The King is Dead. Long Live the King.

Squeals and grunts of alarm grew nearly deafening, echoing from the tiled floors and ceiling of the bath chamber. Rabblo's screaming had faltered to a ragged, choking cough as his milky eyes rolled toward Mas. The Twi'lek stared down at his disintegrating employer, a trembling, mirthless smile on his pale blue face. He glanced at Gnok as the Hutt's chief Gamorrean took a threatening step toward him.

"You work for me now," he said, as though it was a perfectly reasonable statement of fact. His blood-red eyes did not waver from the Gamorrean's beady glare.

The herd mentality of the Gamorreans kept the rest from attacking, as they waited for some sign from their leader. Nok's snout quivered with rage and he looked quickly down at the still-floundering carcass of the Hutt, now spalling away chunks of rancid flesh. Slowly, Nok lowered his axe and stepped back.

The Polis Massan medics, who had been frantically trying to activate the pump which would drain the pool, stopped. Whether they had decided it was too late for Rabblo or simply decided things were out of their hands, the silent humanoids simply took a few steps back from the pool and made themselves as unobtrusive as possible.

Mas looked back at Rabblo then, and knelt by the side of the tainted pool. The Hutt's thrashing had begun to weaken, though he still seemed conscious. One eye was swollen shut, the lids burnt by the harsh chemical agent that still ate at his rotting hide. The other glared in baleful hatred at his turncoat lieutenant.

"Thank you, Rabblo," Mas half-whispered to the dying Hutt in the creature's own tongue. "Thank you for killing her. No love could ever have warmed me as hating you has. No son--" The Twi'lek swallowed hard to maintain his composure. His hands balled into tight fists against the tiles. "No son I might have had could have made me as proud as I am to watch you burn like a salted slug."

The Hutt grunted, but whatever answer he might have given was lost in a great coughing jag that sent the fouled bacta slopping over the edges of his pool. Rabblo vomited a pale yellow fluid into the pool and then spat. He steadied his bulk against the steps, but was too weak to crawl any further out. His ruined face turned toward Mas again and a collective intake of breath was heard from the crowd.

The Hutt was smiling.

There was no humor in it, no hidden scheme. It was obvious that it took everything the Hutt had within him not to scream again at the pain. And yet he smiled. His great, cracked lips parted and his once booming voice was a mere croak:

"My pleasure."

At that, he started to shudder. His great bulk, wallowing in the shallows began to spasm. Ichor leaked from his swollen nostrils and great sheets of his infected, burned skin sloughed off into the cloudy pool. It took a long time before the seizures stopped, but no one made a move, enthralled by the great crime lord's death throes.

Only Mas recognized the Hutt's laughter, and heard it echo long after the Hutt stopped moving.

The Twi'lek stood, finally, and spat on the Hutt's festering corpse. He straightened his clothes and spoke without looking away from the body.

"Lt. Aronier, please see to your men and offer them my apologies for any inconvenience. The garrison is yours." He waved toward the half-unpacked weapons of the clone trooper squad. "Doda, see that these weapons' magazines are discharged and then deliver them to Lt. Aronier's soldiers. Escort them out of the palace and see them safely to the garrison." He paused for a moment, and frowned. "And make sure they take that astromech with them."

Finally, the Twi'lek turned his back on the Hutt's corpse and walked toward the door.

"Warek," he said, looking up as he walked past the still-stunned Devaronian, "Secure the palace grounds and double the guards on the shield generator. There are explosive charges hidden in the medical supplies. Bring them to me in the communications center. I need to speak to that Star Destroyer."

Mas paused at the door. "And have someone clean up this mess."