the stone floor. The impact was painful—Alex saw her flinch in pain, trying not to cry out.
Gorgah laughed—a low, gurgling sound that echoed off the hall's walls. And Alex saw the Hutt's pupils dilate with pleasure. Literally physical pleasure from the pain of others. It was repulsive and mesmerizing at the same time—to watch a sentient being derive narcotic pleasure from the suffering of another.
"Master Corren," Gorgah rasped in Basic Galactic with a strong Hutt accent. His voice was deep, with characteristic gurgling undertones. "I've heard of your abilities."
"Your Excellency," Alex bowed slightly, as his uncle had taught him. "I am ready to demonstrate my skills."
"Good," Gorgah nodded, his massive head swaying on his thick neck. "I have droids that work... unsatisfactorily."
At the Hutt's signal, servants entered from side doors, leading several droids of different models. Alex quickly assessed their condition—old models, worn out, with numerous crude modifications. Apparently, local "masters" had tried to fix them, but only made the situation worse.
An IG-88 security droid moved with noticeable jerks, its optical sensors blinking unevenly. A mysterious model, manufacturer unknown. A 3PO-series protocol droid was covered in dents and scratches, its voice module emitting distorted sounds. An R2 astromech unit did not respond to commands at all.
"I can significantly improve their efficiency, as if from the factory," he said after a quick inspection, mentally calculating the scope of work required.
Gorgah's eyes lit up with greed—that special glint that appears in Hutts when a profitable deal is mentioned:
"This junk? It's possible?" (in Huttese)
"Entirely. Many components are worn out. I can replace them with improved ones, plus optimize the software to modern standards."
Alex spoke confidently, but internally tensed. He was exaggerating—"As if from the factory" was too bold a promise. But Hutts respected only strength and confidence. Show weakness, and you'll be devoured.
"And how much will it cost?" Gorgah leaned forward, his yellow eyes fixed on Alex's face.
"One and a half million credits for all the work. Four times cheaper than new ones cost in the Empire, not to mention local prices."
Silence fell in the hall. Even the courtiers stopped whispering, all eyes fixed on the throne. The sum was enormous, even by Hutt standards. But Alex knew that quality upgrades were expensive, and Hutts valued what they had to pay a lot for. Cheap, to them, meant low quality.
"Expensive," Gorgah drawled, his voice becoming even lower and more menacing.
"Quality costs money, Your Excellency. I cannot install cheap components in your droids," Alex did not flinch under the Hutt's gaze. "After my improvements, your droids will work better than new factory models. They will become faster, more accurate, more reliable. Your enemies will not be able to withstand such an advantage."
The Hutt pondered. Alex saw him calculating—cost versus benefit, risk versus potential profit. Gorgah would not have lived to be two hundred years old by making rash decisions.
Meanwhile, the slave girl by the throne tried to subtly crawl away toward the wall, further from her tormentor. But the chain was short, and the movement too noticeable. Gorgah reacted instantly, sharply tugging the chain. The girl choked, the collar constricting her throat.
"Where are you going, beauty?" the Hutt rasped, enjoying her fear. "Don't you like my company?"
Alex saw Gorgah's pupils dilate, his breathing quicken.
"Show me the result on one droid," Gorgah finally decided, distracted from his toy. "If it works as you promise, you'll get the order."
"Reasonable," Alex nodded. "Give me three days."
Alex chose the IG-88 security droid—a mysterious and very rare model that was still functional but clearly not operating at full capacity. These droids were created centuries ago as perfect assassins, but years and crude repairs had turned them into shadows of their former glory.
Over three days, he completely redid the droid's internals, applying knowledge gained at KTI. He worked in his uncle's workshop, but in a separate room, away from prying eyes. Even Garrek didn't know all the details—some technologies were too complex for him. He had to delve into archaeotechnology.
He took new crystalline matrices from his own supplies, using principles found in the institute's archives. Each crystal was tuned in a special chamber, its structure optimized for specific tasks. At one time, he had read detailed instructions in Professor Shen's documents. He rewrote the software from scratch, removing outdated modules and adding modern algorithms. He even reinforced the chassis, adding extra armor made of composite materials.
The work was meticulous and required complete concentration. Alex worked eighteen hours a day, stopping only for short breaks for food and sleep. His hands were covered in small cuts from sharp parts, his eyes watered from the bright light of the plasma torch.
But the result was worth the effort. When he finished, the IG-88 looked like new. Its movements became smooth and precise, its optical sensors glowed with a steady red light, and its built-in systems worked with perfect synchronization.
When he brought the droid back to the palace, the difference was obvious to everyone. The IG moved smoothly and quickly, its reaction to commands was instantaneous, and its built-in sensors worked with unprecedented accuracy. Even its voice became clearer and more confident.
"Demonstration: combat capabilities," the droid said in its characteristic metallic voice. "Ready to destroy meat bags at your command, master."
Gorgah ordered a test. Several targets were brought into the hall—mannequins imitating various races. The IG instantly analyzed them, selected optimal hit points, and opened fire with its built-in blasters.
The accuracy was phenomenal. Each shot hit its mark precisely, each movement was calculated to the millimeter. In a matter of seconds, all targets were destroyed.
"Impressive," Gorgah admitted, watching the demonstration. His voice sounded pleased, which for a Hutt was the highest praise. "It really works better than new. It even seems like it enjoys it."
"And this is just the beginning, Your Excellency," Alex allowed himself a slight smile. "Imagine if all your droids worked at this level. Your enemies wouldn't dare even think of attacking." Alex suppressed even the thought that he had left a small backdoor in the software. It wasn't time yet.
The Hutt nodded, but then his gaze fell on the human girl by the throne. The girl tried to become invisible, but the chain prevented her from hiding. The fear in her eyes was almost palpable.
"Do you know what I dislike most about droids?" Gorgah suddenly asked, his voice becoming dreamy.
"What exactly, Your Excellency?"
"They don't feel fear," the Hutt slowly tugged the chain, forcing the girl to crawl closer. "And fear... fear is the most beautiful thing in living beings."
Alex saw the Hutt's eyes light up with the same unhealthy gleam. Gorgah derived pleasure from the girl's terror, from her attempts to crawl away, from the realization of her own helplessness. It was like watching a drug addict getting a fix.
"Droids are efficient," Alex cautiously agreed, trying to maintain a neutral tone. "But living beings have their advantages."
"Yes," Gorgah laughed, looking at the trembling slave girl.
"But droids can free up time for... more pleasant activities," he said cautiously.
"Wise words," Gorgah nodded, his massive head swaying in approval. "Good. Get to work. One and a half million credits, as agreed."
The deal was struck. And a deal for Hutts is sacred. Alex received an advance of five hundred thousand credits—a huge sum by any standard—and a list of droids for modernization. The money was transferred to his account in a Hutt bank, where no questions were asked about the origin of the funds.
Leaving the palace, he glanced once more at the slave girl by the throne. The girl looked at him with hopeless pleading in her eyes, as if begging for help. But he could do nothing—not here, not now. Any attempt at intervention would only lead to her death and his own demise.
But her face was etched into his memory. He remembered the fear in her eyes, the despair in every movement. It was unpleasant to feel his own powerlessness.
"How did the meeting go?" Garrek asked when Alex returned to the workshop. His uncle was working on some astromech droid, his hands somewhere inside the R2.
"Got the order. One and a half million for modernizing all the droids."
"Excellent!" His uncle beamed, putting down his tools. "This will make us one of the best workshops in the sector. We can expand the business, buy new equipment..."
"Yes," Alex sat down at the table, still thinking about what he had seen. "Uncle, why don't the Hutts try to integrate into galactic society? They are intelligent, they have resources. They could figure out how to curb their inclinations, find a replacement..."
Garrek thought, his face becoming serious: "And why would they? Integration would mean compromises, restrictions, the need to consider the opinions of others. Now, every Hutt is an absolute dictator in his own domain. Why exchange that for democracy or bureaucracy?"
"But they could gain access to modern technologies, medicine, education."
"At the cost of abandoning slavery and torture?" Garrek shook his head. "For Hutts, that's an unacceptable price. They'd rather remain technologically backward but retain the ability to satisfy their biological needs. For them, it's like giving up normal food and switching to protein pills. You can, but you don't really want to."
Alex nodded. The logic was perverse, but understandable. Hutts chose the pleasure of power over technological progress. For them, the suffering of slaves was more important than starships and medical droids.
"And what does the galactic elite think about this?"
"The elite benefits from it," Garrek poured himself a glass of Jawa ale, his favorite drink. "Predictable Hutts who don't aspire to political power in the galaxy but provide necessary services—ideal partners for shady deals. If they were nice guys, they would have ruled the galaxy long ago. They have lifespans of a thousand years and a similar, if not longer, planning horizon."
***
In the evening, Alex worked for a long time on the droid modernization plans. But his thoughts kept returning to the human girl in the palace. To her eyes, full of despair. To the Hutt's pleasure in her suffering.
He again recalled Gorgah's yellow eyes, his cold, assessing gaze. There was no hatred in it. Not even contempt. There was only interest—like that of a tool or a strange insect. Alex imagined their homeworld for a second. What environment could have spawned such a thing? What must have happened on the planet for millions of years for natural selection to produce such a result?
But the main question troubled him: how did Hutts manage to maintain power over so many sentient beings? Their numbers were negligible compared to the armies of slaves, mercenaries, and subordinates.
He mentally reconstructed the structure of Gorgah's palace. At the very top—the Hutt himself, the absolute dictator. But between him and the main mass of slaves, there was a whole hierarchy of intermediaries. Courtiers of various races, receiving crumbs of power and luxury in exchange for loyalty. Mercenary guards, paid enough not to think about morality. Overseers from among former slaves, willing to torture their own kind for the illusion of superiority.
Each level of the pyramid received just enough privileges for loyalty, but not enough for independence. Courtiers feared losing their position and sinking back into slavery. Overseers understood that if they showed weakness, they themselves would end up in shackles.
Each subordinate was made to understand: if he was cruel enough, loyal enough, useful enough—he could rise higher. Slaves dreamed of becoming overseers. Overseers—guards. Guards—courtiers. And all of them were ready to drown each other for a chance at advancement.
The Hutts created a system where victims themselves became executioners, where the oppressed dreamed not of freedom, but of the opportunity to oppress others.
Alex couldn't help but admire the cynical elegance of this construct. No ideologies, no promises of a bright future—just a naked calculation based on the basest instincts of sentient beings. Fear, greed, envy, the desire for power over one's own kind. Hutts didn't try to change the nature of their subordinates—they simply used it.
And most interestingly—the system worked. Rebellions were rare and quickly suppressed because the majority of the oppressed did not trust each other. Everyone feared that their neighbor would report them to the Hutts in hopes of a reward. Solidarity was a luxury no one could afford.
He analyzed a model of management art, honed by millennia of practice. Cruel, disgusting, but incredibly effective. And if he ever wanted to challenge such systems, he needed to understand their mechanisms down to the smallest detail.
Knowledge is power. And power, unlike morality, knows no good or evil. It simply exists.