The air was balmy and humid, joined by gentle wind chimes and the soft sound of a nearby stream. It burbled down the hills, past the resort and its outdoor pavilion, merging with a larger river in the distance, and numerous insectoid oishinlan beasts came over to lower their heads and sip from its cool, refreshing waters.
The pavilion itself was suffused with the smell of burning incense, fresh fruits genetically modified to impossible sizes, cooked mushrooms, and deshelled dnobag beetles deep fried to perfection with traditional spices.
Attractive twi'lek slaves in a variety of exotic colours that made them easier to tell apart moved gracefully about, stopping to gather up drinks or offer new refreshments to the resort's guests.
The occupants of this resort were a collection of cowardly, snivelling grey toads who Grib Siv could smell from the entrance. The pathetic stink of their fear was almost as repugnant as the various odors of their old, grey, mistreated bodies. The Trade Federation Board of Directors were all neimoidian of course, and among them it was clear that Grib was the only one with youth, or vigor.
At a respectable forty five years of age he was no spring chicken, but none of these worthless old men had seen the inside of a gym in decades and it showed. They let themselves grow fat and soft, not realising that the mind and body were a single organism, and failing to look after one would hurt the other.
Grib Siv was a clearly superior nemoidian specimen, a fact he thought unfortunate. If more of his species were like him, it wouldn't be humans who dominated the majority of the Galaxy.
Born and raised on Coruscant, Grib was well used to the subtle, but powerful currents of Republic politics, and he understood appearances in a way that these mediocraties and company men never could. The appearance of strength was a strength in itself, and looking weak made you a weakling.
That was why Grib was in the gym every morning, strengthening his core, improving his cardio, and building muscle in his limbs. His body was strong, so his mind was sharp, and the awful smell coming from Neeg Tone made him pause in his step.
Turning to look at the old toad, he was unsurprised to see the twi'lek girl who had been helping him undress looking like she was about to throw up. Neeg's scent glands were repulsively swollen, bulging from the back of his neck in angry purple welts that quivered as he turned his head. Seeing that almost everyone's eyes were on him, Neeg whispered out in a hoarse, dry voice. "My doctor tells me it's from too much stress."
Grib clenched his own glands tight, to stop himself from releasing his own stress scent out of sheer frustration. Surveying the rest of the board of directors, most of them entering a similar state of undress, exotic twi'lek servants hovering about, pampering and flattering, but they could do nothing to lift the spirits of this lot. Even with the pavilion's relaxed aesthetic, they looked dour, nervous, and damn near helpless.
It was a miserable atmosphere that wasn't just visible in Neeg's glands, it could be seen in Vinwe's dry, unhealthy skin, patchy and peeling in places, where he kept scratching at it. Himera was clearly stress eating, planting his morbidly obese form right next to the snack table and absently chewing his way through plates of whatever he could get his hands on, even as he stared at a potted plant with eyes fixated on somewhere else entirely.
At the very end of the pavilion, leaning against the balcony and watching the landscape of watering beasts was Reyhon Andlo, an illegal death stick in hand that he was smoking with trembling fingers.
This was the mighty Trade Federation's Board of Directors, and this was what Grib had to work with if he was to win the coming war.
He rubbed his hands together, looking left and right, before settling on his first target. He paused for a moment, taking out a powerful lozenge that numbed his sense of taste and smell, and popped it into his mouth. With preparations made, he strode over. "Neeg!" He called out, and the old nemoidian jumped so quickly that his swollen glands jostled against each other. "I'm glad you could make it, you old scallywag." Grib fell into his chair next to the older fellow, and patted him on the back, well below the shoulder blades.
Neeg didn't look happy to see him. As the Director of the Legal Division, he had a crucial role to play in the coming war. Despite how much he was clearly struggling with his burden, Neeg cleared his throat, and spoke in a low, hoarse tone, one that was already cracking from doing too much yelling. "Grib, I've needed to talk to you. I've done a review of our current contracts, all of them, and what you're asking for is impossible."
"I don't like that word." Grib warned.
"But it is impossible!" Neeg insisted, glands pulsating with his rapidly elevating heart beat. "The ships you need are already committed, our security patrol fleet is bound to our clients.
If we try to recall them all, we'll be trapped in legal warfare against seventy nine sector governments for the next half a century! Even the most back water among them can easily afford an excellent legal team.
That's not even counting the different planetary governments. We can't just cancel our contracts either, not when they've kept up with their payments." He swallowed once. "The only way out is to declare an emergency-"
"No."
"Grib!" Neeg hissed in pain, puss oozing from his overworked glands. He sounded like he was about to start sobbing in anguish. "If you want those ships freed, it's the only way to get them legally! We declare an emergency, and we can recall them without voiding our contracts."
"If we declare an emergency, this company dies!" Grib hissed, leaning in. "Someone in the Banking Clan has begun shorting our market position, Neeg!" He grabbed the nomoidian's arm and pulled him closer, speaking in a low, angry, whisper.
"Not just some Magister, but one of the Five! What if the rest of them join him? We're barely able to hold off the hedge funds he's aligned with as is! If we declare an emergency it could cause a panic with our shareholders! Forget losing the war, if our stocks bottom out before it even starts, there won't be a company left to fight it!" Grib reached up and rested a finger against one of the swollen lumps, pressuring it and drawing whimpers from Neeg.
"We've talked about what we need to do, now do it."
"But Siv!" He whined, gasping and writhing. "If we fabricate cases of personnel abuse against all our clients, we open ourselves to counter suits! Yes, it gives back those ships and crews for now, but in a year we'll-"
"A year is all we need." Grib declared. "We can settle our debts afterwards. You understand? No more whining, now do it."
Neeg swallowed, thickly, nodding. "Okay. Okay. I can get you a year."
Grib released him, and clicked his finger at one of the servants, who came over offering him a fresh white towel to clean his hand with. Wiping the pus from his finger, Grib looked over to see Neeg watching him, cautiously. Something was clearly on his mind. "What's the matter?"
"Reyhon Andlho has a plan." Neeg answered. "He came to me with it, and I think he's gone to some of the others, too. You should hear him out, Grib, I think it's a good one. He told me not to tell you, but I think you should know."
Grib was furious, but forced a smile to his lips. "Yeah, I'll talk to him, alright." He stood up, looking out towards the balcony, where Reyhon was just finishing his death stick, his shaking hand at last seeming to have calmed.