The Tibannopolis 500

[Cael Bathala]

Amongst the Imperial service men and women stationed around Bespin, opinion was divided on whether they had drawn the short straw or been dealt a hand of Pure Sabacc. Lieutenant Cael Bathala was still undecided, but a spot of downtime – whilst Hellfire Squadron's TIE fighters recovered from the latest catastrophic training mission – was providing him with the chance to dramatically improve his opinion of the gas giant. Cloud City was a popular destination for anyone who wanted to unload on tension, and credits, but Cael had heard that neighboring Tibannopolis – practically a ghost-down on account of Cloud City's prosperity – might have something more to his liking.

The Tibannopolis 500. The race was infamous amongst swoop jockeys, mostly on account of the high fatality rate. The course wound through the abandoned streets of Tibannopolis, threading through precariously narrow corridors and weaving in and out of disused mining and refinery works. As part of Team Tagge, Cael would never have been allowed to take part. The prospect of insuring a star jockey on a non-regulation course, where foul-play was the order of the day, surprisingly didn't appeal to TaggeCo. That, however, was no longer an issue.

Fortune had brought Cael into the city just a day before the 500 was taking place and, armed with a hand-scrawled map, he was on a mission to find the 'office' where any willing volunteers could put their money and their lives on the line.

[Constantia Visputin]

Profit - the galaxy revolved around it. Bespin, as one of the main sources of the rare tibanna gas, would prove an unfailing well of revenue for the Empire. Yet, not all establishments generated the same satisfactory levels of financial surplus; while Cloud City became a symbol of prosperity and a textbook example of resource-based economic growth, its rival city of Tibannopolis became a pathological case of malinvestment. As such, it had become fertile ground for crime and other illegal activities; it's purpose had to be redefined, its socio-economic architecture redesigned with no better person for the job than Constantia Visputin herself. Clad in a tight fitting white suit with knee-lenght skirt, she walked through what was once a wide boulevard, surrounded by her welcoming entourage and a heap of guards. A pair of rectangular shaped, designer frames lay low on her nose as she inspected her surroundings.

"The main problem we are facing is lack of constant population." the prefect of Tibannopolis asserted while matching her stride. He was a man in his sixties, sentimentally attached to all this place once was. His greatest problem, the minister mused. Business was business; if it was unprofitable, it should be shut down and the workers re-employed elsewhere. After several years of attaining losses, only fools hoped for a positive balance account in the next trimester.

"I can't imagine who'd want to live in this place, let alone bring a family." the redhead said, then removed her glasses to give the prefect a stern look.
"You are now a part of the Empire. We will do everything in our power to salvage Tibannopolis, if possible. Before I can suggest any solution, I will need to inspect your books."
The prefect cringed and his voice stammered.
"I'll have them delivered as soon as the accountant..."
"Tomorrow. At latest." Visputin said softly, piercing him with her caustic emerald gaze.
"Yes, minister."

The retinue made way through the main street, guards literally pushing people to the side to clear the way.
"Make way!" one of them commanded, nudging a few scoundrels into a deserted side-alley.
Constantia's scrutinizing eye took note of a rather familiar jawline, while the rest of the man's face remained hidden under the shadow of his cap. The angular features were distinct, posters ornamenting rooms of just about every college girl in the galaxy. Visputin found herself unable to assign the imagery with a name or affiliation; instead, she just smiled mysteriously upon passing, gracing him with a look that lasted longer than the time she wasted to look at this place and its people altogether.

[Cael Bathala]

Cael tugged his cap lower. As much as he had to admit that the sight of Minister Visputin was something few red-blooded Imperial men would turn away from, the last thing he wanted was to be sucked into whatever media ion-storm was surrounding her. He recalled all too well the agony of accompanying the Minister of Truth to a swanky dinner party on Coruscant and had no desire to be paraded around as a meat-puppet by yet another member of the Imperial elite.

Bathala took a step back into the crowds and moved with the flow of the people around him, hoping that the cryptic smile he'd just glimpsed on the Minister's lips wasn't intentionally directed at him.

[Constantia Visputin]

Upon being given a thorough tour of the leftovers of once a prospective city, the prefect had arranged lunch in his residence. In all truth, Constantia wanted to leave this maggot-infested excuse for a settlement and return to her hotel suite on Cloud City, but her conscience told her to stay and hear this man's story. Perhaps there were still ways of reviving the staggering economy of Tibannopolis and fill its ghostly streets with families heading for a picnic in the park. If these people ever listened and complied, such changes were viable under the Imperial sceptre.

"I'll make sure all financial reports are delivered to you tomorrow, when you return to Cloud City." the prefect said, slurping soup from a tarnished spoon he brought close to his thin lips.
"I am not leaving this place until I have them in my briefcase." the minister responded, letting her own bowl of soup cool after tasting it. Remarkably, it was quite delicious.
"It's unsafe. Where will you reside, minister?"
"This place looks decent." she retorted, elevating her gaze to the glassy ceiling of the circular dining room - "I'm sure you have a spare room."
"But the level of comfort you are used to... I'm afraid I cannot guarantee it." the old man said, determined to have the minister out of his city as soon as possible. However, subtlety was not his strong suit. A sly fox, Visputin noticed .

"I wasn't born into a jewel-encrusted cradle, my good man. If I say it would suffice, it will. My compliments to the chef. The soup tastes great." the redhead voiced, then mulled over everything she saw today. Her gut feeling repeatedly warned her of something happening behind the scenes; the prefect was intent on having her leave the city as soon as possible, preferably before tomorrow. What was tomorrow, Constantia could not help but to wonder.

"Thank you. I made it myself." he replied simply, dipping head in respect.
"Oh. Bravo!" Visputin exclaimed and clapped hands together before hovering a spoonful of soup before her plump lips.

[Cael Bathala]

Soon enough, the crowds dispersed and left Cael wondering where the hell the gawkers and rubberneckers had all come from, on a world so thinly populated. With a mental shrug, he was on his way and following the chatter in the crowds, it wasn't hard to find the offices of the brains behind the Tibannopolis 500. Aside from the Minister's arrival, it was the only thing worth talking about and Bathala found himself arriving into the bookmakers on the heel of at least another six swoop-jockeys.

He pulled off his cap and with the back of his wrist wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Well, lookie here!” called out a voice full of malicious glee. The group in front of Cael parted, as a pig-nosed little man pushed his way through them. “Team Tagge! Come for a real challenge, eh? Gordon Gavalen, co-ordinator of the 500!” He thrust a fat-fingered hand at Cael. Already, a few of the other prospective jockeys were firing quizzical looks his way. Cael turned side-on to the crowd and gave Gavalen a meaningful look.

“Keep it down, I came here to race not sign autographs.”

“Sure, sure! If you've got the entry fee, you can fly. Maybe you even win, eh?”

“Maybe,” Cael looked sidelong at the other jockeys. He didn't recognise any of them from the pros – which was a pity, because a bit of a real competition would have been fun. “It's not too late to sign up, then?”

“For you?” Galaven threw his hands up in the air. “Nah! But remember, the 500 isn't like anywhere you raced before – what happens here, stays here, and if you lose a limb... well, that's too bad.”

“Lose a limb? That happen often?”

“Well, it depends on what you mean by often! All I'm saying is, once you saddle up.. I can't be responsible for what happens to you.”

“You're really selling this to me, Gord.”

“Hey,” Galaven grinned, gold-fillings glinting. “It wouldn't be fun if it wasn't dangerous!”

[Constantia Visputin]

***

Atop the prefect's mansion, up on a spacious terrace overlooking the ruins of the city, stood Constantia Visputin, affording herself the luxury of lighting a cigarette. The moons of Bespin loomed through thick clouds, the sparse lighting of Tibannopolis barely illuminating the surroundings. Clad in a red silken house robe, Visputin leaned over the railing, fingers pressing against her temples. When almost soundless steps echoed against the staircase that lead to the balcony, the minister looked up, eyes skimming the rust-ridden industrial scenery.

"What did you find out?" she asked into the wind.
"It turns out you were right, minister." a deep male voice sounded from the shadows. Constantia had sent one of her body guards to a local bar to seek out as much information as possible. Seemingly, his visit would prove rather fruitful.
"I always am. Gut instinct never lies, Victor."
The guard cleared his throat and approached her from behind, burying himself in place at a respectable distance, hands clasped behind his back. His shadow towered over her like a protective penumbra, a human shield if there ever was a need.

"Tibannopolis 500 is not a myth. Conveniently enough, the race takes place tomorrow noon. It is rumoured Cael Bathala of Team Tagge will compete." asserted Victor in a stoic tone. Drawing in a lungful of smoke, Constantia turned to face him and leaned on the railing, elbows supporting upper body.
"Bathala...Bathala..." the redhead mused, knowing the name rang a bell somewhere.
"He won Team Tagge several championships before he retired." the guard explained, quite understanding of the minister's ignorance regarding these things. After all, swoop racing was a boy's sport.
"Do you think its worth to watch? Before I have everybody arrested, that is."
"Absolutely, madam. He's quite a sight to behold, when he's both in the swoop and not. I'm sure a few credits can buy you a spot in the booth." Victor affirmed with a nod. Visputin rubbed her chin in amusement, sporting a coy grin. Why not have some fun, the redhead thought, then pressed a playful index finger against her bottom lip.
"Put 10 000 credits on him. You know where my purse is." said Constantia and tossed the remnant of her cigarette into the void below.
"Yes, madam."


***

There existed very few things money could not buy; a seat on the observation platform overseeing the maze of narrow streets of Tibannopolis was not among them. Comfortably seated in a separate booth, Constantia peered over the edge of what was once a balcony and into the chasm below where the racing vessels underwent last preparatory wrenching. Large hood of her velvet dark green cape cast shadow over a good deal of her face, while red plump limps stretched into a mischievous smile when she saw the prefect on the other side of the race tracks, seated in his own booth.
"A quick and mysterious recovery, indeed." the redhead murmured, knowingly intertwining fingers before her.